Diabla Makes an Entrance

by Karl Tutt

I handed the reports to Ricky. He pored through them page by page, make notes on a green steno pad. He nodded and stared at me a couple of times, let out one low whistle, but he didn’t say much. When he finished, I stuffed the papers in my file drawer and locked it.

  We talked about a few pending cases and did a little leg work. When the battery operated clock on my desk read 6 P.M., I was fried. I needed a hot bath and a cold drink. I looked longingly at the phone. I hadn’t heard from Rod in a few days. I sure could have used some of his special kind of physical therapy tonight. I thought about calling him, but I didn’t want to be too available.

  Chapter Twelve

  The old Taurus fired up on cue and I was home in a few minutes. I get kind of blue sometimes. Lonely, beat up. Call it what you want, but it sucks. This was one of those times. No real progress on the case, no Hot Rod, no nothing. I sat on the sofa and contemplated a glass of Cabernet. I could sit here and play poor me all night long, but what the hell. I bounced off the cushions.

  I went to the bathroom and washed my face, slapped on a little eye shadow, a bit of blush, painted my lips a pale red. I dabbed some Intrigue in the appropriate places. Then I ran the brush through my luxurious blond locks and looked in the mirror. Guess what? I was still a good looking broad. On the way out, for a final attempt at the femme fatale effect, I grabbed a white silk scarf and saucily wrapped it around my neck. I didn’t know how I would come to love that scarf a few hours later. I left the Glock on the table in the kitchen. I didn’t feel the need to shoot anyone tonight.

  I headed for Bugsy’s hoping to meet Brad Pitt or at least the ghost of Paul Newman. I parked my old beast and sauntered into the dim light. Bugsy nodded at me. I sat at the bar and tried to look sophisticated. I needed something heavy, Guinness Stout sounded about right. I sneaked a peak around me. There was a guy with a tall, greasy Mohawk in the last seat. He was tattooed in purple and red sleeves on both arms, mostly naked women in a variety of vulgar poses. Didn’t remind me of Brad or Paul one bit. There were few tables with couples deep into themselves. Discussing Keynesian economics, no doubt. Or maybe just feeling each other up. Hey, thank God for cheap thrills.

  The first Guinness went down with a sweet darkness, but the second cloyed at my throat. Mohawk looked over and smiled, but he looked too much like a guy I’d arrested a few months back. I was getting a little numb. I laid a ten on the bar, waved at Bugsy and made for the car.

  I fumbled the key into the lock on the apartment door and stepped in. I heard a rustle behind me and something thin and cold was tight around my neck. It caught in the scarf, but I was spitting and choking, the piano wire slicing through the fabric into the pink flesh of my neck. Something warm was oozing down my chest. I wanted to snatch the wire and pull it away, but it was no use. I was losing consciousness.

  My arms felt like lead, but I raised them behind me and with my palms open and popped them against his ears. There was a loud clap. He grunted, but the wire tightened. I reached back for his eyes, but he was tall and thick. He jerked his head back and my nails slid through his cheek. I lifted my left leg and took a shot at his balls with my heel. I missed and still he held fast. With one final thrust I buried my elbow in his ribs. He grunted again and the wire loosened. Two more quick belts and the wire slithered down my neck. I was free. I went for the Glock. I fired off a wild shot in the darkness. I heard the door bang against the wall. He was gone. I went to the mirror, heaving and gasping. I collapsed on the bathroom floor.

  The white scarf was blotched with my blood. The sweet air galloped down my throat and filled my lungs with precious oxygen. I was alive and I made myself a silent promise. I would get that sonovabitch.

  When I caught my breath, I switched on all of the lights. A few red spatters dotted the cheap carpet beside a couple of long blond hairs. There was skin under the nails of my right hand and a red smear running down my fingers. I hoped I’d given him something to remember me by. Maybe the prick’s DNA was on file. I fastened the chain lock and propped a chair against the door. At least if he came back, I would hear him and offer a noisy greeting with the Glock. I checked the clip. I almost hoped he would.

  I talk tough and I can walk the walk when I have to, but I was shaking. Anyone who is never scared is a damned fool. It keeps you alive.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The knock on the door came early, probably eight or so. I pulled my collar up around my neck and answered. It was Ms. Medford, the kindly old lady who managed the apartment complex. She wasn’t so kindly this morning.

  “Dee, my dear, there was a report from some of your neighbors that there was a ruckus here last night. One even thought she heard a gun fire. I’m sure it was nothing, but you know how important it is to keep the peace around here. I’m afraid, my dear, that it would be helpful if you would seek other living arrangements. Certainly you may have until the end of the month. Of course, we will refund your deposit in full as soon as the inspection is complete. I am sorry, my dear, but you know how it is.”

  Yeah, I know how it is. This was the third time this year I had been politely asked to vacate the premises. At least I’d get my money back as long as I could hide the bullet hole in the drywall. Swell. One more thing I had to worry about. What the hell? Put it on the list. Right now I had more pressing matters at hand.

  I made some coffee, sat at the kitchen table and pulled my trusty notebook from my jacket pocket.

  I needed a strategy. I didn’t have one. The only thing to do was keep putting one foot in front of the other and pray I’d stumble over something. Lots of information. All related, but how? Just like last night, I had to shoot in the dark and hope I’d hit something.

  I wanted to go over the evidence from Angie’s killing again. Question the doorman at her place to see if something was overlooked. Rethink the dubious financial situation of the Longstreets. Find out more about Mr. Mysterious DEA agent Raoul Marquez. And check with Internal Affairs just for the hell of it.

  I turned on the shower and got the water to just below scalding temperatures. Then I grabbed my loofah and scrubbed myself raw to get the stink of my midnight caller off my body. The cut in my neck wasn’t as deep as I’d thought. Maybe some makeup and another scarf. I was at the office by ten.

  Ricky was at his desk, dazzling as usual. I told him about my little adventure form the night before.

  “Goddamn it, Dee. You must know something that scares the shit out of somebody. Even the serious thugs don’t take killing a cop lightly. Cramps their style. Where are you on this stuff?”

  “I don’t know. We don’t have any solid clues. Just a bunch of things that won’t mesh. Right now I’m just marching through Georgia, hoping something will turn up that makes a measure of sense. I’ve got a list of things to do, but it seems like bullshit. Maybe I just need to stay busy, try to touch all the bases and any other shit I can think of.”

  “Well you gotta keep me informed. I got a brain, too. It works and it sounds like someone needs to watch your back.”

  “You de man, Ricky. Thanks.”

  He went back to his paperwork and I picked up the phone. Mabel was our evidence clerk. She sounded like Mary Tyler Moore when she answered. “Of course, Dee. Baby, you just come on down.”

  I went to the basement and cleared the security gate. It was damp and dingy in that cave. Mabel was coughing and wheezing, just like always. A new box of Kleenex was close at her right hand. I signed in and requested the boxes on Angie’s murder case. There was a list of things that had been taken at the crime scene. Not much, a few blond hairs, some blood samples, the cocaine, the .22 Ruger, a few hollow point shells in a plastic baggie. It should have all been there.

  I dug into the bottom. No cocaine and no pistol from Angie’s bedroom drawer. I emptied the box and checked the shelf to see if I had missed something. No luck.

  Nothing was signed out. I was puzzled, but there were plausible explanations. Maybe a cop on the wrong side had stuck the drugs in his pocket
for future sale or consumption. Someone might have grabbed the Ruger to use as a throwdown. With all the crazies on the street, it’s hard to blame a cop for covering his ass. Still, I was very curious.

  When I checked out of the cage, I glanced at the signatures on the list. Captain Sullivan, my boss and a guy who squeaked when he walked. Ricky Fuenes. That made sense. Review the stuff related to the case, but he hadn’t told me. We worked so closely, but maybe he didn’t see anything worth mentioning.

  I had trouble making out the last signature. It was like the signee had taken pains to scribble something that was illegible. I asked Mabel for a magnifying glass. I studied the letters. No doubt, it was my pal, Raoul Marquez. What the hell was he doing in our evidence room? This was not his case. Or maybe it was. He had warned me to back off. Hinted at involvement from the cops who police the cops. I thanked Mabel and listened to her hack on the way out.

  I decided to call an old buddy. He used to come into the club to sample my dubious delights in his drinking days. He was really kind of sweet and he was a damned good tipper. I didn’t know at first he was a cop, much less one of the hated Internal Affairs Squad. He kept to himself and was there only for a good time. He liked me and when I joined the department, he wasn’t one of those assholes who thought I was the Anti-Christ in a skirt.

  He answered on the first ring.

  “Harve . . . it’s Dee. What’s new, buddy?”

  “Well if it isn’t Detective Dee Rabow. Hope you’re doin’ okay. ‘What’s new?’ Lemme see. Is that a polite inquiry to find out if I had a nice birthday or a request for info that you know I can’t give you. Last time you called, I nearly got my ass in a sling for even talking to you. I’m getting close to a nice, quiet retirement. So give it a rest. Keep it casual and brief.”

  “Harve, I’m sure you guys know I’m working on this murder case. I’m at a dead end. I had a visit from the DEA. Too many questions, not enough answers. IA sort of came up in the conversation. What’s shaking?”

  “Nothing. That’s all you need to know. But I gotta tell you, Babe, just for old times. Keep it tight. I don’t want to see your pretty cheeks clawed by the tigers. Your Uncle Harve is hanging up. Now.”

  He didn’t exactly slam the phone down, but the message was clear. He had done me a favor. Someone was looking at me way too close. I needed to know why.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I called first. The head doorman was on duty at Angie’s place. I hopped in the Taurus and headed for the beach. He shook his head as soon as he saw me. That was happening a lot lately.

  “Mr. Lopez, Detective Rabow, Fort Lauderdale P.D.” I shoved my badge and ID at him.

  “I know who you are, Detective. I told you guys all I know. I wish you’d just leave me alone and let me do my job.”

  “I can assure you, Mr. Lopez, that we will do just that when we can shed some light on the incident that took place in your building.”

  He shuddered. “Incident, my ass. She was a nice lady. Remembered me at Christmas. Generous. Always treated me real good. Don’t care what she was, she didn’t deserve that.”

  “We know what happened the day of the murder, but I am curious as to frequent visitors. Was there anyone that showed up regularly, possibly even on some kind of schedule?”

  “You know, Detective, I get paid to ignore some things and keep my mouth shut. But I’m like you. I want that bastard to fry. Too nice a lady for that kind of thing.”

  He looked around to make sure there was no one hiding in the bushes. His voice became a whisper.

  “You already know about Longstreet. A few others that I recognized as what you call patrons. Then there was Three D. He was here a couple of times.”

  “Three D?”

  “Oh come on. You don’t watch pro wrestling? You’re missing it, kid. Three D, the Deadly Dutch Destroyer. He was big time. WWF Champion. He’d toy with ‘em some, then get ‘em in the Choker and it was all she wrote. Guess he’s retired now, but he was a flat-out monster. Still big as a damned house.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lopez. You may have helped more than you know. If anything else comes to mind, please don’t hesitate to call me.” I gave him my card and went back to the station.

  I met Cleo on the way in. She was covered with the stifling scent of Black and Mild. I asked to check on Three D and maybe try to uncover some info on Raoul Marquez.

  “Yeah,” she mumbled

  An hour later she shoved some papers on my desk.

  “Here.”

  Three D was definitely an impressive character. One Harle Van Leeven, a native of Holland, but now a citizen of the good old USA. Square jawed, long, brassy locks, 6’6”, professional weight of 288 lbs. He had held the WWF championship off and on for four years. He was noted for the Deadly Dutch Choker. Damned near killed a couple of guys before the refs were able to pull him off.

  There was a nice color picture. The guy was strikingly handsome in a thuggish sort of way. Penetrating blue eyes, skin like pale gold bullion, one muscular ripple after another. But there was something else. I guess it was the mouth. Thin, cruel lips that created more sneer than smile. Even in the publicity shot, he seemed to be saying, “I’ll snatch your balls off and hang them over the door of my trophy room.”

  No record. No known address or contact information in any of the files at our disposal.

  It wasn’t as much as I’d hoped for, but I knew little escaped Cleo. Just one question. How far was it from the Deadly Dutch Choker to a garrote?

  I flipped the page. The next search was Raoul Marquez. There was a rough, printed scrawl. “Doesn’t exist.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  I wasn’t really surprised. The DEA tried to keep a low profile unless there was a bust they wanted credit for. Then they were all over the newspapers and TV reminding us how they were saving the world from the scourge of drugs and violence. Actually, maybe that wasn’t working out so well. Still it made good copy and kept our fine Congress shoveling the bucks. What the hell? Throw the old boys a bone now and then.

  Anyway, I didn’t have to wait long to personally confirm the existence of my old DEA pal. The phone rang. Guess who? Another meeting. Same coffee shop. Now. I walked the few blocks to El Chico’s. Same table, same well-worn black suit. He managed what I thought was a smile as I walked in.

  “Detective Rabow. Nice to see you again.”

  Yeah, I’ll bet.

  “Let me be brief. We know of your nocturnal visit to the office of one Louis Callano. We also know of his unfortunate demise at the barrel of a .22 caliber Ruger. We know that the weapon collected at the site of the death of your friend is the same weapon used to dispatch Mr. Collano. Your fingerprints were found at the scene. Please don’t think that we assume any connection between you and the murder, but it is a matter of interest. Exactly what can you tell me that might assuage my fears that you may be involved in some way?”

  Holy shit. Did I need an attorney? Did they think I had offed Louie for some weird reason? I wanted to shout, “not me,” but I figured it was best to keep my mouth shut. Very tightly.

  “Obviously, Agent Marquez, you know much more than I do about this case. I am not withholding any information that might be pertinent. My involvement is strictly professional. Of course, the department wants an arrest and a conviction. But I can assure you that we have no intention of obscuring any investigation involving the DEA or any other federal agencies.”

  His eyes honed in on mine. The malice and contempt was thinly veiled. “That is precisely how I expected you to respond. I can only hope you have offered the truth.”

  He left.

  I took a swallow of my latte. It hung in my throat, sweet and sickly like a poison seeping into guts. So now I was a possible murder suspect. The DEA had warned me off again. The murder case had me completely baffled. I didn’t see how it could get worse. Unfortunately, I was wrong again. I walked the few blocks back to the precinct. The temperature was hovering in the high 80
’s, but I felt a chill in my spine. I knew what it was doing there. I left the latte on the table.

  I had just settled down at my desk when the phone rang. The voice had a feminine lilt, but it was definitely a man.

  “Bogzee’s. Nine P.M.” I heard the beep of a cell phone being disconnected.

  Bogzee’s. Where the hell was that? Bogzee’s? It didn’t take me long. An accent. German, maybe? Bugsy’s Last Stand. I’d been spending way too much time there lately.

  Ricky looked at me. He must have felt the fear radiating across the desk. “Okay, Dee. What’s the scoop?”

  He bit his lip as I told him. “Sorry, Miss Diabla, you’re not doing this alone. I’ll go into Bugsy’s an hour or so early, sit at the bar, have a well-earned shot of Jack Black and scope it out. I’ll be there if anything goes down. By the way, the Jack is on you.”

  I nodded my head, “No problem, Ricky.” But I didn’t mean it. It’s like I told you, I was scared. Ricky was my man and he could be very dangerous. I might need that in a pinch.

  The rest of the day was quiet and frustrating. No new leads, no direction, the same old dead end.

  At nine, I parked the coughing Taurus and went into Bugsy’s. Ricky was at the bar, just like he said. He eyed me in the mirror, but didn’t speak or acknowledge my presence at all. Bugsy gave me a thin smile and shook his head as if to say, “not this shit again.” He pointed towards a table in the back.

  There he was. Beige linen suit, custom tailored to hide the bulges. A neon pink tie. He was as big as advertised. I was surprised he had been able to squeeze into the booth. Freshly trimmed golden hair, strictly Vidal Sassoon, hanging casually over his collar. He smiled as I approached, a slender gouge running red over his cheek. He tried to get up, ever the gentleman, but the table held him back. It was the Harle Van Leeven, the Deadly Dutch Destroyer, in the flesh. I didn’t want an autograph.

  “May I haf de honor of ordering a drink for you? Jameson is yur preference if I make no mistake.” The feminine lilt was there, but this guy was a monster, literally and figuratively. He grinned at me through a sparkling set of teeth, but it was more of a leer. Sort of a Christopher Lee in that old Hammer Film, DRACULA, PRINCE OF DARKNESS. Scary shit. When old Chris grinned, the blood was soon to flow.