by Karl Tutt
“I’m sorry, Dee,” he whispered, “you’re too damned close. I wish we could just buy you off and you’d move out of the country, or at least to another state. But I know you too well, Diabla. Once you lock in, you don’t let go. You’d have my ass and everyone else in the joint with the really bad guys.”
“How about you, Ricky? You sure you’re not one of them?”
He didn’t answer.
“So you gonna kill me?”
“They want me to, but no. I told them I won’t do it. We’re partners. I can’t forget that. But someone else probably will. I’ll ask ‘em to make it as quick and painless as it can be.”
“Why, Ricky?”
“I wish I could answer that. Maybe the stuff . . . the Armani, the Caddy, the Dom Perignon . . . I got used to it. And Baby, that sweet, fine coke‘ll give you a high that sets you and the lady of the moment off the planet for days.”
“Who’s the ‘they’, Ricky?”
“You’ve seen my paycheck. Hell . . . for that I work seventy hours a week and get shot at? There’s no Miami real estate. Never was. My dad was a shop keeper, barely had two dimes to rub together. All of a sudden here comes Mr. Mustapha. Sends me a gift or two through one of the girls on the street. At first I say no, but when an envelope arrives with five c notes, I keep thinking about those alligator loafers I got my eye on. Next thing I know, Triple D shows up with a message. They got me by the short hairs. I’m trapped. Might as well enjoy it. I gotta tell you, Dee, I have. Life’s a merry-go-round and I’ve got the lead horse. I could still work a deal for you. Please let me bail you out. Give me the word. You always liked the good stuff.”
“No, Ricky. I know too much about the real cost of all that shit, the pain, the scars. The girls pay in flesh and blood. It’s too damned ugly. Do what you have to do.”
“It hurts me, Dee. You gotta believe that. Think about it. I’m giving you a chance. It’s your last one. ”
He bumped the dinghy into the weathered boards of Palm Point dock. Four burly men were unloading wooden crates from SUGAR GIRL. I didn’t have to guess what they contained. Triple D was occupying a large area at the end of the dock. Standing next to him was a short, dark, squat man that resembled a tanned fire hydrant. He smiled when I stepped up onto the wooden platform. I hadn’t seen M in quite some time and he sported a shiny gold tooth on the left side of his mouth. New addition, I guess. His eyes bore into me like a dentist’s drill.
Ricky had the Glock punched onto the center of my back. Three D looked like a block of granite. He gave me his most charming glare. The scratches I had left on his face were healing, but still pink. I hoped there would be a scar.
“So good to see you again, Detective. I haf vaited for dis moment for long time.” He pulled a strand of piano wire out of his pocket. The silver shown in the dim lights on the platform. There was a small dowel attached to either end. All the better to choke you with, my dear. Of course, he’d already tried that once.
Mustapha gave me a courtly nod. Then he spoke, his voice somber like the pastor at a wake.
“Take her. We must remember our promise. Quick and painless . . . perhaps not too painless, but quick nevertheless. I will be there in a moment. I want to watch, smell her fear, and hear her gasp for breath.”
Ricky looked at me expectantly. He still wanted the word from me. I couldn’t do it. The sweat crawled down my neck and matted to my shirt. Three D clamped down on my arm and shoved me toward a space beyond a shed on the corner of the platform. A sliver of light shown through the dusty window. Beyond it was my final darkness.
“Some vork I like more dan others. This vill be one.” Three D sounded almost jovial. His fingers dug into my arm like vise grips.
I had to keep my head. I was seconds from feeling the silver wire slicing into my neck and cutting off the precious air that kept me alive.
At that moment, the door creaked open and Stuart stepped out. He glanced at my terror and shook his head just once. His face was drawn and gray in the dim light, a look of grim resignation in his eyes. I noticed a 45 stuffed in his belt. Coast Guard issue, no doubt.
It was over. I was walking dead. Still, I felt a pinch under my left breast, something cold and lethal, my last shot. I tried to twist my arm away from Three D, but he held me in a death grip. I reached into my shirt and the switch blade found my hand. A quick click and the vicious steel flashed in the light.
“For Angie,” I whispered.
I turned and drove the six inch blade low and deep into his gut. He gasped. I jerked the sharp naked edge up until it slammed into his sternum. It was like running a steak knife through prime beef. He staggered and backed away. His hand went to the wound, but it was too big. I could see the pink of his intestines trying to escape his belly. The blood ran in a river and dripped onto the aging timber. He took another giant breath and lunged at me, but he was too slow. I feinted right and broke to the left. He collapsed, whining like a run over dog on the side of the road.
I turned and Stuart was pointing the .45 at my face. Then I heard the blades chopping at the thick night air. Then there was a flash of dancing light. The voice seemed to come from God, himself.
“This is the United States Drug Enforcement Agency. You are surrounded. Lay down your weapons and hit the ground. Place your hands behind your back. I repeat, you are surrounded.”
There was scrambling all around. Some of the men unloading the coke broke for the bushes. I heard a few shots and a burst of automatic fire. An outboard fired up. I looked at Stuart. He steadied his aim at my face. A .45 slug would blast my head completely off of my body. He looked at me for a moment. He was weeping. The sad eyes said “not again.” Then he raised the semi-automatic and fired two shots into the air. There was the deadly report of an M-16 and he collapsed in a lump not six feet from me. He didn’t move.
Raoul Marquez came out of the shadows scanning the area with his Beretta. Next to him was Hot Rod, gun in hand. He came over to me and put his arm around my shoulder.
“You’re okay. We got it under control.”
I tell myself I don’t cry, but I did.
There were a few random gunshots. Then it was eerily quiet. I spotted a few bodies on the ground, some of them alive, waiting for the cuffs. Others quite dead, staining the boards with black blood. Raoul escorted Ricky to me. He was cuffed, a rip exposing his shoulder behind the black silk.
“I’m sorry, Dee. I was gonna try to stop them.That’s all I can tell you. I’m sorry.”
I stared for a moment and bit my lower lip. Sorry didn’t plug the hole in my heart. A moment later, I heard the doors of a police van snap shut.
I scanned the scene. Stuart was dead. Three D was bleeding out. Ricky was in custody. Mustapha was nowhere in sight. Probably gone in the dinghy.
The fog had dropped down on the docks like a shroud.
I heard Hot Rod’s voice out of a vacuum. “She’s done. I’ll take her home. We can debrief in the morning.” He took my arm and guided me gently to his car.
Chapter 24
We sat at the kitchen table. I washed out a couple of glasses and poured both of us a generous portion of Jameson. No conversation. Just an abiding sense of terror I couldn’t dismiss, and more than a bit of relief.
I made the water as hot as I could stand it and stayed in the shower trying to scrape the crawling hell of death off my skin. I didn’t think about Ricky. I wasn’t ready for that. The reality of betrayal swelled within me, but I fought to keep it from invading my mind or my spirit.
My skin was nearly raw and it began to burn. I had been in the stall forever. Then I heard the bathroom door ease open.
Through the steamy shower door I saw Hot Rod pull his sweaty shirt over his head and slide out of his jeans. He entered in silence. His body was taut every muscle rippling into the next. A hint of curly hair nestled in the center of his chest. I noticed a jagged scar on his left shoulder that hadn’t appeared before. He began to massage my neck
, then moved down to the middle of my back. His strong fingers kneaded the tight muscles. He pressed against me and I felt the insistent surge of his manhood against my back. The sweet hint of the Irish permeated his breath as his tongue dove into my mouth. The tension began to melt.
He wanted me, but he was patient. A part of me wanted him, but I couldn’t make love. Too many grisly images dominated my consciousness. Nevertheless, I would remember. I’d make him okay, but it couldn’t be now.
I slept, but not for long.
We were in the DEA office by nine. I told my story to Raoul Marquez and another agent who was never formally introduced. It was all recorded. They already knew it, but they asked lots of questions I thought I had already answered. They fueled me with coffee that tasted like warm battery acid. The whole process took most of the morning. I was tired and recounting the nightmarish events sent my stomach into a rampage. In my mind, I felt the blade slam into 3 D’s sternum and saw the look of emptiness on Stuart’s face before he was riddled with rifle fire. The blood engulfed me once again. I kept reminding myself it was over, but I guess I was lying to myself. Those kinds of scars, the ones left by fear, betrayal and brutal violence, don’t fade quickly.
There were a couple of questions I needed answered.
“Who murdered Callano?”
Marquez placed his palms together and made a steeple with his fingers.
“We’re pretty sure it was Longstreet, but since his ‘suicide by cop’, we may never nail it. And you want to know about Mustapha. I told you we’d been watching. We knew he was involved, and we had Triple D made early. We now know that he killed your friend, Angie, and Nancy Longstreet. But we had to piece together the rest of the details. Ricky didn’t come into the picture until late. I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid it would blow the whole operation. He actually supplied us with some important information, but we never knew which side he would eventually come down on.”
I dropped my chin and my guts churned. Ricky? I couldn’t get my mind around it. At least he couldn’t kill me, but was he going to stand by while Three D did? I couldn’t be sure. I sucked in a breath and buried it for the time being.
“So why set me up for the Callano killing?”
“Sorry about that. We needed to get you off the case. You’re too damned good at what you do, Detective. You were close enough to potentially screw up our investigation. We also figured it might make the bad guys relax just a bit.”
I wasn’t sure whether to thank him or throw the crappy coffee in his face.
I told Marquez about the call I got from Stuart.
“Yeah, we had you tapped,” he said. “I think Nancy’s murder drove him over the edge. He got real crazy after that.”
Finally everything began to make sense, but where was the prick that masterminded it all? They found Uncle Teddy’s inflatable drifting down river on an outgoing tide. Mustapha had gone ashore somewhere and eluded the search. I couldn’t believe that bastard had escaped again, but I had to admit he had a lot more brains than I wanted to give him credit for.
Finally, they released me and I headed back to the precinct to talk to Captain Sullivan, my supervisor. I knocked lightly on the glass. He nodded, but he didn’t smile. He motioned me into the office and pointed at a chair.
Sullivan was an old-school Irish cop. Nothing stylish or jaunty about him, just a straight forward by-the-book guy who hated crime and injustice. He looked at me and bit his lip. The last time I’d seen him in this kind of mood, I knew I didn’t want to see it again.
“Shut the door.”
I did.
“I know why you’re here, Detective. I know what happened last night and I know what should happen today. Internal Affairs has dropped their investigation of your connection to the Callano murder. You should be reinstated and your badge and gun should be returned. Maybe even a commendation. I should put you back on the duty roster and all this should be forgotten. But it’s not gonna happen.”
I hesitated for a moment. I shook my head and looked at this man whom I respected. He tapped his knuckles on the desk. His chair squeaked as he squirmed in the chair. I raised my palms, shrugged my shoulders and waited.
“I tried, Dee. There’s not a damned thing I can do. You’re a good cop. I know that and so does everyone who’s ever worked with you. But you’re also a loose cannon. You don’t always follow procedure and you damned sure don’t ask when you get a wild hair up your ass. The boys upstairs see you as a liability, the incarnation of political incorrectness. They’re afraid of you, Dee, no matter how good a cop you are. You’re Diabla, the she-devil.”
“So no reinstatement?”
“Sorry, Dee. Not even a damned desk job.”
Chapter 25
I guess the joke was on me. See the lady detective. Watch her chase her own tail. See her framed for murder. See her partner set her up to be strangled. See her shit out of luck.
No job. No cash. Ms. Medford giving me the evil eye. How the hell could it get any worse?
I was about to find out.
I spent the evening and the next day feeling extremely sorry for myself. Even good Irish whiskey didn’t help. I read the paper, spilled coffee on my sleep shirt, ate a raisin bagel infested with green mold, and watched day-time T.V. That was enough to make me contemplate suicide. To add insult to injury, the local news reported that Ricky had been released on bond. Something about his own recognizance because of the outstanding record of a decorated cop and the assistance he had rendered the authorities. Yeah, and I was damned near decorated in blood by Three D’s adorable little garrote.
I hadn’t even changed my shirt. By late afternoon I was beginning to smell myself. The cops had returned Uncle Teddy’s dinghy, but I hadn’t had a chance to thank him in person. I figured if I needed more whiskey, a shoulder to cry on, and a healthy dollop of wisdom, he was the man and GREAT GESTURE was the place.
I spilled into the shower and did the scrubbing thing again. I was still shell-shocked, but I did fell a little better. I didn’t worry about the makeup, but I did spruce up with a shot of body spray. It was dark by the time I got to Cooley’s Landing. I parked my heap and walked over to the graceful old Pearson. The lights were on below and I could hear the soft tone of the Temptations celebrating the sunshine of “My Girl”.
I knocked on the hull and heard someone mumble, “Come aboard”.
The boat heeled slightly as I stepped up onto the fiberglass deck. I was about to make my way below when I saw the blood. It trailed down Uncle Teddy’s face and pooled on the seat cushion. He was slumped, deadly still, in the corner of the settee. I rushed into the cabin and placed my hand on his breast.
Suddenly I felt something hard and cold pressed into my spine.
“Slowly, Detective. Very slowly.”
My neck tightened and a trace of sweat slid over my brow.
“It is twice now you have foiled a very efficient and lucrative plan, but it is the last time. You could have been in Brazil at Carnavale or lolling on some beach on the Riviera, your petty financial worries behind you. But you insist on defying Mustapha. It is a bad policy . . . one that is leading to your impending demise. It will be quick, but not very pretty. The water is cold and the crabs are hungry. Consider it your contribution to the ecology.”
The hammer clicked and the barrel pressed harder into my back.
“The old man is still alive. I will not shoot him, but you must come with me quietly if you wish him to continue to breathe.”
Uncle Teddy was stirring slightly, but he seemed semi-comatose. I glanced around the cabin. Nothing I could use as a weapon even if I was quick enough to escape a bullet from my pal Mr. M. He prodded me back toward the companionway, boring the steel into my kidney. I was leaving Teddy bleeding on the salon, but I had no choice. I knew that once I was in the cockpit, a bullet would find its way into my back and I’d take my last swim.
I took a step up and caught a flicker of movement on the dock. Then GREA
T GESTURE rocked slowly. I head a shuffle behind me. Uncle Teddy was pointing a flare gun at Mustapha’s back.
He grunted. Mustapha whirled and an emergency flare lit up his belly. He howled and slapped at the hot phosphorus and flames that engulfed him. I bolted up the steps and waited for the burning man to make for the water. He stopped for a moment. His flesh seemed to be melting like hot wax. I thought he smiled. Then in the midst of his agony, he pointed a .45 right at my face.
“How fitting. We go together,” he growled as he gasped for breath.
He fingered the trigger. Then there was a loud thud as a shadow buried its shoulder into Mustapha’s back. I hit the deck and heard a deafening explosion just above my head. Mustapha and the shadow tumbled over the lifelines and into the darkness. I heard the hissing as the inferno hit the water and watched the orange hell glow as the monster settled into the muddy bottom. The body rose again, still steaming, and floated on the tide up the river.
I rushed below. Uncle Teddy was on his belly unconscious, the flare gun still in his hand. I spoke softly to him and raised him onto the settee. He opened his eyes slowly.
“Hot time in the old town tonight,” he mumbled and smiled. His breathing seemed normal. I dialed 911, but I was sure he’d be okay.
I sat down and waited. I heard splashing and the shadow came up the boarding ladder. He shook like a wet dog and stepped to the companionway. His silk shirt was melted over his chest and his hair was slicked back from the water of the ICW. He grinned.
“Couldn’t let it happen. Once was enough. I got lucky the first time. This time I made my own luck.”
“And mine, too,” I whispered.
I stepped forward and hugged the wet shadow.
Chapter 26
I waited for days to hear from Rod. It seemed like months. I was ready to fulfill my promise and make him forget that horrible night I had put him off. Still, I knew he understood. What I didn’t understand was why he hadn’t taken me up on the rain check. If nothing else, we’d had some damned good sex. The phone finally did ring. I kind of wish it hadn’t.