Shadow Boys

by Harry Hunsicker

  After a moment, Mason nodded.

  “Let’s move on to a different topic.” Hopper pulled another file from his briefcase. “There’s a missing kid from West Dallas.”

  Mason looked at Delgado, who returned the glance, face blank.

  Hopper rattled off the basics of the case and then said, “A reporter was nosing around, a punk from some website.”

  “The People’s Blog of Southern Dallas County,” Mason said.

  “Right.” Hopper nodded. “He was at the presser for the chief’s new anti-crime initiative.”

  “He wore camo,” Mason said. “And a red beret.”

  “You’re so observant.” Hopper smiled. “You should consider a career in law enforcement.”

  The anger was a white-hot poker in the pit of Mason’s belly. Mother-fucking, smug-ass Raul Delgado and the gray-eyed weasel Hopper, both out to get him. Mason’s gun felt heavy on his belt. The walls of the room seemed to get closer, the air hotter.

  Hopper appeared to be enjoying himself.

  Mason leaned forward, whispered, “Go fuck yourself, Lieutenant.”

  Hopper laughed like a kindergartener watching the Three Stooges. Then he dropped the new file on the coffee table.

  “Somebody took out the reporter. There’s no body, but the DeSoto police think he’s been killed. Signs of a struggle. Blood at the scene.”

  Neither Mason nor Delgado spoke.

  Hopper continued. “So the question on the table is, what’s so important about Tremont Washington?”

  “You think Tremont and the vigilante killer are related?” Delgado said.

  “The string theory of physics—everything’s connected.” Hopper crossed his legs. “I saw that on the Discovery Channel.”

  Across the room, the chief and Mohawk held a whispered conversation.

  Hopper said, “What’s the name of that fuck-stain who runs West Dallas?”

  “Alvarez.” Mason willed the anger away. “Lysol Alvarez.”

  “Who the hell names their child Lysol?”

  Mason shrugged.

  Hopper said, “Take a swing at Alvarez. See what he knows about this Tremont kid.”

  Across the room the chief reached into his pocket and pulled out a note card. He gave the slip of paper to Mohawk. The manicurist sashayed over to Lieutenant Hopper. He handed him the card.

  Hopper read it. Then he tore the paper into shreds.

  “The chief has a lead on the vigilante,” he said. “A person of interest.”

  Mason didn’t reply. The chief didn’t come up with leads. To have a lead meant you would have to do police work. The proper way to phrase what was happening was to say the chief had someone he wanted to screw.

  “An ex-cop,” Hopper said.

  Delgado leaned forward. To Mason he appeared eager to hear what Hopper would say next. Eager or afraid.

  “Guy got shit-canned a few years back,” Hopper said. “Worked for the feds for a while.”

  “What’s his name?” Mason asked.

  “Jonathan Cantrell.” Hopper looked at both men. “That name mean anything to either of you?”

  A sharp intake of breath from Delgado.

  Mason smiled, remembering the business card he’d gotten from Tremont’s grandmother.

  “I’ve never heard of him,” he said. “But I’ll be happy to take the point on tracking him down.”

  Hopper nodded.

  - CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE -

  THE WEST DALLAS GANG LEADER

  Lysol Alvarez rubs a lemon rind around the edge of the demitasse cup.

  He’s in the kitchen of his house on Vilbig. At his request, the guards are outside. Pavarotti plays overhead, an aria from La Bohème.

  The room is spotless, cleaned every morning by an Ecuadorian woman who speaks no English.

  Except for the hardwood floor, most of the kitchen is either shiny metal or black marble.

  The stainless-steel coffeemaker, a complicated affair with a number of nozzles and dials, gleams in the halogen lights mounted in the ceiling.

  Two things Lysol Alvarez really likes: good coffee and righteous weed.

  Pressing business has required his attention, so he’s not smoked it up for the past couple of days.

  But he’s really looking forward to some coffee, especially after the morning’s activities.

  So he fusses over the controls and makes a cup of espresso. He’s showered and changed, discarded the soiled coveralls. He’s now wearing a gray linen suit over a silk T-shirt that is pale green.

  The coffee is superb, one cube of sugar and just the right hint of lemon. He finishes the drink, puts the cup in the sink.

  One thing Lysol Alvarez cannot stand. A single item he detests.

  Cocaine.

  Some might say this position is just a tad ironic, since Lysol’s made so much money selling cocaine and her nasty sibling, crack.

  Lysol doesn’t see it that way. Peddling blow, well that’s just good business. Give the customers what they want.

  What Lysol doesn’t like is for people around him to be in possession of or under the influence of cocaine. Everyone associated with Lysol Alvarez knows the rule: don’t be using what the customers are abusing.

  The girl Sawyer is huddled in the corner of the kitchen, hugging herself, sitting on the floor.

  Lysol kneels beside her.

  Her eyes are scared, face red from crying, one cheek purple from a blow she received at the Iris Apartments the day before.

  Lysol clucks his tongue. The crew that controls the Iris, they’re animals.

  He’s tried countless times to negotiate a treaty, reach a peace accord that would allow everyone to profit.

  But his efforts were always rebuffed.

  The leader of the Iris, a dreadlock-wearing piece of slime who insisted on speaking with a British accent, even insinuated that he was coming to take over Lysol’s turf.

  Now this.

  He purses his lips, looks at Sawyer.

  To think that they would dare touch something of his in this way.

  “It’s okay.” He brushes back her hair. “Don’t cry.”

  She flinches but doesn’t speak.

  He’s taken aback. “Have I ever hurt you, Sawyer?”

  She hesitates, shakes her head.

  “Ever laid a finger on you?”

  “N-n-no.” Her voice is weak.

  They’re silent for a moment. No sound in the room except the hum of the refrigerator and the opera music.

  “But what’s the rule, Sawyer?”

  She hyperventilates, eyes wide.

  He caresses her cheek, and she flinches again.

  “Don’t. Use. Blow.” The words slip from his tongue, almost a whisper.

  Sawyer clutches her stomach, face pale.

  Lysol shuffles back. “You gonna be sick?”

  Her cheeks puff. She puts a hand to her mouth, leans to one side, vomits all over the floor.

  He stands, waits for it to be over. He turns on the faucet and wets a cloth, hands it to her.

  She wipes her face and inches away from him.

  “You’ve put me in an awkward position,” he says.

  She hugs her knees.

  “The men at the Iris, they’ve disrespected you.” He pauses. “Which means I have to take action. Make a statement.”

  “I-I-I’m s-s-sorry.”

  “And I owe Jon Cantrell.”

  “I—I didn’t ask him for h-help,” she says.

  “No, of course you didn’t. But Jon’s a man of honor and he saw a lady in distress. What was he supposed to do?”

  They stare at each other.

  Sawyer’s face is a portrait of fear. Eyes wide, nostrils flaring, mouth a thin line.

  “But the worst part is,
you bought cocaine.” Pause. “With my money.” Lysol shakes his head. “From my competitors.”

  Sawyer begins to cry again.

  Lysol strolls across the kitchen and opens the refrigerator door.

  The interior has been emptied except for a large platter in the middle of the lowest shelf.

  In the center of the platter sits a considerable puddle of blood and a severed head, dreadlocks swirling around the neck stump like so many greasy black snakes.

  The leader of the crew at the Iris.

  “Look what you made me do.” Lysol points to the dead man’s face.

  Sawyer clutches her sides like she might vomit some more.

  “Now I gotta send somebody to Home Depot,” Lysol says. “Need to buy a pole we can stick in front of the Iris with this bitch’s head on it.”

  Sawyer retches again. Nothing but a gooey string of bile comes out.

  “A message has to be sent. Surely, you understand that?”

  She nods timidly.

  “All because you broke the rules.” Lysol shuts the refrigerator.

  “Wh-wh-what are you g-g-gonna do to me?” Sawyer says.

  Lysol kneels again. He’s careful to avoid the pool of vomit.

  “What should I do?”

  Sawyer takes a deep breath, brushes the hair from her eyes. She starts to speak—

  The kitchen door is flung open, and one of Lysol’s guards staggers in.

  Lysol arches an eyebrow, trying to keep his anger directed at Sawyer, not the sudden intrusion. He left specific instructions: do not come inside while he handles Sawyer’s disciplinary infraction.

  The guard opens his mouth. Blood gushes over his chin.

  Lysol notices the damp spot on the man’s chest.

  The man falls to the floor, dead.

  - CHAPTER THIRTY -

  I parked in front of a house across the street from Piper’s, two lots down.

  My beeper beeped again. I turned it off, dropped the device in the console next to my battery-less cell phone.

  Theo Goldberg was calling about the shipment, wanting to arrange a pickup.

  That was my job. Help Theo and the law firm with tasks like misdelivered packages and recalcitrant government contractors.

  Screw the job.

  I got out, chirped the locks on the Lincoln.

  It was the middle of the afternoon. Four hours since I’d left her here. I’d called several more times. Her cell was now disconnected.

  I walked across the street like I belonged, a hard-looking guy in a black sport coat and jeans.

  Piper’s SUV was not in the driveway. I strode to the front porch, peered through the window in the door. The glass was frosted, hard to see through.

  I tried the knob. Unlocked.

  The door swung open into the living room, Piper’s meager furnishings still in place.

  The couch and rug were still there. So were side tables and chairs. But the pictures of the children were gone.

  The movement of the door disturbed the air. Bits of dust drifted across the hardwood like tumbleweeds on the desert floor.

  Even the smell of incense was no longer there.

  I headed toward the bedroom.

  Bed and nightstand still there. Clothing and personal items gone, as were the rest of her pictures.

  I sat on the bed.

  Piper could be anywhere. An hour to pack her stuff, grab a bug-out bag and weapons. Three hours to get off the grid.

  A lump of emotion swelled in my throat.

  At least she’d gotten my message.

  She was a survivor. She’d be okay. She’d always been in the past.

  From the front of the house came the sound of hinges squeaking. Footsteps on hardwood.

  I stood, pulled the Glock from my waistband. Eased toward the bedroom door.

  Waited.

  Seconds ticked by, each one extended into something longer, tiny slivers of eternity, the result of adrenaline and fear.

  Movement in the hallway. Someone trying to be as quiet as I was.

  A faint creak of wood, the rustle of clothing.

  I stepped to one side of the entrance to the room, made myself as still and small as possible.

  The door eased open.

  A black shoe, toes only, slid across the threshold.

  I held my breath, waited.

  The muzzle of a gun, chest-high, breached the airspace.

  An arm followed the gun. The index finger of the hand holding the weapon pressed against the frame, not the trigger, the habit of someone professionally trained to handle firearms.

  A cop.

  I grabbed the wrist, yanked it down, pulled the person it belonged to into the room.

  A grunt. A sharp intake of breath.

  I swept the hand behind the back, kicked the feet to one side, and fell on top of Deputy Chief Raul Delgado. The gun dropped, clattered on the hardwood.

  He did not appear amused. His face was pressed to the floor of Piper’s bedroom, one arm bent between his shoulder blades to the point of breaking.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” he said.

  I grabbed his other arm, cranked it behind his back, slipped a cuff tie on both wrists, then rolled off him.

  “You.” He stared at me. “Of all people. I should have known.”

  I retrieved his gun, stuck it in my waistband.

  “Where is she?”

  I shook my head.

  “What did you do to her?” His eyes were slits.

  I didn’t reply, remembering what had transpired in this very space only a few hours before.

  “I’m gonna bury you,” he said. “You’ll need a court order just to see daylight.”

  “There was a threat. A credible source,” I said. “I told her to get out of sight.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Are you the one killing lowlifes?” I asked.

  He kicked the floor, growled. Anger flooded his face, eyes lit up with rage.

  “You wouldn’t be the first cop to crawl in that particular hole,” I said.

  “You think I’m a killer?” he asked. “That I’d hurt people without a cause?”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Do you even know anything about me?” His voice was shrill. “You think I would take the law into my own hands?”

  I looked at my watch, debated my next move.

  Delgado said, “You ever wake up with the taste of your brother’s brain in your mouth?”

  I didn’t speak.

  “You know nothing.” His lip curled in a snarl. “Nothing.”

  “I know you’ve never been straight with me, not from the get-go. You knew where Tremont worked. You’re involved with the Helping Place.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You’ve been busy.”

  “What’d you think I was gonna do?” I opened the closet again, hoping there was something there, a piece of clothing, anything.

  It was still empty.

  “She’s gone, isn’t she?” His face appeared sad now. “She used to brag about being able to disappear.”

  “One of her many talents.” I shut the door.

  “She could really get under your skin.”

  “They’re coming after you,” I said. “The chief wants to pin the murders on you.”

  His eyes closed, mouth moving as if in a silent prayer.

  “I don’t really give a damn about who’s killing who,” I said. “I just want to find the kid.”

  He opened his eyes. “You’re not doing a very good job, now are you?”

  “You got a smart mouth on you for somebody who’s not in the driver’s seat.”

  “I never should have hired you,” he said. “You’re a match in a gunpowder store.”

  �
�The feeling’s mutual. Trust me.”

  We were both silent for a few moments.

  “Piper.” He took several deep breaths. “Do you love her?”

  “Tell me you’re not the guy killing these people.”

  “Tell me if you love her or not.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Everything seems to get taken away from me.” Raul stared at my eyes. “Why should she be any different?”

  I glanced around the room, debating my next move.

  “I didn’t kill anybody,” Raul said.

  “You know what? I don’t really care if you did or not.”

  “I don’t have the guts. That’s a hell of a thing to say, isn’t it?”

  I didn’t reply. Instead, I left the room and strode to the kitchen. In a drawer by the sink was a mismatched jumble of utensils—forks and spoons, a spatula.

  And a paring knife.

  I grabbed the knife, went back to the bedroom, dropped it in the corner. “Killing people doesn’t take guts.” I shook my head. “It requires blind fear and poor impulse control. Maybe a big dose of stupid.”

  “You just gonna leave me here?”

  “You can get to the knife. It’ll take a while, but you’ll be able to free yourself.”

  I put his gun in the closet and then headed toward the door. Once there, I stopped.

  “Why’d you hire me?” I asked. “Really.”

  No response.

  “Do you think there’s a connection between Tremont’s disappearance and the vigilante killings?”

  After another moment, he shook his head. “I knew they’d try to pin the murders on me, though.”

  I didn’t speak.

  “That’s what they do,” he said. “Find the weakest one in the herd and go for the kill.”

  An unfortunate choice of words, given that the topic was a string of murders, but certainly accurate on a metaphorical level.

  “Piper’s most likely somewhere in the city,” I said. “She’s prone to keep a safe house or two handy.”

  He nodded. “Then I’ll find her.”

  “No you won’t,” I said. “Not if she doesn’t want you to.”

  “What is it that you have that I don’t?”

  I could hear the emotion in his voice, hidden under a layer of gruffness. The subtext to his question was, why hasn’t as much been taken from you as it has from me? Why did I get dealt this hand?