by Daniel Jeudy
Neither of them wasted much time choosing off the menu, and they chatted in general terms until their beverages arrived. Addison was impressed when the coffee mugs were placed in front of them a few minutes later, watching Coniglio as she stirred her latte and blew softly over the cream.
“Mm … this is delicious,” she said cheerfully. “They source the beans from an organic company in San Francisco. Their pastries are amazing as well.”
Addison considered pointing out that he’d only seen her drinking tea but sipped his cappuccino instead. It wasn’t like he was any kind of authority when it came to coffee; however, the flavor was much smoother than he was used to.
“I have to say, Coniglio, this here is some good mud.”
She raised her eyebrows in surprise.
“You make it sound unexpected.”
“I’ve always believed the best kind of anything usually comes out of places not so big on the interior bling. I’m more accustomed to dark corners and red-checkered table linen.”
Coniglio giggled enthusiastically.
“You are Texas to the bone, aren’t you? All dirt, dust, and attitude. However, I do agree with your estimation to a point. A swanky interior doesn’t always equate to good produce. Nevertheless, in my vast experience of dining out, a well-presented core and quality service will often be found hand in hand.”
Addison nodded.
“The Feds sure didn’t drag their feet chasing you up.”
“Well, if they’re going to be coming on board, you’d want them to be competent. Rick Sharp seemed okay over the phone. What’s your read on him?”
Addison considered the question for a good few seconds; he didn’t like to estimate the character of a person he didn’t know.
“He seemed all right, I guess, could have been a darn sight worse, but it’s way too early to know for sure. Sharp may have played the part of the good guy to make sure we handed him over everything we’ve got. We’ll get ourselves a better idea of what he’s all about when the next body gets called in. If he holds to his word and keeps us in the loop, then their help will probably turn out to be a good thing. What about you, Coniglio? You got any secrets inside that head of yours you feel like sharing with me?”
Coniglio appeared slightly startled by his question. “About what?” she asked nervously.
“About the investigation,” he chuckled. “What the heck did you think I meant?”
Coniglio felt her cheeks warming and prayed her awkwardness wasn’t apparent. “I wasn’t sure if you were referring to the Feds coming on board or to the case itself … Actually, I didn’t know what you were getting at just now. But in answer to your question, I haven’t found any supplementary data which might extend on what we already know. I have been thinking further on what you boys suggested at Mount Lee, though, and this thing probably is bigger than just the one person.”
Addison noticed Coniglio was blushing and didn’t know why.
“What did you come up with?”
“Lieutenant Collins filled me in on those two youths who went missing in 1994. He also confirmed a cult might be involved in their deaths. What are they called again?”
“In Paucis,” Addison confirmed.
“Which is Latin, right?”
“Yeah. It translates as The Few, but apparently, they no longer go by the name.”
“There’s not much out there capable of spooking me these days, and I’ve pretty much seen it all as far as blood and guts are concerned. But a community of killers … the very thought creeps the hell out of me. I might end up leaving my reading lamp on when I go to bed tonight. Can you believe that?”
It was the only occasion he could remember seeing Coniglio show any sign of vulnerability, and her honesty made him feel kind of special. The transparency added yet another layer to her dynamic, jiggling at the lure he was already attracted to. Still, he could certainly understand where she was coming from. There were times when this investigation made his skin feel like it was crawling off his body. Addison usually felt vindicated if his hunches turned out to be accurate, but he may have preferred to be off the mark in this instance.
“There’s nothing weird about being disturbed by all this, Coniglio, nothing whatsoever. It’s a distressing thought, all right. By the way, I was going to give you a call first thing Monday morning to bring you up to speed with everything. I knew you had the day off and didn’t want to intrude on your rest unless it was necessary.”
Coniglio raised her hands in the air with a gentle smile.
“There’s no need to explain yourself, Mowbray. I probably would have appreciated being kept in the dark until I was back in the office, truth be told.”
The susceptibility he’d picked up on earlier was still present, which made her appear uncertain of herself. Not a trait he’d associated with the woman in the past. Part of him wanted to reach out and reassure her that everything was going to be okay.
“Did Collins explain how we got the name of a woman who allegedly knows someone close to the group?” Addison asked, watching as her eyes sparked into life.
“No, he didn’t. Wow, have you managed to track her down?”
“Not yet, but with the Feds involved, hopefully we’ll have an address soon.”
Coniglio nodded earnestly. “What if those girls are just the tip of the iceberg?”
Addison thought he understood what she was getting at but pressed her anyway. “Are you referring to the likelihood there might be more than one perp involved or a whole bunch of corpses we know nothing about?”
“Both, I guess. I mean, some sociopaths manage to contain their depravity by accessing alternate platforms to get themselves off. But when a psychopath becomes active, they no longer receive much gratification by staring at an image on a screen. It’s like stepping inside a cage with a starving lion and offering up a plate of vegetables. A predator will just do what comes naturally and act on the desire. If a group started killing people thirty years ago, then it goes without saying that there are victims we’re not even aware of. But there’s one thing which doesn’t seem to fit. Why would they choose to start leaving their bodies out in the open all of a sudden?”
She was a smart lady. Addison had been mulling over precisely the same question himself, and thus far, all it did was cloud the waters. Nothing about this case was simple.
They both reached for a napkin on the table, and his fingers brushed across the back of Coniglio’s hand. Then as Addison went to apologize, the look in her eyes suggested she may have appreciated the contact, so he smiled as an alternative. There was a depth to Coniglio that appealed to him more than just a physical attraction—something which had been missing in his marriage from the very start. Addison held fast to her gaze until her face started to glow in four different shades of pink. Maybe the kid was right, after all, he thought to himself, grinning on the inside through a belly of smooth coffee.
Thirty-Six
The three Armenian gangsters made an intimidating presence as they sat at a corner table at the Abovyan strip club in North Hollywood. Narek sipped contentedly at his Ararat Brandy without a care in the world. Apart from the boss’s fortified residence in Glendale, there was no safer place from which to drink the night away. Fingers of smoke twisted out from the stage to form serpent-like patterns while a world-weary dancer twirled herself around a pole. Hazy darkness saturated the lounge area in an almost swaying form as age-speckled lights provided a dim glow above the shadows.
Narek watched the stripper with a critical eye. She appeared to be well past her expiration date and needed to contemplate taking her cunt into retirement. Certain bitches must see something in their reflection that nobody else did. Or maybe they just kept looking in the wrong fuckin’ mirror. Despite the wrinkled skank polluting the ambiance, he felt at home among the lingering odor of sweat, stale cigarettes, and cheap cologne. There were upmarket titty bars in town with clean air and pompous waiting staff, but they lacked atmosphere. The Abovyan was a nest of immo
rality where the great unwashed could come for a small taste of the players’ lifestyle.
The only punters inside the joint were two middle-aged perverts who looked as if they hadn’t been fucked by anything human for an awfully long time. At least they wouldn’t be causing any trouble this afternoon. Davit kept ample security around to ensure the girls’ safety; however, Narek and the boys would lend a hand whenever they happened to be here. Most of the regular pissants usually behaved themselves and only started bitching about the overpriced liquor after they slipped too much cash down a silken thong. Occasionally they got all hooched up to thinking their crumpled bills could acquire them a taste of the snatch on show, but a good fuckin’ kicking brought them back to their senses real fast. Most problems occurred in the private rooms when the punters started demanding more than a lap dance. Stag parties often brought trouble, and weekends could get heated when 2 a.m. regulations shut down traditional nightclubs around the city.
A youthful banger named Arman tapped Narek on the arm and pointed his head at one of the fat fucks who was rubbernecking the pussy on stage. The unfortunate punter’s eyeglasses magnified his peepers, and he fashioned his receding hair in a Hermes Wing comb-over. He looked the type of creep who’d get busted pulling on his pecker in a park when all the kiddies finished school. A deviant skunk from the very moment his melon popped out of his momma’s clam. Davit employed middle-of-the-road dancers for the quiet shifts; germy bitches with stretched assholes who couldn’t land a gig on the night roster. But it sure as hell wasn’t bothering this dipshit any.
“What a stupid motherfucker,” Arman declared hatefully. “He’s been sitting there sipping on juice for over an hour, and I haven’t seen him tip any girls, neither. We should kick his ass to the curb before he starts fiddling with his cock.”
Narek took a mouthful of brandy while he considered what Arman said. The kid made a valid point, although he had no interest in taking part in a random tune-up after the events of the past few days. It was good to be sitting back, and his itch for violence had already been scratched by Jamie Callahan and the two brothers from Watts.
“Screw it, Arman, leave him be. I wouldn’t be throwing any cash at that dried-out pussy if I were a customer.” He slid a bag of cocaine across the table. “Just have another line and chill the fuck out. The sexy cunt will be starting soon. Then you can pick one to bounce on your cock, sit on your face, or whatever else you want them to do. Meantime, those two kiddy fiddlers will be in a dirty room somewhere fucking their hands with nothing but the memory of her C-grade tits to fall back on.”
An expression of outrage flashed across the younger hood’s face as he squared his shoulders like a boxer readying himself for a fight. He was an imposing kid with a muscular frame, and his beady rodent eyes never remained motionless for long. Arman looked as if he were about to contest the suggestion before slumping into his chair with a scowl. The son of a bitch was just a low-cost imitation of Narek in his Adidas tracksuit and Nike runners, another wannabe contender for the crown. Arman eyed the drugs eagerly, but his downcast expression implied he intended to brood. Bedros swooped in and tapped a generous helping of powder onto the table, a gold bracelet jangling around his wrist.
“Just one bitch, you say?” Bedros teased.
Narek understood what he was getting at. “One, two, three—who gives a fuck? The point I’m trying to make is that Rocky here doesn’t need to start looking to beat up on someone every time we go out.”
Bedros grinned through gapped teeth.
Arman was twenty-two and had only been initiated into the Armenian Power for three years. Like many of the younger guys, he tried to demonstrate his devotion by flexing his muscles and beating his chest like a fucking ape. It was mildly entertaining in small doses, but mostly it was a pain in the ass.
Narek was past the point of having to act ballsy. Everyone was well acquainted with his propensity for violence. He’d encountered his share of people who pretended like they were cold over the years. Brownie queens who talked a red-hot game, praying the world didn’t catch onto the framework—that they were just fucking pussies. A few of them had managed to pull off the sham for a while. Then they exposed themselves by throwing out smack to a real OG and got shanked for their efforts. Narek was not one of those people, so he never had to speak a great deal about the kind of pain he was capable of inflicting.
When Bedros finished crushing the cocaine, he used a fake license to chop three lines before sucking the drugs up his nose through a straw with a thunderous snort.
“I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast,” he announced proudly.
Narek’s mouth pricked into a smile as he shook his head.
“Yeah, well, maybe you should be doing more of this shit, brother. See if you can’t crush that incessant fuckin’ appetite of yours. If you continue eating everything in sight, your ticker will pack it in one day soon. Then who would I have to keep me company in the car when I have to go and kill the next cocksucker?”
Bedros stared back at him from across the table with feigned insult, disregarding Arman and his persistent sulking. Narek held firm to his gaze while he spread a fleshy hand over his heart and began breathing in short, exaggerated surges. When they burst into a fit of hysterical laughter, Arman glared at them from across the table.
“What?” he snapped.
“What do you mean, what?” Narek challenged.
“What’s so funny?”
Arman had been born in Glendale Memorial Hospital, and the only thing Armenian about him was his faggy fuckin’ name. He was one tough kid all right but lacked the intelligence to be successful on the street. Narek pointed toward the slobby punter they’d been scoping out moments earlier.
“That fuckin’ asshole just flopped his big cock out,” he confided, spacing his hands a good twelve inches apart. “It was this big, Arman. I kid you not.”
The two older men sat back and observed while their comrade jumped out of his chair and set off to where the unlucky Gyot was sitting, roaring in stitches as the young hood smashed the dicklicker’s face into the side of the stage and began stomping over his body. When Narek spotted the other pervert dashing toward the street, he decided enough was enough. The poor chent would likely have several broken bones and shattered teeth, which meant someone would have to drop him at the emergency room. Arman’s mindlessness had provided them with a laugh, but the boss would lose his shit if the creep went belly up inside the club.
Narek slapped Bedros on the leg.
“Go stop the moron before he kills him, brother. Then tell him to pick his eyeglasses up off the floor, get the car and drop the dirty bastard to a hospital.”
Bedros got to his feet, a couple of tears made a glistening trail down his cheeks.
“All balls, no brain,” he replied through a grin.
Narek looked up and nodded.
“That’s why so many young ones never make it to thirty,” he lamented, smiling as he leaned over the table to enjoy a fat line of coke.
Thirty-Seven
The Old Man felt upbeat as he strolled along the corridor below the Adelanto compound, disregarding the terror-stricken faces that stared back at him from inside the reinforced steel cages. Annie Johnston was on his mind this evening. He’d kept her locked away for almost twenty years, and even though she no longer served many purposes, the unfortunate bitch had supplied him with something near to lasting affection. The bitter stench of her foul body drifted out to him as he neared her enclosure, and he crouched down low to call her name.
“Annie, my poor sweet Annie … what have you become?”
He remembered how her former brilliance had still been evident ten years ago, thinking of the long golden hair that now was a matted white mess. Annie considered him with vacant recognition. Her flesh looked as if it was melting off her bones as her cheeks sagged like jowls made of leather. Wet lesions coated her skin, and the gagging odor of human waste drenched the air around him. He recalled the pleasa
nt taste of her youthful blood and the various ways she had attempted to please him.
Somewhere down the passage, a recently acquired runaway began pleading to be released, still unacquainted with the assurance there was no compassion waiting to be found here. The Old Man removed a jagged lump of uncooked meat from his raincoat pocket and dangled it in front of Annie’s cage like a prize.
“Are you hungry?” he prodded as she spluttered cautiously toward him.
Her breath resembled a pit of roadkill as her eyes chased the beef in his hand, all misty, clouded, and yellowed by sickness. He couldn’t understand how she was still alive. The Old Man had molested her body and mind repeatedly for two decades. Twisted her thoughts into a nook of nightmares, yet Annie’s heart persevered, inconsiderate of all the suffering she’d endured. Protracted strands of beige drool swayed from her mouth as the entirety of her existence centered on the cut of steak in his hand. When he slipped the meat through a hole in the cage, she began ripping it apart with filthy clawed fingers like a ravenous beast—like a monster that was never human.
The Old Man decided he had seen enough of her misery, so he straightened and walked toward the whining boy nearby. The sound of his blubbering was sandpaper to the eardrums, and it only seemed appropriate to make him aware of what his future entailed. Upon seeing him approach, the weeping youth huddled up against the cage.
“Please, mister … there must have been a misunderstanding here. My name is Benny Jones, and I’m no one important; I’m homeless. I live on the streets of Philadelphia.”
The Old Man’s smile was hostile.
“The justification for why you now find yourself in this predicament might be considered somewhat arbitrary, Ben. You’ve been procured by Filii Reprobi and face a slow-moving, intolerable end. We’ll likely start gutting you with a paring knife soon enough, but until such time, quit with the fucking begging. At least when I’m down here.”