“It’s quite possible,” he said. “But we need to find something substantial to back that up with.”
“Any thoughts?”
Vincent pondered that for a long moment. “Cell phone towers in and around the area?.”
“Clarendon’s Sheriff’s Department already did that,” Brandt said, “back during the initial investigation.”
“I know,” he said, “but they were just looking for her number, not an outside one.”
“You’re thinking that Kelly used a burner, maybe?”
“The list was already drawn up for the cell phone pings in Clarendon. I think we need to pull up every number on that list and see which coincides with an unlisted phone.”
So they did.
And they wound up with two possibilities.
“Two numbers,” Vincent said, looking at the list that was given to them by the people at Clarendon. “And they were talking to one another right up until the murders.”
“How could Clarendon have missed this?” Brandt asked.
“They just weren’t looking in the right place, detective,” he said. “Happens more often than you’d think.”
Brandt placed the list down and looked at her partner. “What are you thinking?”
“You go first this time.”
Brandt rested her elbow on the desk. “I’m thinking you want to call up Miami PD, book a couple of tickets, and then start questioning all the places along South Beach.”
“Damn right I do.”
“We don’t have much to go off,” Brandt said. “It might all end up being a waste of airfare.”
“Possibly,” Vincent said, already moving to grab his jacket. “But at least we can cross it off the list of running theories if we’re wrong.”
Vincent and Brandt were in Miami. The sun shining, wind rustled the palm trees, birds cawing, and the steel-blue ocean licked against the shore as Vincent, behind the wheel of the rental car heading toward the third of six auto shops they were planning to hit along South Beach.
“I could never live down here,” Brandt said, eyeballing the people in pastel bikinis and banana-hammock thongs rollerblading along the sidewalk. “It’s a little too colorful for me.”
“I dunno,” Vincent said. “I think Los Angeles can give this place a run for its money.”
They weaved their way through traffic, passing by a nightclub, a gym, and a Cuban restaurant before arriving outside an auto body shop wedged in between a pair of houses just off South Beach.
“We need to check in with the Miami PD lieutenant in a few,” Vincent said as he put the car in park. “We only have two days of grace here with them.”
“And only three with our people,” Brandt opened her door. “Funny how life works out that way.”
They exited the car and moved toward the auto body shop, a one-story building with a garage on the left and a salvage yard on the right. There was a pit bull with a spiked collar chained up in the corner of the junkyard.
“No sign,” Brandt said as they looked around and moved toward the front door. “What’s this place called?”
“Ricky’s,” Vincent said, remembering the name he had pulled from the phone book.
He looked toward the junkyard and saw an open door through the main office they had walked into on their right. “Kind of curious to check that out.”
Brandt moved toward the open door. “On it.”
Vincent walked toward a counter with chipped paint and a bell covered with dried grease stains and soot, the overwhelming smell of tires, diesel, and metal overwhelming his senses as he rang the bell.
Seconds later, a man in greasy overalls, with hair that would make a wirehair terrier envious, appeared. “Help you?” he asked, the guy’s nametag read “Owen.”
“Yeah, Owen,” Vincent said. “My name is Detective Edgar Vincent. I’m with the Hollow Green Police Department in Illinois.”
The guy huffed. “You’re a long way from home.”
“And then some.”
“What can I help you with, detective?”
“Just needed to ask you a few questions.”
“This about that robbery two days ago?”
“No. I’m here to inquire about a guy named Devon Palmer. Does that ring a bell at all?”
Owen stared at the ceiling as he thought. “No, not that I can recall.”
“Do you have any siblings working here?” Vincent asked. “A pair of brothers, to be specific?”
Owen’s eyes were once more on the ceiling. “Not that I can recall.” He looked over his shoulder. “Can you give me one minute?”
“Sure thing.” Vincent glanced around. “Mind if I use the restroom?”
Owen pointed to the door on Vincent’s left. “By all means.” Owen turned and left, and Vincent headed toward the restroom.
Owen hustled toward the back office and told the man seated at the desk inside, “We have a problem.”
Vincent removed his gun inside the bathroom and placed it on the hand towel dispenser a few feet to his right.
I wonder if this whole thing is a bust.
He finished up and moved to the sink, already annoyed that the thing was rusted over and there wasn’t a drop of soap in the dispenser.
I’m gonna have to dry my hands on my pan—
The bathroom door kicked open with a smash, wood splintered along the door jamb. Owen moved in and wrapped his hands around Vincent’s neck before Vincent had a chance to understand what was happening.
Owen slammed Vincent’s body against the wall. Vincent kicked, struggled against the pressure on his neck, but Owen had a hundred plus pounds on him. Vincent struggled and strained, but he couldn’t shake him off. He couldn’t get the leverage that he needed.
He swiped and clawed at Owen’s forearm to no avail trying to shake his grip, but it wasn’t working—Owen batted Vincent’s hands away and kept firm pressure on squeezing his neck.
“Shouldn’t have come around here,” Owen whispered in Vincent’s ear.
Vincent’s world was closing in. He began to see stars.
Do something.
Do it now!
Vincent pressed his left thumb against the corner of Owen’s eye, and pushed, ready to pop it right out of the socket if he needed to. Owen fought Vincent off for a moment before he screamed out in pain; clawing at Vincent’s hands to get him to stop.
Vincent stood back as Owen brought his hand up to his eye to make sure it was still in place; then Vincent, threw an arching haymaker and cracked him in the jaw.
The punch landed hard but barely knocking the towering guy off balance before Vincent planted his feet, twisted his hips, and prepared to throw another punch—but Owen caught it one-handed, wrapped his meaty hand around Vincent’s fist, and grinned.
Vincent knew he was in for a world of hurt.
Vincent attempted to throw a left hand, but Owen’s right arm coiled around it, both of Vincent’s arms now pinned against his sides. Owen bear hugged him and again, he whispered in his ear, “Lost five years of my life last time I hit a cop. This time, they won’t find you to gather the evidence.”
Owen craned his head back and smashed his skull into Vincent’s nose. Vincent went limp for a moment in Owen’s arm.
Owen then spun Vincent around like a rag doll, his right arm twisting and wrapping around Vincent’s neck, squeezing as Vincent choked and wheezed; seeing the world closing in.
“Stupid bastard,” Owen said. He tightened the grip he had around Vincent’s and placed his left hand over Vincent’s mouth, twisted, and prepared to break his neck.
“Let him go, asshole,” Brandt rushed into the room, her Glock raised and pointed at Owen’s skull.
Owen released his grip.
Vincent fell to his knees before drawing in a quick breath. “Thank Christ…”
“No,” Brandt glanced at him. “Thank me.”
She didn’t see Owen rush her.
Brandt straightened up, aimed and clipped Owen in the shoulder, but it did little
to slow him down as he tackled her to the floor with the impact knocking the gun from her grip and also the air from her lungs.
Vincent wasted no time—he got to his feet, wrapped his arm around Owen’s throat, and he squeezed. Owen responded by slamming his fist into Vincent’s groin; the pain folded Vincent at the waist.
Owen kept his attention on Vincent. He turned his back to Brandt as she seemed too weak now to keep up the fight. She was sprawled out on the floor, desperately trying to catch her breath. So Owen, in a split second, made a mistake.
As Owen turned, Brandt seized the opportunity, folded her leg into her chest, angling it, and then kicked her heel into Owen’s face knocking him senseless.
Vincent, rolled on the floor, watching Brandt as she scooped up her Glock, stood over Owen, and held the gun at his head. “Okay,” she said, still catching her breath. “That’s enough of this shit.”
Brandt tossed a glance at Vincent as he stood up and limped to her side. “I think there’s a fridge in the back,” she gestured toward his crotch. “Might have some ice for you if you need to cool off the acorns.”
Vincent handed her his cuffs so she could finish the arrest. “Too soon,” he said. “Much too soon.”
17
Every available policeman in the area came to the aid of Brandt and Vincent after they called in the assault at Ricky’s Auto Salvage by a now-handcuffed Owen, seated in the back of a squad car.
A lieutenant for the Miami PD, dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, a cigar in his mouth, scanning left to right and hiking his pants up as Vincent and Brandt were tended to by EMTs.
The lieutenant took out his cigar, eyeballed Brandt and Vincent from head to toe, and said, “You the cops from out of town?”
Vincent took the lieutenant’s hand. “Vincent. Hollow Green Police Department.”
Brandt did the same.
“Lieutenant Mendoza. You two mind explaining what the hell happened here?”
“I got hit in the groin, and my nose is busted,” Vincent said, “that’s what happened.”
Mendoza sighed. Brandt, sensing the brewing tension, stood up and stepped in between the two of them. “We’re here on an official investigation,” she said.
“I’m aware,” Mendoza said. “I was given a full briefing on the situation by Captain Andrews. What I don’t understand is how you two managed to get into a fistfight with Owen Mendoza.”
“He was the aggressor,” Vincent said. “We were investigating out auto body shops along South Beach.”
“What the hell for?”
“We were given a tip that a suspect we’ve been pursuing fled here to Miami to be with his brother. The suspect is connected to an auto body shop. We were following up—”
“And that’s when Owen started throwing punches,” Brandt finished.
Mendoza forked a thumb over his shoulder toward the street. “Owen Mendoza doesn’t have any family. The guy’s a two-bit criminal who moonlights as muscle for different dealers around the city. I doubt he’s got any connection to your suspect.”
“He started taking swings at me about twenty seconds into me questioning him,” Vincent said. “Seems pretty damn suspicious to me, lieutenant.”
Mendoza raised an eyebrow. “What’s his name again? Your suspect.”
“Devon Palmer,” Brandt said. “But we’re pretty sure that’s an alias.”
“No one I know. All I do know is that I’ve got Owen Mendoza on an assault beef now, and I’ve been trying to lock that cretin up for four months.”
“Take him,” Vincent said, brushing of the EMT tending to him as he stood. “But I want to talk to him first. This guy has info that I need. I have no doubt. All I need is five minutes with him.”
“Granted.”
Vincent slid into the back of the squad car directly beside Owen, who turned away and shook his head as the cuffs on his hand clinked and blood ran slowly from his nose.
“If you do anything stupid,” Vincent said, motioning to Brandt standing guard outside the door, “she’s gonna shoot you in your face. Got it?”
Owen said nothing.
“Why did you jump me?” Vincent said. “It was because I was asking questions about Devon Palmer. Wasn’t it?”
“Lawyer,” Owen said, still looking away.
“Yep,” Vincent said. “That sounds like what a guilty man would say.”
“I’m not saying anything to you.”
“Fine. Then you can sit here and listen because I can work with Miami PD and make sure you get roped in as an accessory to the murders we’re here to investigate.”
Owen’s eyes went wide. “Bullshit.”
“I thought you weren’t talking. In fact, you know what? Don’t talk. Just shut your mouth and keep on listening.”
Owen complied.
“Here’s the deal, big and tall,” Vincent continued, “you’re screwed. There’s no way around that. You, sir, are going to prison, and being the career criminal that you are means that you know damn well what happens when you don’t cooperate with the cops on a murder case you find yourself wrapped up in. Chances are you’re going to get burned. So, you can either answer my questions, tell me what I want to know, or you can watch the time you’re facing double with each lie you tell. You hearing me now? Your mouth working by any chance?”
Owen cleared his throat, his body language changing as he shifted in his seat and turned to speak. “I maybe know something that can help you.”
Vincent sat up.
Now we’re getting somewhere.
“You need to be clearer,” he said. “What do you know?”
“Devon Palmer,” Owen said, “is a bullshit name. All I know is that Alex said that if anyone came around asking about him, to keep my mouth shut, and so I did.”
Vincent was well aware of the street code—snitches get stitches and all that—but this guy was facing serious time so he would talk. “Who’s Alex?”
“Guy who runs the shop. He hired me.”
“Last name?”
A shrug. “The guy never told me.”
“And I’m taking it that Alex’s operation here isn’t really on the up-and-up? In more ways than one.”
“I just do what he says. I don’t even know about most of the shit he pulls in this shop. I’m just the muscle.”
“But the two of them are connected in some way. That’s what you’re saying?”
“Yeah. I think they might be related. I mean…I’m not sure, but I’ve heard Alex refer to other guy is his brother before. At least when he brings him up that’s what he calls him.”
“Where’s Alex now? Was he planning on coming back here anytime soon?”
Owen released an exasperated breath. “He never comes in the shop anymore, but you could probably find him at his club.”
“Which club?” Vincent asked, ready to hop out of the car and head on over with the new information.
“It’s called The Griff,” Owen said. “It’s about twelve miles from here.”
“And that’s all you know. It’s all that you got?”
Owen turned to Vincent and said, “I’m just the muscle, man. If Alex needed something or someone tuned up, I did it. He needed me to collect a debt; I did it. He never told me anything, and all he told me about this Devon Palmer guy was if anyone, anyone came around asking for him, I was supposed to make sure they didn’t speak to anyone else.”
Vincent took a second to examine the guy, looking to find a crack beyond the facade that would indicate a lie—he found none.
After questioning him on a few more details, Vincent slipped out of the car, told Mendoza he was finished, and then sat down alongside Brandt.
“You get a lead?” she asked.
“I did,” Vincent said. “And it involves bad music, cramped environments, and a lot of strobe lights.”
Brandt rolled her eyes. “God,” she said as they headed toward their rental car. “That’s the last thing I was hoping to hear.”
18
&nbs
p; Kelly packed their stuff not long after she had returned from collecting the envelope at the Cuban café in Little Havana.
“Where are we going?” she asked, wringing her hands and uneasy with worry.
“We have to move again,” Devon said. “We have to stay on the move until we collect all the money, then we can blow town. I told you this, baby.”
“I know,” she said, helping Devon take their bags to the door. “I just… I don’t know. I have a bad feeling.”
Devon laughed. “Don’t be stupid. No one knows where we are. We’ve been safe for a while now. The more we keep moving, the more it stays that way.”
“I’m just nervous, baby. I feel like we’re making, I don’t know, mistakes.”
Devon leered at Kelly. “Don’t you ever accuse me of being wrong,” he said, his fists squeezed tight and Kelly backing away.
She composed herself, back to the dutiful—and submissive—girlfriend that she always was. “I’m just scared. That’s all. I trust you, baby. You know that.”
Kelly wanted to believe Devon. She had trusted him from the day they first met. Hell—she had loved him the day they first met. Devon was so suave, so daring, so rebellious in a way that Kelly had never experienced before they met on the beach that summer while on vacation with her parents. It was a forbidden affair, one comprised of cryptic exchanges over burner phones and the occasional meetup on the outskirts of town.
And then Devon had told her the plan; Now they were living that plan to the letter.
“What’s wrong, baby?” he asked. “Why are you so worried?”
The tears welled in her eyes as Devon took her into his arms. “I don’t know,” she said. “I just feel like somebody’s…watching us.”
“No. That’s not true. Not at all. You’re just nervous. That’s all. We’re about to start a new life together! Free of work, free of sin, free from it all. It’s a big change, honey. But we’re going to do it together.”
Kelly looked into his eyes, still seduced by all of his bullshit that charmed her more than the Disney films she’d watched as a child.
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