by Larry Enmon
* * *
By the time Alma made it back into the herb room, Frank had his case laid out on the counter. He felt pretty good about it. Not much to argue over.
She strolled in wearing a long, see-through beige robe. She wore no bra and the red lace thong panties outlined her perfect hips.
“May I have some more wine?” she asked, holding out her glass.
“Sure. You bought it,” Frank said, and poured some for both of them. She looked great.
She eyed the stack of papers and bottles of dried herbs on the table. “You have something to show me, Frank?” A command, not a question.
She’d regained her confidence while changing. Time for the mind games. Frank touched each herb bottle and recited the name—“Valerian, Belladonna, Kava, and Kratom. Pretty powerful stuff, wouldn’t you say?”
She didn’t answer but ran her hand down the robe. When she let go of the cloth, a fist formed.
“Before we get started, I need to know something.” Frank sat back and crossed his arms. “Because if the answer is yes, then we’d better do this interview at the station.” The frightened doubt in her eyes confirmed he’d set the right tone.
She swallowed and broke eye contact. “What do you want to know?” Her voice was only a weak whisper.
Frank leaned on the counter, resting his forearms. “Can you turn me into a toad if you want?” He didn’t know what to expect in reply to his flippant question.
Alma’s whole face sagged. Her eyes took on a sadness Frank hadn’t seen before. She sat the glass on the counter and just stared at him.
“I’ll take that as no, then.”
She was a statue—her jaw set.
“Okay, here’s what I have. What I can present to a D.A. tomorrow. I’m giving you a chance to explain. Do I need to read you your rights, or do you watch all the cop shows like everyone else?”
She lifted her chin, her face pale. “I know my rights.”
Frank opened his folder. Time for the accusations she’d deny and have to explain. Throw her off her game a little. He laid the copy of the old newspaper story from 1910 on the counter, pushing it toward her. “You’ve lived here before, haven’t you?”
She gazed at the old photo, bit her lip, and remained quiet.
“You were Mrs. Pullings back then, huh?”
Alma waved away the comment. “Don’t be ridiculous. That was my great-aunt.”
Frank lifted the photo. “Remarkable resemblance. Don’t you think?”
She kept her expression neutral but didn’t answer.
“Have another photo to show you,” he said. “Well, six to be exact.” He laid the photo lineup on the table.
Her brow wrinkled as she stared at it and then at Frank.
“Showed this to one of the gang-bangers at Ricardo’s house the night you paid him a visit. The night you planted that silly Voodoo doll to throw us off the scent.” Frank pointed to the initials and date from a few days ago, just under Alma’s photo. “Guy gave us a positive I.D. on you. Said he looked around and you blew something in his face. Did the same to the other gangster. Last thing he remembered until the ambulance attendants woke him up.”
She took a long, slow breath. The areola on her breast had reddened as they talked, and the nipples were erect. Amazingly, Frank found this both exciting and disturbing. Come to think of it, she never did answer that question about the toad.
“I neglected to tell you Rob and I were sitting down the street watching Ricardo’s house the night you came calling. I saw you there.”
Alma’s eyes shifted from side to side as if she considered making a break. A weak grin spread across her lips.
The last newspaper clipping changed everything. Frank expected it would. When he slid it across the counter, tears formed in her eyes and her lower lip trembled. With just her fingertips, she slowly brushed the photo of her deceased daughter and stepped back. She placed a hand over her eyes. Her sobs quickly turned to loud crying and she dropped to her knees, wailing like only a mother could for a dead child.
He eased over to her and took a knee. A tinge of embarrassment and shame filled him, but he kept a straight face and even voice as he said, “I know all about Ricardo’s involvement in your daughter’s death. I know they let him off for lack of evidence. And I know how you must feel.”
Alma kept crying, shaking her head. When she looked up, her eyes were red and scornful. “How could you possibly know how I feel?” she whispered. “Have you ever lost a child?” She wiped her face and leaned her head against the counter.
Frank handed her his handkerchief. “Yes. I lost my unborn child and her mother. They were murdered in New York.”
Until that moment, only Rob knew of Frank’s loss. He’d never discussed it with anyone else. Not anyone’s business. For close to twenty years, Frank had lived with the notion he, too, could have had a normal family life if not for some criminals. Leaving New York and changing professions was the only way he could cope with the memories.
She dried her eyes and Frank helped her to her feet. Her hands were cold—ice cold. The areola had gone back to a normal color. As she stood, she embraced him, laying her head on his shoulder. Neither spoke nor moved for several seconds.
When she broke the embrace, she asked, “What are you going to do?”
This had been on Frank’s mind for days. Levern had thrown away his chance at redemption. Frank cared deeply for Alma, but did she also deserve a second chance? Everyone deserved a second chance. He shrugged. “I’m a cop. What should I do?”
Alma turned and crossed the room. She stood beside a chair and gripped it, watching Frank. Her bedroom hair and the fading light from the windows silhouetting that perfect figure through the robe was enough to scramble Frank’s judgment.
“Are you saying the world would be a better place with Ricardo Salazar in it?” she asked.
Frank had no defense for such an argument. “You started a gang war. Over a dozen people have been killed. Some just innocent bystanders.”
Looking down at the chair, she ran her fingers across the material for a moment. When she looked up, she said, “My question is the same. Do you believe the world would be a better place with any of those murderers in it? How many more lives have to be ruined? How many more children have to die? How many more parents have to mourn?”
He nodded, but didn’t answer. This was her time to talk.
“I’ll not stand by and allow someone to destroy my life,” she said. “I’m happy Ricardo is dead. I’d kill him again if I could!” Alma lowered her head, staring at her hands. She looked up and met his gaze. “What are you going to do?” she asked.
Frank didn’t answer for a few seconds. Was he a bad man? He’d held the power of life and death, of freedom and incarceration for many years. He’d taken lives and put people behind bars. Is that what Alma deserved?
Finally he answered, “Nothing.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Every time Frank had thought about Alma losing her daughter, his mind drifted back to his dead wife and child. Sheep set upon by wolves. He’d solved the case. Identified the culprit. But now he elected to exercise one of the oldest axioms in law enforcement—not to pursue it.
Frank knew in his heart that after his wife and child’s death if he’d had the power to take revenge, he would have jumped at the chance. Fortune or possibly fate never allowed him that chance. But Alma’s loss was fresh. The wound deep and raw. She’d planned it for almost a year before she struck. He still didn’t know how she did it. Really didn’t want to. Yeah, he might be a bad man, but he could live with that.
“I do have one question,” Frank said.
The look of anticipation on her face made him wonder …
Frank smiled, and in a joking manner asked, “How old are you?” This had been on his mind for several days—ever since he saw the photo of Mrs. Pullings in 1910 and wondered about her resemblance to Alma.
Alma released a breath. “Frank, you should
know better than to ask a question like that to a woman.” She approached him. The long sheer robe seemed to float in the air. “Besides, what difference does age make unless we’re discussing wine or cheese?” The smile formed again on her full inviting lips and she drew closer laying her hands on his lapels.
She looked different somehow. Frank couldn’t put his finger on it, but different. Somehow more vulnerable. More lonely. More in need of someone to love her.
“Should have expected that kind of answer,” he said. “You understand you can’t stay around Dallas. If I put it together, sooner or later, someone else might.”
She glanced out the window and exhaled. “I know. I’ve made plans.”
“Don’t tell me,” Frank said. “It’s best if you keep that to yourself. Just get to a place where it’s hard for a Texas cop to drive by for an interview.”
She turned back to him. “Are you busy tonight?”
Frank shrugged again. “No.”
She embraced him and caressed his face. Her hands were hot. “Please stay,” she whispered.
When she’d embraced him moments earlier, she wore a perfume with a sweet floral fragrance. Frank’s deceased wife, Carly, had worn only one perfume for as long as they had been together—Obsession for Women, by Calvin Klein. It had a spicy, exotic smell. It could have been Frank’s imagination, but he swore that same delicate scent now filled his nostrils.
* * *
Jesse and the man lay naked in his bed. She snuggled closer and played with his thick, black chest hair. “So, will you do it?”
He groaned a noncommittal groan. He was always like that after she satisfied him.
She let her fingers drift below his navel and he chuckled, pushing them away. “No more—I’m done.”
“But I want more,” she cooed. “That’s why I want you to take me there.”
He let out a long breath, started to say something, but stopped. “I don’t know, maybe.”
“I can handle two at a time. You could even take pictures if you like.”
He looked at her and frowned. “Why would I want to take pictures of something like that?”
“Some guys like to.”
“You’ve done it with two guys before?”
“Sure,” Jesse said, “I just get warmed up with the first. Takes the second to really satisfy me.”
He gave her a slack-jawed stare. “You’re joking?”
“No, I always like two. So will you do it?” she asked. “We could all meet tomorrow night.”
“Okay, I’ll ask. Never tried a threesome before.”
“It’s called a ménage a trois,” Jesse said. “It’s a French expression.”
Tabor laughed. “Then he’ll love it. Antoine’s a Coon-ass—likes everything French.”
38
Rob finished his workout and strolled into CIU a couple of minutes past nine on Friday morning. He didn’t stop at his cubicle or speak to Frank, but headed straight to the coffee pot. After pouring a cup, he thumbed through a couple of new notices on the bulletin board as he tried the first sip. When he turned around, Frank stood directly behind him. Rob jumped and hot coffee spilled on his hand and shirt cuff.
“Shit. Why you sneaking up on me?”
“I wasn’t sneaking.”
Rob shook the coffee from his fingers and dabbed his shirt with a paper towel. “Carmen’s going to kill me.”
Frank leaned closer and lowered his voice. “We need to talk.”
Rob wasn’t sure he wanted to know what Frank had to say. Every time he said, “we need to talk,” something bad always happened, or they’d wind up sitting on Edna’s couch explaining how things went a little sideways.
“About what?” Rob asked.
Frank grabbed his elbow and walked toward the door. “Let’s take a walk.”
They strolled into the hall and Frank ran down what happened between him and Alma the night before.
Rob had been willing to believe anything Frank told him, but this pushed things over the top. The thought that Frank’s mind had slipped a little too far from reality became a real concern. Rob didn’t understand how Frank had allowed himself to become so embroiled with this woman. Just Frank’s luck to pick someone like Alma. And this ongoing belief she could be a witch only strengthened Rob’s belief he might have to plan an intervention soon if things didn’t straighten out on their own. For now, probably best to humor him and listen to his explanation.
“So, she confessed to killing Ricardo?” Rob asked.
“Well, not in so many words. But it was clear she did it.”
“Wait a minute. Either she did or she didn’t. Which is it?”
“She did.”
“She said the words, ‘I killed him’?”
Frank shook his head. “Not exactly.”
“Okay, forget that. She told you she was a real witch?”
Frank grimaced. “Not exactly, but her meaning was clear. She has no magic powers, if that’s what you mean.”
Rob leaned against the wall and smirked before taking another sip of coffee. “So she really didn’t give up anything.”
“You kind of had to be there.”
“Apparently. You stay the night?”
Frank lowered his gaze.
“Figures. So what do we do now? I assume our search for the mysterious red head is over. Don’t suppose you intend to tell Edna or Terry.”
Frank looked up and shook his head. “No.”
Rob was relieved. As least that was one conversation he wouldn’t be required to sit through. “Do me a favor.”
“What?”
“Don’t ever tell this story to anyone. If they wrap your skinny ass up in a straight jacket and haul you away, I’ll have to find another partner.”
Frank didn’t answer but lifted a brow.
Rob marched back toward the door leading to CIU mumbling, “Dark Cloud” under his breath.
He and Frank caught up on reports while they waited for the next call to meet Sims at the scene of another homicide. By eleven, the call hadn’t come, so when Rob suggested Sarge’s for lunch, he got no objection from Frank. It was the end of the week. They always ate there then. Everyone seemed in a more cheery upbeat mood on Friday.
Sarge’s wife waived as they walked in. The place was so noisy that Jan just motioned to her right. They took the last two stools at the end of the bar. Friday lunches were always the most popular. Everybody wanted to escape the office and get a head start on the weekend. Sarge listened to a D.A. relate a plea deal he’d just cinched as Jan strolled over to Frank. “Wondering when you guys would get here.”
Frank took out a nickel and slapped it on the bar. “Fill ’er up!”
Jan stared at it and grinned. “Only thing you can buy with that around here is a pine float.”
Frank’s eye’s pinched. “Pine Float? Fine, let’s try one.”
Jan returned a few seconds later with a toothpick floating in a glass of water. She scooped the nickel into her pocket. “Now, what do you really want?”
Rob laughed. Yeah, she’d lived with Sarge a little too long. “We’ll have the usual.”
Sarge meandered over a few minutes later with their drinks. “Hey, guys.”
Rob drank half his Coke in one swallow.
Frank leaned on the bar with his elbows and slowly sipped his.
“Ever make a firm connection to that sniper woman and the garage killings?” Sarge asked.
Frank kept his voice low. “We have a video of her there and at a hotel off Greenville.”
“No shit?” Sarge smiled. “So when does it hit the news?”
“Waiting on the sixth floor,” Rob said. “They don’t want to release her photo until they are 100 percent sure.”
Sarge took a swipe at a crumb on the bar with the towel and muttered, “Never can make up their minds on the sixth floor.”
He hadn’t finished the last syllable when the noon news announced a breaking story on the TV above the bar. A photo of Jesse flashe
d on the screen together with her name and a description of her car.
Rob punched Frank. “Look.”
The anchorman said, “This just in. Dallas police have issued a ‘be-on-the-look-out’ for this woman in connection with the string of recent sniper shootings.”
Everyone stopped talking and gawked at the TV. The bar was quieter than a library. The report continued for another minute with the anchor giving background information regarding the snipings.
Frank sighed. “They finally did it.”
* * *
When Jesse turned on the noon news on her drive back from Grapevine Mills Mall, the last thing she expected to hear was her name. She took her eyes off the road and stared at the car radio a couple of seconds. Impossible! How had they made the connection? She’d done everything to plan. Fake identifications, only used burner phones, wore gloves and wiped prints.
She gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. None of that mattered anymore—they had her name and photo now. Jesse always had a contingence plan, just in case.
She’d already packed for her night drive to the East Coast. The only question that remained was, leave now, or complete the contract. Leaving was the only sane thing to do. Jesse mentally went over her options. They had her name and photo, but she had other names and disguises.
Jesse drove directly to her rental house in Grapevine. She still had a little time. After she’d parked the Toyota in the one-car garage and closed it, she hurriedly switched out the license plates for another set she’d liberated earlier from an old Ford. She rushed inside, grabbed her suitcase, and raked the toiletries from the sink into a grocery bag. A quick search of each room ensured she’d left nothing that could further compromise her.
Her stomach churned with nervous excitement. She’d taken big chances in the past that had paid off. Because of rules and administrative procedures, cops were usually slow to understand and act on hot information. Jesse’s motto had always been that of the British Special Air Service, Qui audet adipiscitur, Who Dares Wins.
She’d decided. Taking out Levern was a bonus payment—one hundred thousand. The thought of completing the contract under these circumstances should have filled her with anxiety and fear. But strangely it was the opposite. The excitement of pushing the envelope to the very edge and beyond kicked in an adrenaline high. A pleasing warmth pulsated through her body. She could do this. She was the best there was. Only one consideration—had Tabor or Levern been tipped off? One phone call to Tabor just before she arrived tonight would tell her everything. If he knew, she would hear it in his voice and she’d just keep driving east. Either way, by this time tomorrow she’d be safe at home.