The Blood of Saints (Tom Connelly Book 2)

by Nick Dorsey

  He was going to take her to Cuba. Imagine that, tall, blonde Erika Cheramie walking around all those Cubans. They’d think she was an angel or something. And he would have been with her. The only guy on the whole island who could bag an angel.

  Now what?

  God damnit.

  A horn honked outside. Dominic let himself hope that Erika was coming back. He wouldn’t even be angry with her, he decided. They would have it out, sure, but it would be for show. It would be to save face.

  He peeked out of the room’s lone window. The parking lot was about half empty. No Lexus. But there was a beat-up green truck idling out there. The driver waved at him.

  Dominic walked out with the little Glock in hand, holding it at his side but with his palm toward the other man, so he could see it.

  The truck wobbled as Louis got out. He waved. “Hey. I found you.”

  Dominic scowled. His shirt was still only halfway buttoned. “Why you looking for me?”

  The other man shrugged. “The money.”

  Dominic almost said, “What money?” but he stopped. What was the point of that? Instead, he said, “I’ll give you what, fifty grand. Okay? And then you never found me. How does that sound?”

  Louis was looking at the motel. “This is where you wanna stay? I woulda picked someplace nice. A beach or something. The mountains maybe.”

  What was the guy talking about? Dominic waved him away. “Fifty grand, man. That’s a good day.”

  “I don’t want to go to the mountains, though.” Louis shrugged. “I like the city. So I’m gonna take everything back to Sal.”

  “No, you aren’t.” Dominic raised his gun.

  Louis held up his hands. They stood like that for too long, Dominic thought. Somebody at the motel would look out the window and see them, call the cops, and it would all be over. The problem was, Louis wasn’t like Nino or Ernie. He was good people. A funny guy. Dominic liked him. But if it was a choice between giving it all up or killing a nice guy? Dominic knew what he would do. His finger tightened around the trigger.

  “Wait,” Louis said. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Okay. Eighty grand and I never saw you.”

  “I said fifty.”

  “Guess I need eighty to make it to the mountains.” The big guy smiled.

  Dominic returned the smile. Okay. That wasn’t bad. He went back into the room and grabbed a stack of bills. What was the amount? There were bundles of tens and twenties and fives. He couldn’t remember how much was in a bundle of fives. Five hundred? That sounded right, but was it?

  Several cars were pulling up outside. Dominic dropped the cash to peer out his window.

  Cops.

  Dominic cursed. The cops were already out of their cruisers, a small army of them talking to Louis. Some noisy idiot probably called in the cavalry, just like Dominic thought. Louis wasn’t running from the cops, which was good. He was talking to them. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but maybe he could convince them it was all some strange misunderstanding.

  When the big guy gestured at Dominic’s motel room, he cursed again. Okay. He could still talk his way out of this. He began shoving money back into the duffel bags. If they couldn’t see anything wrong, what could they do? He even tossed the Glock in with the bills.

  He was trying to shove the bags under the bed when they came through the door. No knocking or anything. One guy just put his boot into it. Dominic hadn’t even locked it.

  Dominic saw the drawn guns and pulled his hands over his head. “Hey. Okay! Okay!”

  The first cop through the door was young. He had a soft face and was heavy under his body armor.

  “Get your hands up,” he said.

  Dominic said, “They’re up. What’s the problem?”

  The cop coming in behind the first was not young. He was lean with high and tight grey hair. Eyes cut to slits over the barrel of his service weapon. His voice was hoarse with years of cigarette smoke and just loud enough for Dominic to hear. “They said this is for Ernesto.”

  Dominic barely had time to register that before the cop took a deep breath and yelled in his haggard voice, “Gun! Gun!”

  Then the cop was firing. Dominic felt like he was getting punched a half dozen times. The room stutter-stepped like an old 8mm film. His ears were ringing and the room was suddenly very bright. He found he couldn’t breathe. One hand groped behind him, feeling for something to steady himself but couldn’t find it. Dominic’s feet weren’t working right. Was it his Magnannis? The damn shoes cost too much to give him this sort of grief. He pitched to one side, twisted to catch himself, and finally fell back. He bounced on the bed and rolled off, onto the floor, taking stacks of cash with him.

  He couldn’t breathe. His eyes wouldn’t focus initially, then he could make out a bundle of bills in front of his face. All that spilled green. Black boots shuffled up to him, knocking the bundles aside.

  A hand full of gnarled knuckles grabbed a bundle off the floor. The older cop’s ragged voice said, “Get the big guy in here. Tell him he’s got to bag this shit up quick.”

  The black boots turned around and stomped for the door.

  Dominic’s chest felt wet and heavy and he couldn’t make sense of what was happening.

  He just needed to catch his breath.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The nurses at University Medical Center ignored the men who erected a white folding table in the waiting room. It was odd, sure. Somebody bringing one of those beat-up plastic picnic tables into a hospital, but it was nothing worth leaving their station for. They even ignored the first covered tray that was brought in. It was Saturday night and they were getting a head start on what promised to be another busy evening. Saturdays were always good business for the University ER.

  Tom Connelly sat up when a small army of men in tuxedo shirts and ties came in. He recognized them as the waitstaff from the Pan Dell’Orso. They were carrying metal racks and serving trays covered with aluminum and cans of Sterno. When a younger blonde server started lighting the Sterno, the nurses finally had to intervene. They argued for a moment about the correct temperature of mushroom risotto, and the blonde server must have made a decent argument because the nurse went back to her station, mumbling about calling the Charge Nurse instead of kicking the whole circus out. Tom had to smile. He looked around to make sure the others were enjoying this.

  On the other side of the room, Jean Perez was sitting with Patton’s family. His father had arrived late last night having just flown back from some business in Chicago. Tom saw the resemblance, though Mr. Brooks was clean-shaven and generally more clean-cut than his investigator son. Along with Patton’s mother and sister, they were watching the battle over the tables with idle curiosity.

  The tide turned when Sal LaRocca came walking through the hospital in a black Saints windbreaker and a houndstooth cabbie hat, making for a gaggle of nurses crowded around a stern-looking woman with bright red hair. A dye job, probably. And she wasn’t in scrubs. She was in a blue suit. Sharp. Sal called her Director something or other and he started talking, not letting her get a word in edgewise. All smiles and car salesman charm, Sal was. Something about wanting to give back to the community, and help the fine people at University Medical Center out in whatever way he could, and could the people waiting here get a little plate, too?

  It only took a minute. By the time he was done talking the servers had the foil lids off and were already piling food on plates and making the rounds, handing meals and cellophane wrapped plastic silverware off to anyone who would take them. Sal shook the Director’s hand and went to take charge of his army. He sent a squad loaded with risotto and salad and lasagna to the Brooks family, then intercepted a lone server, took the kid’s plate, and strolled over to where Tom was sitting.

  Tom took the meal. What else could he do?

  “Pretty generous of you,” Tom said. “Feeding everybody.”

  “I got a charitable soul.” Sal sat next
to him. He pointed to Tom’s jacket, which was folded on another chair. It was the bright gold thing he wore to the casino. “I been meaning to ask. What are you, a chorus girl now?” When Tom didn’t answer, Sal said, “How’s your friend?”

  “Patton. He’s lucky. He’ll be okay, I think.”

  “Thank God, right?”

  “Sure.” Tom held the plate. It wasn’t charity, he knew. This was Sal trying to make things right, probably. He nodded to the other side of the waiting room. “His family is over there if you want to say hello. Or wish them well. Whatever.”

  “I know who they are.” Sal pursed his lips. “I don’t know how to start that conversation, I’ll be honest with you.”

  “Yeah. Tricky.” The meal was his apology, Tom was thinking. Sorry one of mine almost killed your son.

  Sal cut his eyes at Tom. “I’m doing what I can, okay?” He grumbled and took the plate from Tom and started cutting the lasagna with the plastic fork. He shoveled food in his mouth and didn’t look at Tom again.

  “I got a call. There was some excitement up by Lafayette,” Sal said.

  “There was?”

  Sal shrugged. “One of them is coming back with the sheriffs. Seeing as how the mess started down here, you know. She’s gotta be transported back down here.”

  “Erika?” Tom asked.

  “There was a young guy, too. But, you know. Things happen.”

  So that’s how it went.

  Next to him, the old man shoveled a lump of lasagna into his mouth. A bit of red sauce dribbled down his chin and onto his windbreaker.

  Tom said, “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”

  Sal knuckled the sauce from his chin. He was staring at Tom now. “I didn’t think the girl had it in her, Mr. Connelly.” He nudged his houndstooth cabbie hat to the side. “Sometimes, maybe she wears herself a crooked hat, eh?” Sal looked at him, eyes shining. Nearly winking at him. “We all got it in us, Mr. Connelly. You know that, right?”

  Tom didn’t answer. He looked across the room to where Jean was sitting with the Brooks family. He felt a pang of guilt. If he hadn’t wanted to pull the threads on Sofia Adelfi’s case, Patton would be home with his family right now. Having dinner or something. And Jean would never have had to stoop down to Sal LaRocca’s level.

  She wouldn’t have had to stoop down to Tom Connelly’s level.

  The waiting room suddenly felt full of sound. People talking and eating. Plastic forks scraping paper plates. Everything clashed together to become the sound of an oncoming train. The room was altogether too bright and Tom panicked. He was on the tracks again. He squinted and tried not to think about how good a drink would be. Something cold and strong, in a dark bar downtown. Someplace with a few regulars and no tourists. Serious drinkers only. Why had he ever stopped in the first place?

  “Tom?” Sal said.

  Tom ignored him. He stood and walked outside, leaving Sal sitting there with his plate.

  Outside a breeze was bringing out the stars. The air moving over his face helped to clear his mind. It blew the idea of a dark bar into smoke. Because Tom had come too far to turn back now. As for why he had stopped in the first place?

  Tom pulled out his phone and saw an alert from his chess application. The game was over. He lost. To take his mind off everything in the hospital, he dialed his son. Dennis answered in a little-boy manner, breathless like he had to run for the phone. There was some sort of commotion in the background.

  Tom said, “Hey, you all eating?”

  “We already ate, yeah. We’re about to go to a movie. Witch Mountain.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah.” There was a pause while someone else spoke to him. Dennis said something back, then his voice came back to the phone full-force. “Did you see you lost the chess game? You didn’t move. You have to play or it times out and you forfeit.”

  Right he had seen that. Tom must have been quiet for some time, long enough for Dennis to ask, “Dad?”

  “I’m here.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing. Working.” He hesitated but decided to tell the boy the truth. “A friend of mine is in the hospital.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I think he’s okay, though.”

  “That’s good. I gotta go. I hope your friend is okay. Tell him I said get well soon.”

  “Yeah, thanks. I’ll tell him.”

  Dennis hung up.

  Tom decided to relay Dennis’s message as soon as he could. Back in the waiting room, he walked past Sal. The old man looked up at him expectantly, but Tom kept walking. He stopped at the Brooks family. Their eyes were tired to the point of exhaustion.

  “I was wondering if I could go in and see him?” Tom said.

  He could.

  The hall leading to Patton’s room was mercifully free of humanity. A symphony of respirators and EKG machines ushered him across the tile until he came to Patton’s door. After a few knocks, Tom waited for the other man to respond.

  There was a gulf of time and then Patton said, “Yeah? Come in.”

  He set an open book down on his blanket. It made a bulky tent over one leg. Patton, like everyone else, looked tired. A bandage wrapped around his head covered most of his forehead. His short dreadlocks sprouted from the top of his head like the leafy crown of a pineapple, although they were uneven. Half of the top of his head had been shaved.

  His voice was slightly thick with whatever intravenous painkiller they were feeding him. “I was wondering who it could be. Nurses don’t wait. They just bust in.”

  Tom closed the door behind him and gestured to an uncomfortable-looking couch. Patton nodded, and Tom sat. “I like your haircut,” he said.

  One corner of Patton’s mouth curled upward. “So they could stitch me up. I think they went a little far, though.”

  Tom nodded. Patton blinked at him, adjusting to there being another human in the room. After a moment Tom said, “They say you’re okay.”

  Patton made a gesture like a shrug. “For being shot. Yeah. I guess so.” His voice was coming in stronger now. “You ever get shot? When you were a cop?”

  Tom shook his head. “No. Took a few punches. Shit. I’m sorry, Patton.”

  The younger man looked away. “Don’t do that,” he said in a small voice. Then, louder, “Pass me that water, will you?”

  Tom took a glass from a portable serving tray and held it up to Patton’s face. He scowled at Tom, took the glass with both hands, and drank. “I got it. I got it.”

  “Okay. Okay.” Tom watched him drink.

  When Patton finished, he said, “You talk to the police?”

  “Yeah,” Tom said.

  “I told them. Dominic and his girl.”

  “They’re all over it.”

  Patton looked at him pointedly. “I saw the Lexus SUV. He was there. Even before he came at me, we had him.”

  “Yeah,” Tom said. “We got him.”

  When he left Patton’s room, Jean was standing by the sliding doors. Waiting for him. Sal LaRocca was gone. Tom awkwardly said goodbye to the Brooks family and left. Jean walked through the night with him. He stopped when he realized he didn’t have a car.

  “I called a cab for us,” Jean said and gestured to a waiting American Taxi.

  They were quiet on the ride back to her house. He seemed to lose time. Without warning, the cab was pulling up to the curb in front of her house. Had they stopped at every light? Signaled every lane change? Christ, had he said anything to Jean? He couldn’t remember.

  She opened the door and stood there half in shadow, the other half of her body lit by a streetlamp. She had a lean, hungry look about her. “Are you coming?” She said.

  Tom handed the driver a few bills and slid out. The night was pleasant. He could hear the sound of something happening in the park. A picnic running late? Maybe something in Irby Field. A kid’s soccer game? Jean held her keys thoughtfully, not saying anything. Under the yellow glow of the stree
tlamp, he said, “We can talk about it if you want.”

  “I don’t want to talk,” she said. She took his hand and brought him inside.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Jean was surprised to be called into Juanita’s office early Monday morning. The Head Defender was a great many things, but she was not normally an early riser. Now she was at her office window, watching the city wake with an oversized travel mug held just under her nose. She turned when Jean entered and tilted her head to view the younger woman from over the top of her glasses. “Morning.”

  Jean returned the pleasantries and took an offered seat. Instead of retreating behind her desk, Juanita held her vigil over the city.

  She said, “Patton Brooks is doing well. I didn’t get a chance to visit the hospital last night but I went this morning. Brooks family are nice people, aren’t they?” Jean allowed that was so.

  Juanita continued, “You know, I like to let all my Defenders do their thing. But I do keep an eye out.” She angled her travel mug to the picture of her grandchildren. “It’s the Mawmaw in me. Just got to hover over and make sure everyone is getting everything they need. So I just made a few little calls last night, and you wouldn’t believe what I’ve been hearing.”

  Jean waited, not sure where Juanita was going.

  “First, I hear about a double homicide at a strip mall in Mid City. Some sort of private poker club.”

  Jean perked up. She opened her mouth to speak but Juanita shook her head.

  “Now, I know your investigators were interested in this place. I thought it was just a classic example of mission creep on their part, but I suppose not.” Juanita shook her head. “If you want, you’re back on the Adelfi murder.”

  Jean tried to digest that.

  “Will Jackson and I are still sorting things out, and it might rub Eason the wrong way, but I’m the boss, aren’t I? You were on the Adelfi murder before, you’re back on it.”

  Jean was still trying to take that in. She had worked the case hard only to be pulled away when she was getting somewhere, now she had the case back. And she couldn’t take it. For reasons she could never explain, she had to leave Eason’s work alone. She watched Juanita carefully. Maybe the Head Defender would apologize for taking her off the case, but she wouldn’t hold her breath.