Hot Lights, Cold Steel Page 5

CHAPTER 12

  THURSDAY 11:14 A.M.

  ALEJANDRO SAT IN A METAL, STRAIGHT-BACKED CHAIR, TWO BRIGHT lights aimed at his face. Rocco stood near the far wall, hands stuffed into his pockets, Lefty beside him. Austin leaned on the opposite edge of the table, triceps all roped out, and stared at Alejandro.

  “Let’s have it,” Austin said.

  “Have what?” Alejandro tried to appear passive, unconcerned, while inside he wanted to run. Or fight.

  “Who else knows?”

  “Eddie.”

  “Besides him and the girl.”

  “No one.” Alejandro looked toward Rocco. “You know that. How long I worked for you?”

  Rocco shrugged.

  “Three years. I ever done anything but what I was told? Ever opened my mouth about anything? Any of the shit I did? Any of the bodies I stuffed in the ground no questions asked?”

  “That’s all real nice.” Austin leaned forward, so close that Alejandro felt his breath against his face. “We’re talking about now. Right here, today. You’re only as good as your last at bat, and yours don’t look so good.”

  Alejandro smiled. “And yours does?”

  Austin recoiled a bit, his chin coming up, head cocked. “What the hell does that mean?”

  Good. Put him on the defense. “I had Eddie and the girl. Clean. In and out.” He rubbed his neck. “Then you two clowns waltzed in and fucked it up.”

  “We didn’t—”

  “Rocco, tell these assholes I’m not as dumb as I look.” Alejandro slid to the front of the chair, forearms on the table, bringing his face even closer to Austin’s, staring directly into his eyes. “You guys act tough. Truth is, you could fuck up a one-car funeral. You turned a simple hit into all this.” He waved a hand across the table.

  Austin glared at him, working his jaw muscles.

  “Without you guys,” Alejandro continued, “Eddie and the girl would be gone. End of story. End of problem. Now?” He leaned back in the chair and opened his hands, palms up.

  Austin moved away from the table and said, “Boss?”

  Rocco sighed. “You see, Alejandro, this is much bigger than you think. I can’t afford any loose ends.” He came closer and turned off one of the lights. Alejandro could now see his face. No anger, just resignation. Not good news. “You brought Eddie into this, and he involved the girl. I have to assume that one of you told someone else. I have to know who that someone is.”

  “I didn’t and you know it. Eddie and the girl didn’t have time.”

  “Dancers talk. All the time and about everything.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “Problem is, you don’t know for sure. There’s a difference.”

  “Ask Eddie. He’ll tell you the same thing.”

  “I did,” Austin said. He winked at Lefty. “He didn’t have much to say.”

  Rocco glanced at Austin, irritation on his face, as if Austin had stepped out of line. He brought his gaze back to Alejandro as he retrieved a quarter from his pocket. Rocco flipped the coin above the table and when it landed slammed his open hand over it. “Heads or tails?”

  Alejandro hesitated and then asked, “What’s the bet?”

  “Your life. Your freedom. Whatever. The point being . . . do you like those odds? Are you willing to bet your life on a fifty-fifty chance?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  Rocco picked up the coin and returned it to his pocket. “Yet you’re asking me to do exactly that. Either one of you talked or you didn’t. Fifty-fifty.”

  Alejandro felt his stomach wind into a knot. He was a dead man unless he did something. He glanced at Austin and Lefty and then the door, gauging the distance. Could he take them both before one of them could get to his gun? Not likely.

  Alejandro had known from the beginning that Rocco couldn’t be trusted. Neither could Austin or Lefty. Knew that this could end badly for him. That’s life. La vida. But if he went down, they would follow. La venganza dulce. Sweet revenge. Pain he could handle. Knowing that Rocco would pay for his sins was all he needed to get through what was coming.

  Should he show his hole card now? Buy his way out of this? Not possible. To play that card he needed to be out. Free. He never planned on being trapped this way. Always thought he’d see trouble long before it arrived. Instead of exposing his play, he simply said, “Let me talk to Carmelita. See what she knows.”

  “I’ll handle her,” Rocco said. “She’ll talk.”

  “But—”

  “I’m sorry,” Rocco said.

  Austin and Lefty moved to each side of the room, guns in hand. They weren’t that stupid. Maintaining a separation meant that Alejandro couldn’t surprise them both, one always having the luxury of distance and line of sight. Able to snap off a round or two.

  “Let’s go,” Lefty said.

  Back at the room, Lefty unlocked the door and Austin shoved him inside. Carmelita looked up from where she sat, fear in her eyes.

  “Come on,” Lefty said to Carmelita.

  Austin grabbed her arm and pulled her into the hallway.

  After they left, Alejandro picked up his half-full water bottle and drained it, tossing the empty into one corner. He was fucked. Any doubts about whether Rocco intended to kill them or not were now gone. The question was: why hadn’t he already done it? Didn’t make sense. Keeping them alive was risky. Rocco didn’t take risks. Always hedged his bets. Rocco liked ninety-nine to one, not fifty-fifty.

  Rocco knew Alejandro hadn’t told anyone. If he thought otherwise, Alejandro wouldn’t have left that room with his face intact. Probably not his ribs or spleen, either. Rocco liked to dole out pain, and no pain meant that Rocco knew he was clean on this one. But Rocco needed something, and he would do what was necessary to get it. Meant things could still get ugly. The when, where, and how might be in question, but the end game wasn’t. Unless Alejandro pulled off a miracle.

  He looked around the room. Concrete walls, thick metal door, and a twelve-by-four inch A/C vent didn’t offer much hope of escape. That left a surprise attack as his only option. He’d need Carmelita for that. Could she do it? Was she strong enough? Didn’t matter. He’d make her help. Scare her into it. If she came back, that is.

  CHAPTER 13

  THURSDAY 11:53 A.M.

  I PULLED INTO THE LOT AT SAMMY’S BLUES ‘N’ Q, BUT BEFORE I went inside I tried Sin-Dee’s number again and again got her answering machine. This time I left a message with my cell number. I didn’t tell her what I wanted, figuring she’d think I was a john, which meant she’d probably call back. I called Miranda and brought her up to date. I told her I’d call later but for her to plan on dinner at my place.

  When I pushed through the screen door and went inside, T-Tommy was sitting at the bar, beer in hand. I’d called him when I left the HPD office and asked him to meet for lunch. We’d known each other since fourth grade. Played football at Huntsville High where T-Tommy was an all-state linebacker. Still acted like one most of the time. A sort of in-your-face kind of guy. Made him HPD’s top homicide investigator.

  I sat on a stool next to him. “How’s it going?”

  “Slow. Seems like lately people just don’t want to kill one another.”

  “How you doing, Dub?” Sammy, the owner of the joint, asked as he slid a cold Corona toward me and then wiped the already clean bar with the towel he always kept draped over one shoulder.

  “Mighty fine,” I said. “You?”

  Maybe seventy, Sammy was mostly bald and as tough as seasoned leather. Brian Kurtz had found out just how tough when he attacked Sammy in the alley behind the restaurant. He had knocked Sammy unconscious but not before Sammy bit a chunk out of his arm.

  Today Sammy wore a crimson sweatshirt, sleeves removed at the shoulder hem, Bama Football in white letters across the front. Behind and above him his favorite picture of the Bear looked down as if giving us his blessing. Taken at Legion Field in Birmingham. Houndstooth hat on his head, rolled-up pages of lineups and plays in one fist,
and a scowl on his face as he watched his boys get ready to massacre Tennessee again. Bear had signed it, To Sammy Lange, the best BBQ man I know. Warm personal regards, Paul “Bear” Bryant.

  “Business’s been good so I can’t complain.” Another swipe at the bar. “A pair of pulled-pork sandwiches?”

  “That’ll do,” I said.

  T-Tommy nodded.

  I told T-Tommy about my visit from Miranda. About Noel and Crystal Robinson disappearing. About my visits to Weiss and the HPD.

  “I know that Weiss guy. Nice fella. You don’t think he had anything to do with these girls’ disappearing, do you?”

  I shook my head.

  “You’re thinking someone used his name and address to lure the girls there?”

  “That’s assuming the girls are really missing. Maybe they just took off.”

  T-Tommy grunted. He didn’t believe that, either. Someone used Weiss’s name. Someone got the girls into a quiet neighborhood where people turn in early. And no one had seen them since then. Didn’t bode well. When things felt bad, they usually were.

  “My money’s on an abduction,” T-Tommy said.

  “For her mother’s sake, I hope you’re wrong,” I said.

  Sammy’s head cook, Willie Tucker, a huge black man, shorter and a good fifty pounds heavier than T-Tommy, came from the kitchen with two plates, each with a sandwich and a mound of Sammy’s famous peanut coleslaw.

  “The pork cooked up real nice today,” Willie said.

  I took a bite. “Great, Willie. As usual.”

  He flashed his big grin. “Told you.”

  “Only needs one thing.” I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the small bottle of Tabasco I always carried. I shook a generous amount on my sandwich. Another bite. “Perfect.”

  Willie laughed. “It’s your chitlins.” He headed back toward the kitchen, whistling.

  “So how you going to handle this?” T-Tommy asked. “Finding the girls?”

  “I’ve been trying to reach this Sin-Dee Parker. Doesn’t answer her phone. Thought I’d drop by and knock on her door. Then visit Rosalee Kennedy.”

  T-Tommy nodded. “Mind if I tag along?”

  “Sure. So long as the taxpayers don’t mind you goofing off.”

  “Got nothing else to do.” He shook his head. “Must be the economy. Nobody can afford alcohol. No alcohol, no murder.”

  “Sorry you’re bored.”

  T-Tommy spoke through a mouthful of food. “You say these girls danced out at Rocco Scarcella’s place?”

  “That’s right. I might give him a visit, too.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “What is it?”

  “I take it you don’t know Rocco.”

  “Just what I read in the paper about that insurance fraud case.”

  “Tip of the iceberg. A real scumbag. Dirty to his DNA.” He gulped some beer. “Better watch your six if he’s in this.”

  “Think he could be?”

  “Girls danced there. Girls disappeared. That’s not very many dots to connect.”

  CHAPTER 14

  THURSDAY 12:18 P.M.

  CARMELITA WAS GONE FOR AN HOUR. THE DOOR OPENED, AND SOMEONE shoved her into the room. She stumbled and fell to her knees. Completely naked. Her wadded clothing came through the door, followed by her shoes, and the door closed with a clang.

  Carmelita buried her face in her hands and sobbed, making no attempt to cover herself.

  Alejandro dug through her clothing, found her shirt, and draped it around her shoulders. He sat next to her. “You okay? Did they . . . ?”

  “Did they what?” She jerked upright onto her haunches and looked at him, her eyes flashing black. She pulled her shirt across her breasts. “Did they touch me?”

  Alejandro brushed a strand of hair from her face. She pulled away.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  She swallowed hard. “They made me strip and stand in front of them while they asked questions.” She stood, stepped into her panties, and then her jeans.

  “Nothing else?”

  “Yeah, there was something else.” Carmelita buttoned her shirt. “But standing there naked like some puta was enough.”

  Alejandro looked up at her. “You do that every night.”

  She glared at him. “Fuck you.”

  “You do.”

  Carmelita kicked him in the ribs. Hard. He grunted, and when she launched another kick, he grabbed her ankle, toppling her to the floor. She kicked at him with her other foot, but he blocked it, rolled on top of her, and pinned her.

  “Get off me, you asshole.”

  “Quit kicking.”

  She grabbed a handful of his hair and tried to bite his ear, but he turned his head away. Her fist landed against his jaw.

  Alejandro grabbed her throat and squeezed tightly. “Don’t do that.”

  Carmelita hit him again, high on the side of his head, and tried to wiggle from beneath him, but he held her with his legs on either side. He increased the pressure on her throat. Her face purpled, and she clutched at his fingers, attempting to pry them from her neck.

  “Quit fighting and I’ll let go.”

  She relaxed, so he released his grip and rolled off her. She sat up, gasping for air, and moved away from him, massaging her throat.

  “What was that all about?” Alejandro asked.

  “Fuck you, you arrogant asshole. You’re like all of them. Think because I’m a dancer I’m just a piece of meat. I take my clothes off when I want to. On my terms. Not because some fat prick with a couple of thugs says so.”

  “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

  “Didn’t what?” Even in the dim light he could see tears flowing down her cheeks. “Didn’t look at me as a person? Didn’t think my feelings mattered?” Carmelita wiped her nose with the back of one hand.

  It was true. Alejandro hadn’t considered her as anything more than a stripper. A tramp who’d fuck a worm like Eddie for a few bucks. But now, here she sat, angry tears staining her face, defending herself with a couple of pretty good shots. He rubbed his ribs, then scooted toward her. She backed into the corner, but he moved near her, touching her arm.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t think . . . I didn’t mean to . . .” His voice trailed off. He couldn’t find the words, was never very good at apologies.

  They sat quietly for a moment, the only sounds a sniff or two from Carmelita, until she said, “There’s more.” When he didn’t say anything, she continued. “They made me touch myself. Made me sit in a chair right there in front of them.”

  “What?”

  “I refused until the muscle-headed one stuck a gun in my ear.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “What they wanted. I gave them a show. That’s one thing I’m good at.” She whimpered, and Alejandro pulled her to him. “They laughed. Called me names.” She placed her cheek against his chest and let it out. He could feel her tears soaking through his shirt.

  He stroked her hair. “I’m sorry.”

  They moved against each other and stretched out on the floor. He held her tightly as she cried. They lay entwined for several minutes, her sobs finally subsiding.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Alejandro kissed the top of her head and then rolled away from her. They both swung around and sat against the wall, her head lolled against his shoulder.

  “I’m scared,” she said.

  “Me, too.”

  Carmelita laughed. “Great. We’re truly screwed.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Sure feels that way.”

  “What did you tell them? In the other room?”

  “That I don’t know anything. That I didn’t tell anyone what Eddie told me. That I didn’t believe a goddamn thing he said. That he was just some punk, trying to get laid.”

  Good answers. “Did they believe you?”

  She sighed. “Does it matter? They’re going to kill us, anyway.”

  “Unless we do something drastic
.”

  “Like what? Jackhammer through a wall?” Her voice carried fatigue and resignation.

  “There are other ways. Won’t be easy. Muy peligroso. Not good odds. But what I have in mind could work.”

  Carmelita looked him in the eye. “The motherfuckers made me strip naked, made me finger myself. I’ll do whatever I have to.”

  The pain in his ribs told him she just might be able to do her part. This could work after all.

  CHAPTER 15

  THURSDAY 1:08 P.M.

  BY THE TIME WE REACHED QUAIL RIDGE, A CLUSTER OF UPSCALE condos a couple of miles from downtown, the sun was bright and the day warm. Rumor had it that more rain was on the way, but you wouldn’t suspect that from the few billowy clouds that splotched the clear blue sky.

  I wheeled my Porsche up the twisting drive, which was flanked by prefab waterfalls that tumbled over prefab boulders, islands of bright flowers, and sprinklers that hissed rainbows into the air. Runoff water striped the asphalt.

  “Sin-Dee seems to be doing okay for herself,” I said.

  “A Grover or so a night pays a bunch of rent,” T-Tommy said.

  Quail Ridge consisted of a dozen gray clapboard two-story eight-plexes, four units up and four down. A dyslexic numbering system led to a couple of laps through the development before we finally stumbled on number 25, a lower left corner unit. Sin-Dee’s little slice of the American Dream.

  I pulled into a parking slot. Her condo appeared quiet, curtains drawn, no signs of life. Leaning on the buzzer and rapping on the dark green door didn’t stir up anything inside.

  “Can I help you?” The voice carried the deep rasp of alcohol and cigarettes.

  I turned to see a woman standing on the porch of the next-door unit. Middle-aged, with a sun-leathered face that carried a hard demeanor, she held a drink in one hand and clasped the lapels of a silk Japanese kimono to her neck with the other. A smoldering cigarette dangled from her mouth.

  “We’re looking for Sin-Dee Parker,” I said.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m Dub Walker.” I nodded toward T-Tommy. “This is Investigator Tortelli.”

  She smirked and looked T-Tommy up and down. “Well, I just bet your parents are real proud.”