A Bullet for Carlos (28 page)

It better not be.

Chapter 32

Where is Tony?

I
popped out of bed before the alarm went off, eager to meet Tony and see what he found out about the club. I needed good news, and nothing would be better than getting a start on clearing my name.
I could go home.
A lot of people dogged Brooklyn, thought it was the pits of the earth, but I couldn’t wait to get back. Brooklyn was excitement. Good food. Real people.

I got to the coffee shop early and got a table, pondering the big question mark about the mysterious iPod that was delivered to Patti’s house.

What the hell is that about?

A couple dressed in matching suits passed by and took the table behind me. I listened to them gossip while I read the news, then I fidgeted, and waited some more. After draining my second espresso, I checked the time. Tony was half an hour late. I walked outside and checked the street, but there was no sign of him, and no answer on the phone. I got another espresso and a biscotto to go along with it, figuring I’d give him a while longer. By the time I finished that one, I was almost as hot as the coffee. Shedding my jacket, I thought of reasons why he might be late, trying my best to justify the tardiness even though it was difficult. I called his cell phone again. Still no answer. I cleaned off the table then left, cursing as I walked toward the car.

He better have some damn good news. Or a good excuse.

The station was busy, cops milling about drinking coffee and tea, but they weren’t eating donuts. The jokes about cops and donuts seemed to have little basis for truth, at least in Houston, Texas.

“Hi, Connie,” someone yelled from across the room.

I waved without really looking. “Hey,” I said back, and started the climb the stairs. I saw some funky shoes attached to rail-thin legs above me, and a head with purple hair perched atop it all. “Hey, Julie, how’s it going?”

Julie looked around as if someone might be watching. “Not so good. Guess you haven’t seen the papers.”

I had read the USA Today at the coffee shop, but never looked at the local one. “No, what’s wrong?”

Julie handed me a paper, treating it as if it were poison.

I flipped it open, stared.

‘Serial killer claims another victim. Takes victims’ lips. Police have no clue.’

And boasting the telling of the tale was the worst news—Samantha Roberts. Tip was going to be pissed. I looked over at Julie. “Has Tip seen this?”

Julie walked to her desk, and turned on the radio, pre-set to a sixties station. “Mr. Tambourine Man” came on. “I don’t know, but I haven’t been in long. My kids had me running late this morning. I just went downstairs to get the paper when you came in.”

“Your kids?”

She looked up at me, smiling. “I know. I don’t look the type to have kids, right?

Julie
was
right. I was shocked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t…”

“That’s all right. Most people look at me and figure, no way she’s got kids. I’m used to it.”

“I bet you’re a great mom.” It was a weak attempt at covering my ass, but it was all I could come up with.

“How about you, Connie? You have any?”

“Not yet,” I said, with a fake laugh. “Guess I better get busy, huh?”

“Don’t wait too long or you won’t have the energy to keep up with them.”

Out of embarrassment I stayed and chatted for a few minutes, and, to my surprise, found her to be a great conversationalist. She ended our chat by inviting me over one night for dinner.

“Let’s do it,” I said, and walked away from Julie’s desk with a smile. Next I headed toward the coffee room and ran into Tip. He
was
pissed.

“You see the papers?”

“I saw them. How did Roberts get the story?”

Tip shook his head. “I don’t know, but I suspect it has something to do with our good mayor, Rusty Johnson. Doesn’t matter. We’ll get this son-of-a-bitch.” With his arm around my shoulder, we walked back to our desks. “Let’s get to work. We’ve got a case to solve.”

As we walked Tip suddenly turned philosophical. “You know, Gianelli, I said I hated that reporter, but I don’t like hating people. It’s no damn fun.”

I patted his arm. “Everybody hates something about others, something about themselves too. It’s a fact that no one likes to think about, but it’s true.”

I thought about how I used to get embarrassed about my mother’s condition. After her stroke she couldn’t feed herself. Food would dribble from her mouth and down her chin. If we were in public, I’d sit low in my seat, hiding my head behind a menu, and looking around to make sure no one I knew saw me. Afterwards, I’d go home and cry, hating myself for the way I felt. In a way I still hated myself for that, and there was no way to fix it. Mom was gone.

“You sound like a shrink,” Tip said.

“Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”

We walked in silence to our desks, and no sooner had we gotten back to work than the phone rang.

Tip reached for it. “Tip Denton.”

“Yeah. Okay. When?”

“We’ll be there.” He hung up and said, “Renkin wants us.”

Tip led the way into Renkin’s office. “Lieutenant, before you—”

“Sit down, Tip. Connie.” Renkin looked somber, not angry.

Tip took the chair closest to Renkin, leaving me the other one. “What’s up?”

“Tony Ramirez is dead.”

I damn near fell over.
Tony, dead?
Jesus, did I get him killed?

I looked over to Tip and could tell the news hit him hard. He had worked with Tony and counted him a friend. “Goddamn.” His fist pounded the arm of the chair. “How?”

“Suicide and—”

Tip jumped up. “Bullshit.”

“Sit
down
, Denton.”

“Screw you. You
know
Tony didn’t kill himself.”

“I didn’t say I believed it, but the initial call is suicide and murder. He supposedly killed himself and the girl he was with.”

“What girl?” Tip asked. “What are you talking about? Where was he found?”

“In a hotel room. Both of them shot. And from the looks of it she was a prostitute.”

Tip walked around shaking his head. “No way.
No way
Tony did that. Somebody set this up.” He turned and glared at me. “You know anything about this?”

“She didn’t even know Tony,” Renkin said. “I called her in here because you’re partners, and partners should know things like this.”

I gulped, and felt sick to my stomach.
I got Tony killed.
It’s my fault.

Tip never took his eyes from me. “Oh, yeah. I forgot,” he said, then faced Renkin again. “Get me the reports. I’ll need everything he was working on, including—”

“Whoa,” Renkin said. “You’re not working this. This is HPD and you know it.”

Renkin’s face hardened. “Besides, you’ve got a case, Detective. A
high-profile
case that has the city in an uproar about serial killers and lips being cut off.” He reached into a file and pulled out some papers, then walked around his desk and got right in Tip’s face. “If you don’t start making progress I’ll be forced to do something.”

Tip nodded. “Who’s handling Tony’s case?”

“Klein and Massey.”

I didn’t know Klein and Massey, but I could tell by Tip’s reaction he wasn’t happy with the choice.

“They don’t know shit.”

“It’s not our call, Tip. They’ve got a dead cop. I’m sure they’ll do whatever it takes to get to the truth.” Renkin stared at both of us. “Let’s get back to
our
business. How did this story leak?”

“I don’t know,” Tip said, “but it probably has something to do with Rusty Johnson.”

That
name I was familiar with. Rusty Johnson was Houston’s mayor.
What the hell had I gotten involved with down here?

“And it just so happens the reporter is the one who tried to get your badge, huh?” Renkin had a hard look about him. “I swear, Tip, I’ll get to the bottom of it. I won’t have anybody compromising my investigations, not even the mayor.” He went back and sat in his chair.

“Anyone tell Belinda?” Tip asked.

“I’m going over with Tony’s captain, and trust me it’s the last thing I want to do. Telling a spouse is one thing, but Tony has kids.
Had
kids.” Renkin put his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes. “Get out. Go solve this case.”

“Yes, sir,” Tip said and headed for the door, me right behind him. We walked down the hall in silence but the whole time Tip looked as if he were deep in thought. “We’ve got to find out what happened to Tony. I can’t leave this to Klein and Massey.”

I didn’t respond to Tip, afraid to talk for fear of giving myself away. All I could think about was Tony’s wife and kids.
Screw me. I got Tony killed. And I left his kids without a father.

On the way back to our desks, I ducked into the ladies’ room. I checked to make sure no one was in there, then paced, hands balling into fists, clenching and unclenching. I smacked a stall door with an open palm, stinging the hell out of it, then did it again. I paced back and forth in that tiny room, muttering, “I got him killed. I got him killed,” and then I plopped onto a toilet seat and cried.

I don’t know how long I was crying, but there I sat, head buried in my hands, when I heard a noise. I looked up to see Julie, purple hair and all.

“Connie, are you all right? What’s wrong?” She grabbed my arm and lifted me, then gave me a big hug. “Did something happen? Are you okay?”

I nodded between sobs, wiping my eyes and trying to make the tears stop. Damn, this was embarrassing. I thought I’d die when the door opened again, but Julie rushed over. “Give us a minute,” she said to whoever it was, and pushed the door closed.

“Thanks, Julie. I’m doing okay now.”

She hugged me again. “I know this isn’t the place to talk about it, so why don’t you come to my house some night for dinner. I want you to meet the kids anyway. And we can have a girl chat, talk about anything.”

“I’m all right. I just—“

“You just nothing. I found you crying in a bathroom stall. You come to dinner. You
need
to get away from all this testosterone. I promise I won’t make you cry.”

That forced a small laugh out of me. “Okay, I might take you up on that.”

She handed me a business card and scribbled her cell phone number on it. “We don’t get many visitors, so it’ll be fun.”

She headed toward the stall. “Now I need to do what I came here for.”

“Don’t tell Tip, okay?”

“Whatever happens in a ladies’ room stays there,” Julie said, and laughed.

I dried my eyes one more time, then headed out. I wasn’t planning on going to Julie’s house, but the invitation alone made me feel better. Now all I had to do was get rid of the guilt eating at me.

Chapter 33

A Fine-Tuned Body

M
r. Perfect parked the car and headed to the gym for his morning workout. He greeted everyone he saw with a smile and a warm welcome. There were a few tantalizing bodies but for the most part the gym was filled with dreamers, ones who joined with great expectations only to falter after a month or two, never to return. Some of the guys came just to look at the women—or the other guys—and he guessed there was a fair share of the women who came for the same reasons. All in all, though, the women seemed more dedicated. A good body was everything to a woman.

A delicious looking brunette passed by him. “Great day, isn’t it?” He said. He’d been watching her for weeks. She nodded, but didn’t respond.

“Hope this cool weather stays a while,” he said to a long-timer who had been working on her weight after having a baby. He let his eyes follow her as she passed, thinking of numerous things he could do to help with that. Some of the men he nodded to, but didn’t speak. Why should he. They were insignificant saps with no hope to ever achieve what he had with his body. Not if they had ten years to try.

Mr. Perfect hung his keys on the rack, but didn’t bother signing in. As he made his way to the pull-up bar, he passed a puny man with a pock-marked face struggling with the squat bar. Mr. Perfect calculated the weight in his head as he passed—one hundred fifty pounds. Made him wonder if pock-mark was a man or not. Mr. Perfect had done that much at age fourteen. He thought about stopping to show the man up, but today was Monday and on Mondays he did cardio—jumped rope, ran sprints, then heavy work on kettle bells before finishing up on the punching bag. Mr. Perfect walked past a few more of the invisibles, ignoring them until he got to his station.