A Bullet for Carlos (43 page)

He leaned in close. “Well?”

“Maybe,” I said. Then, “Okay, yeah, I guess I do—sometimes.”

“So you want to go to bed?”

Now I broke out in full laughter
.
“No way,” I said. “Besides, Elena would shoot both of us.”

His expression changed. “Elena doesn’t think like that. She—“

I shook my head. “I swore I’d never use one of your expressions, but Tip Denton, you’re dumber than dirt.”

“Why?”

“The only reason I even tolerate you is because I see through your bullshit. You prance around and use all your sexist comments, and all of it to keep a woman away. I’m not talking about a hop-in-your-bed type woman. I’m talking somebody real.”

He was shaking his head, denying it, but he didn’t say anything.

“Let me tell you, Elena’s not like that. She pretends to go along with your lifestyle—for now—but she won’t wait forever. You need to make up your mind about her. And do it quick.”

He looked around the room, probably to see if anyone had heard, then shrugged. “Well shoot, Gianelli, next time just punch me in the face.”

“You got a deal,” I said. “Now let’s get back to work. I think we left off where we needed to get clarification on the timing with Maxwell.”

“And we need to figure out why he lied about what time Carlos left.”

“I know. I’ll do it.”

Tip tapped his pen on the desk, staring at the wall.

“Before we go off the deep end, can you think of any reason why Carlos would want Mena dead? She works for him running one of his stores—which, by the way, was making money, according to our financial experts. And she was gorgeous, I mean stone-cold gorgeous, and he is enjoying that, as we know.”

“Suppose it had something to do with her boyfriend,” I said. “There were men’s clothes in her closet.”

“Have we found out who the boyfriend is?” Tip asked.

“Not yet, but we got guys going to her shop and questioning neighbors.”

I stood and began pacing. “Let’s assume Carlos is more than just
using
her. Let’s imagine he’s in love with her—and that wouldn’t be hard to imagine the way she looked—and she is keeping someone on the side while he’s in Mexico, and he finds out…”

“Bingo,” Tip said. “One dead store owner.”

“You saw him, Tip. He’s not a man who would suffer injury to his pride.”

“Not at all.”

“Besides,” I said, and whispered the rest. “We’ve got his semen, his prints, motive, access…and…”

“And what?”

I shook my head. “And nothing. We
know
it wasn’t him.”

Tip nodded to a uniform passing by, then looked at me with narrowed eyes. “And we know he’s a drug dealer and a killer. If we can convict Carlos I don’t give a damn if he did it or not.”

I didn’t say anything, and, as we walked away, that rotten feeling roiled in my gut, warning me, drawing the line for me to see. But the worst part was, it didn’t matter. I had finally done what Frankie Donovan told me I would do all along. I had moved the line, the one I swore I’d never move. And I hadn’t just moved it a little; this one I moved to another universe.

What the hell am I doing?
Do I have Uncle Dominic’s genes in me?

Chapter 53

Injured Pride

T
ip filled Lieutenant Renkin in on what we were doing, then grabbed two unis to accompany us. As we climbed into his car, I shouted, unable to contain myself. “I can’t wait to see the look on his face.” But inside I was afraid of what Carlos would say, even afraid of the look in his eyes.

By the time we got to Carlos’ house, it was late evening and it appeared as if Carlos had a lot of guests. All parking spaces were filled and there were several men outside parking cars. Tip pulled alongside a car in front of his building and got out, instructing the patrol car following us to do the same.

One of Carlos’ men called out to him. “You can’t park there, this is—”

Tip flashed his badge. “Police business.”

The doorman, the same one as before, moved aside as we approached. “Where is he?” Tip asked.

“Floor three.”

Tip nodded and the four of us got into the empty elevator. I punched number three before the servant could. I could hear the music blaring before the elevator door opened, and when it did I thought I was stepping into a club.

“Must be a hundred people here,” I said.

“Maybe more,” Tip said, “but I’m only interested in one.”

Two men who looked to be bodyguards rushed to greet us, their English impeccable. “May I help you?”

“Point me to Carlos Cortes,” Tip said.

“Sir, this—” The man stepped in front of Tip, as if he would block his way. I
almost
wanted to warn him.

Tip got real close. “It’s detective to you. Now point me to Carlos or your ass is going downtown with him. I bet if I search you I’ll find something to make a case with. If not, I’ll make it anyway.”

“He’s near the far corner, by the bar,” the man said, as he stepped aside.

We cut through the dance floor, flanked by the two uniforms. People spread out of our way, many of them tagging along after we passed.

Carlos must have seen us coming. His eyes turned into narrowed slits and his body tensed. He moved to meet us, but with the grace of an experienced host. “This is a private party.”

Tip grabbed his arm, twisting it behind him. “Carlos Cortes, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Filomena Santiago.”

“This is insane. I already told you—”

I stepped in close to him, blocking one of his men from the side. “You have the right to remain silent. You have—”

“I know my rights. Let me go. I want a lawyer. Tico, call Señor Griffin.”

I finished reading him his rights, then Tip yanked him by the handcuffs, forcing a groan from Carlos.

“You can have a lawyer once you get downtown,” Tip said. “Let’s go.”

The look on Carlos’ face froze me. His eyes narrowed, then became bullets. “You will pay for this, señor. I promise, you
will
pay.”

Chapter 54

Repercussions

I
opened the door to the apartment and dragged myself inside. It had been a very long day, more exhausting than any I could recall in recent memory, with the exception of the night in the alley. I opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, then plopped on the couch. Two more sips had me recalling the events of the day, none more exciting than arresting Carlos Cortes. I only hoped the DA would hold him without bail. That would really piss Carlos off.

I smiled. Not much was better than settling a score. My own problem remained though; if I didn’t find the drugs I’d still be painted as a dirty cop. Frankie said he was working on it, but…
just have to hope for the best.

After fifteen minutes or so I decided to drag my ass up and take a hot bath. I checked my phone. Two emails from Maxwell.

Hi, Connie. Hope you’re doing well. I’m sorry about messing up. I completely forgot. Call me or text so we can make arrangements to get together.

“Make arrangements my ass,” I said. The next email was more of the same.

Connie, I realized after I sent that I didn’t include my number, so here it is: (281) 555-8788.

Despite how hot that guy was, just thinking of him made me feel dirty. “Bath,” I said. “I need a bath.”

For twenty minutes I soaked in a hot tub, relaxing, thinking of fun times in Brooklyn, and of growing up in the Bronx. Some people might think that was punishment, but as far as I was concerned it was the best education a kid could get. When you grew up on the streets you learned about people. Real people. And more importantly, you learned of consequences. When you did something wrong, there was always somebody there to dish out your just rewards. I closed my eyes, imagining that idyllic world, and a smile came, then the phone rang, forcing me to bolt up. At first I thought about letting it ring, but then realized it could be Tip.

I stepped out of the tub, grabbed a towel, then hustled toward the phone. Caller ID showed it was Maxwell. I thought about not answering, but did anyway. “Hello.”

“Connie, it’s Jeff. I can’t believe I caught you. Did you get my emails?”

“Actually…I did, but I jumped into the tub.”

“The reason I called is I got second-row seats to the
“Jersey Boys,”
tomorrow night. I know you’re from New York, so you
have
to like the Four Seasons.” He paused. “You can’t say no to this.”

I wanted to tell him to shove the tickets up his ass, but Tip was right, we needed to find out why this guy lied to us. “You’re right, I can’t say no. What time?”

“Show starts at 8:00. Why don’t I pick you up at say…5:00. We’ll have dinner first.”

“That would be nice,” I said, then almost immediately, “no, that won’t work. I can make the play but not dinner. I’ve got way too much to do.”

“All right. Eat something light and we’ll grab dinner after the show.”

That
did
sound good. Eating dinner was always good, even with a guy like Maxwell. “Okay. Tell me where to go and how to find you.”

“Hobby Center, downtown. I’ll be waiting for you inside the door at the bottom of the steps.”

“See you then.”

“Great. See you tomorrow.”

After placing the phone down, I stepped back into the tub, dropped the towel, and thought…
Jersey Boys and a nice dinner. I can put up with Maxwell for that.

***

Tip sipped on a
beer and chewed some beef jerky. Not the best dinner in the world, but it beat peanut butter and jelly, and he’d had that enough for several lifetimes. He gulped down the last of the beer, grabbed another one, petted Flash, then headed to the dining room to work. As he sat down the first thing he noticed was Mollie’s handiwork. She had left notes on several of his charts, proclaiming her theories about the murders.

He got up, heading toward the bedroom. “Mollie!” He thought he heard the vacuum in the bathroom. “Mollie, are you in there?” She said her work day ended at six, but it never did. He suspected she hung around just to have somebody to talk to.

When he got to the master bath, he found her in his closet vacuuming. “Mollie.” She didn’t hear, so he pulled the plug on the vacuum, shutting it off. She turned around.

“Mollie, did you write on my charts?”

“Of course I wrote on them. Who do you think did it?”

“I’ve told you before, I don’t like anyone messing with my charts.”

She shrugged. “If you ask me, you need help. Did you look at my notes?”

“No, I didn’t look at your notes, and I don’t intend to, and…” Tip looked at his closet. Pants were hung on the wrong side, shirts not organized by color, shoes… “What did you do to my closet?”

“I fixed the damn thing is what I did. It looked like some eight-year old had fixed up a crayon box.”

Tip slapped his hand against the wall. “I liked it that way.”

She picked up the vacuum, closed the door, and turned off the light. “That’s so much nonsense. Nobody could like their closet the way you had it. Now you can find things.” And with that said, she walked right past him and back into the dining room.

Tip followed her out. “Don’t change my closet, don’t arrange my drawers, and don’t
ever
touch my charts.”

“How are you going to solve this crime if I don’t help you. I looked at those charts; you don’t have anything. You need to focus on that Yankee girl. She’s the wild card. How did he find her? How did she get hooked up with him? You figure that out and you’ll find your killer. Take my word on it.”

“I’m not shitting—”

“Yeah, I know. Leave my charts alone. Well go to hell for making me want to keep the streets safe, but I got news for you, Mr. Detective, I don’t want no crazy bastard running around the streets after me.”

Tip cracked a smile. “Well you got nothing to worry about; he only goes for young, pretty girls.”

“If you think that hurts, you’re wrong; besides, I got a pretty daughter. So pretend I’m protecting her.”

Tip started to say something, then stopped, and after he caught hold of himself he laughed. “You win. I’ll take a look at your notes.”