Blues in the Night (9 page)

The other guard lay just past the door on the tile floor of the reception area, a small room that smelled of gunsmoke and furniture wax. It had white walls filled with framed artwork that, in the dim light of the moon, could have been masterpieces or boardwalk paint blotches. The second guard had been shot in the chest. He, too, was dead. He had no holster or gun.

Mace moved past him and paused, shotgun raised, at the entrance to the room where he had seen the dog. Or had he seen it? There were no flesh and blood dogs like that. He'd laughed at the old veterans of the bayou who claimed to have come upon all manner of haunts and voodoos. Those apparitions had been the result of something real; home brew, perhaps, or marsh gas. Common sense told him there were no shimmering ghost dogs.

There was no dog of any kind in the room.

Maybe the bang-up in the limo had shaken something loose in his head. But the dying guard had mentioned a dog . . .

In any case, the room was now lifeless and silent, a large, dark area with an unusually high slanted ceiling. A skylight let a square of moonglow fall against the tallest wall, the one he faced. It was literally filled with paintings from floor to ceiling.

Once he'd taken in the moonlit display of art, he scanned the rest of the room. It was furnished with oddly delicate-looking tables and chairs. Antiques probably, though he had little knowledge of or interest in such things. An Oriental rug covered the center of the flagstone floor.

And . . . there were two more corpses in the shadowy room. Evidently he'd missed quite an execution by only minutes.

The body nearest the entry was a male in his early twenties lying face up, a Hollywood-hip stereotype in silk dinner jacket, black shirt, black pants. Chiseled features. Two- or three-day growth of beard on his unwrinkled, almost pretty face. Marring the total effect was a blackened hole where his left eye should have been. An impressive shot. A small line of blood ran down the side of his head to the rug where it almost blended in.

The dead man's hand was tucked inside his coat. Mace used the barrel of the shotgun to lift the jacket. The hand clutched a gun still partially holstered.

Mace had to break the man's index finger to pry the weapon free. He checked the clip. Nearly full up. Feeling a little less vulnerable, he wiped the shotgun clean and rested it beside the corpse. Then he moved on to the second figure, nearly tripping on an electric cord attached to a small black box lying on the flagstone floor.

This male was grossly fat, seated on a massive stuffed chair. He wore a dark velvet dinner jacket, a pleated white shirt open at his thick folded neck, black or midnight blue tux pants. The pockets of his pants and his jacket had been pulled out. His little feet were bare. Regardless, he still looked like a three hundred and fifty pound penguin.

Mace knew him. His and Paulie's former associate, Tiny Daniels.
A poster boy for morbid obesity
.

One patent-leather shoe rested on its side near two twisted, black stockings and a wine glass with a snapped stem. The other shoe seemed to be missing, maybe dragged away by the ghost dog.

Mace moved closer to the fat man. His pale blue eyes, though filmy, stared at him in what seemed to be mild bemusement.

There was a small hole in his black satin lapel. Mace was convinced he was looking at a dead man, but pressed a finger into the still-warm bulging neck to make sure. The huge body had evidently been doing a balancing act on the chair and it tumbled forward and sprawled on to the floor.

Mace caught sight of something protruding from the corner of Tiny's mouth.

He hunkered beside the mound of dead flesh and yanked the display handkerchief from Tiny's jacket pocket. He wrapped it around his hand and separated the dead man's rubbery lips. Tiny's teeth were clamped on an object smooth and dull.

Mace pried it out . . . A coin the size of a quarter. But not a quarter. Some kind of counterfeit. Or maybe a specialty item. On one side was a man's face and chest in bas-relief. Something was engraved on the reverse side, but he couldn't begin to make it out without light.

He might have studied it longer, but a door slammed.

Shoving the coin and handkerchief into his coat pocket, Mace followed the sound to a kitchen. The back door was open. It was a screen door that had slammed shut. As Mace exited through it, a section of its wooden frame splintered near his hand just as he heard the shot.

Ducking, he raised his gun. Too late. A thin man wearing an off-white suit slid over a cement wind wall separating the house from the sandy beach. Mace was surprised that Thomas could move so gracefully. Like a gymnast or a dancer.

He did not even consider pursuit. Judging by the house full of dead men, Thomas knew how to use his gun. And there was always Timmie. The cowboy Elvis and the limo had to be hiding somewhere nearby.

Mace had been wondering why they'd picked him up. He'd assumed it was because he'd been tailing Angela Lowell. But the murders suggested a more likely motive. Thomas had everything nailed down for his killing spree and suddenly Mace had appeared, an unexpected hindrance.

Or maybe they thought he might be of help. Assuming the chauffeur, Sweets, had identified him as the man who broke his wrist in the park, they'd known he and Paulie were tight. Since there was animosity between Paulie and Tiny Daniels, Mace was very suitable for framing. Had the drive up the country road merely been Thomas vamping, waiting for the approval of his employer?

In any case, he was definitely in the wrong place at the wrong time. The police would be arriving at any moment. He got out Tiny's handkerchief and wiped the screen-door handle. He'd been careful coming in, had done as much as he could to smear his prints on the shotgun.

He was making a swift exit when he heard a distinctive female voice call out from the floor above. ‘What's . . . going on?'

He moved back through the house to a stairwell and raced up to a hall and four closed doors. He hesitated before opening the one nearest him, thinking about the giant dog. And the giant Timmie.

‘Someone there?' the female voice asked from behind a different door.

Mace didn't want to touch the knob. He raised a foot, kicked in the door and ran past it, gun held high.

The room was dark, but not so dark he couldn't see more art on the walls. Or the woman in the bed.

Angela Lowell lay in a rumpled queen-size. The sheet that had been covering her had fallen to her waist. She was naked. Caution had to force him to look away and make sure they were alone in the room.

That accomplished, he turned back to her.

She was staring at him, her lovely patrician face showing no emotion whatsoever. ‘Carlos?' she asked.

‘No. Not Carlos.'

‘I . . . see that now.' She smiled at him. ‘I'm . . . awake.'

‘Good,' Mace said. ‘Put on your clothes.'

‘Why?'

‘We have to leave.'

‘Why?'

Instead of answering, he gathered a black dress from the floor and a pair of white silk panties with ribbons worked into their fabric. The warmth of the panties gave him an erotic jolt. He ignored it and tossed the clothes beside her on the bed.

‘Put 'em on now,' he said.

‘I don't think . . . I . . . ca . . .' She slumped back on to the bed, eyes closed, breathing softly through open lips. He raised his arm but couldn't bring himself to slap her awake.

‘Damn it,' he grumbled and stuck the gun in his belt. He jammed the panties in his pocket and began to struggle the dress over her rubbery body.

He found her shoes and purse, but there were probably other things of hers he was leaving behind. Her purchases of the day, perhaps. The clothes she'd been wearing earlier. Fingerprints, if nothing else. None of that would matter if, as he suspected, she'd been a frequent guest at the house.

He hoisted her over his shoulder. She was substantial, fuller-bodied than she'd looked from a distance. Now she was just a heavy burden. Under other circumstances though . . .

THIRTEEN

T
o Mace's annoyance, there were two cars lined up at the untended security gate.

They'd apparently just arrived. Or at least, the driver of the first – in a Rolls – had just decided to do something about raising the gate. Caught in her own headlights, she was a snake-thin, wild-haired woman in artificially faded denim, wrists weighed down with turquoise bracelets. She staggered drunkenly to the bar and began struggling ineffectually to lift it by hand. She screamed curses at the absent security guards.

She was going to make sure they were fired for ‘deri-fucking-lection of duty.'

Mace did not think she had seen them in the yellow Mustang before he'd turned off the lights. He eased the car back to the nearest residence, parking in front of an Accura SUV before killing the engine.

From there he could observe the tableaux at the security gate.

A man in the second vehicle, a tomato-red Tesla electric sports car, shouted to the woman to use the switch in the guardhouse that controlled the bar.

She turned and gave him the finger.

The man got out of his car. He was wearing a khaki safari outfit, looking to Mace like a real dick in his short pants and belted shirt. The wild-haired woman thought he was a dick, too. She told him to go fuck himself.

Neighbors.

Ignoring her, the man stormed to the gatehouse and, in the dark, found the button. Definitely the great white hunter of Point Dume Estates, Mace thought.

The bar rose up suddenly, almost taking the skinny woman's arms with it.

‘What the fuck are you trying to do . . . kill me, you bastard?' she shouted at the man.

‘Move your goddamn gas guzzler, Leslie,' he replied. ‘Or I'll move it for you.'

She was vibrating like a tuning fork, staring at him as he got into his car and slammed the door. ‘Faggot,' she screamed.

Mace had used the Mustang's seat belt to secure the unconscious Angela in an upright position. He unlocked the belt and eased her down lower than the windshield.

He saw the skinny woman get back into the Rolls. He heard the grinding noise made when an ignition key is turned on an already active engine.

The Rolls bucked forward.

He'd slid down in the Mustang beside Angela, waiting for the Rolls to glide past, followed by the Tesla. When he was sure he'd heard the last of them, he rose up, lifted Angela into a sitting position and readjusted the seat belt across her chest. He wondered what she'd taken that had put her out so completely.

He looked at her, sleeping peacefully. Heartbreaking in moonlight. He had no problem understanding why even a street-smart guy like Paulie Lacotta had fallen for her. He had even less a problem understanding why she would have fucked Paulie over. He'd known women who were intelligent, educated, beautiful, probably well-born who had been intrigued by bad boys. But Paulie wasn't really a bad boy, just a guy with a soft conscience. Soft all over. Unlike the dead pretty-boy in Tiny's living room. Carlos. That was the name she'd mentioned when he surprised her in the bedroom.

Carlos. No longer in the game, whatever the game was.

He started up the Mustang and drove away, using the entrance that the dick in safari garb had thoughtfully left open for other inhabitants of Point Dume Estates. Or, as it would be referred to after the discovery of the bodies, Point Doom Estates.

FOURTEEN

B
efore the trek back to the Florian, Mace drove the Mustang to the mall where he'd purchased his pricey lunch. The dinner crowd was keeping the restaurants and fast food chains busy. He parked in the moderately full lot, turned off the engine and leaned back in the seat, gathering his thoughts.

He didn't spend too much time on it.

He picked up Angela's purse. It was small, made of some soft material, silk or satin, all the same to him. When he'd taken the car keys from it, he'd noticed . . . yes, a plastic prescription medicine bottle.

He held it up to where a mall light sent its glow through the windshield. The label on the bottle read: ‘Honeymoon Drugs, Prescription #: 31124. Dr Bolitho. For: Monte, Jerold. Demerol. Take one (1) capsule as needed. Four (4) refills.'

Jerry Monte? Mace looked at the sleeping woman, whose appeal had waned slightly.

He shook the bottle. Nearly empty. He wondered how many pills she'd swallowed.

He returned the bottle to the purse, noticed her cellular and, on a whim, withdrew it.

He got out of the car and shut the door quietly. He found a bench out of earshot to the Mustang, sat and dialed a number.

Paulie Lacotta's voice was a mixture of surprise and hope. ‘Angie?'

‘Guess again,' Mace said.

There was a beat or two of silence, then, ‘That you, Mace?'

‘None other.'

‘What the hell you doing with her phone? She with you? You sell me out, you prick? You sell me out for a quick fuck?'

Mace was almost amused by the way Paulie's mind worked. Cockroach logic, his dad had called it. Based on the assumption that everybody was as crooked as you were.

‘She's with me, but I'm not sure who's selling who,' Mace said.

There was squawking on the other end. Lacotta cursing him, Angie and himself. Mace cut that off with, ‘Shut the fuck up, Paulie.'

A little surprised when Lacotta obeyed, he began recounting the events of the day, from following Angela Lowell to Point Dume, through the episode with the limo crew – Sweets, whom he hoped Paulie remembered, and the Brit brothers, Thomas and Timmie the cowboy Elvis – to the murders at Tiny Daniels' that he presumed Thomas had committed. He neglected to mention the ghost dog, which would have made Paulie assume he'd lost it and discredit everything else he'd said.

‘I don't get it,' Lacotta said. ‘The spook – what'd you call him, Sweets? – said Tiny had sent him to kill me. Why would he be crewing with the guy who took Tiny out?'

‘I don't know,' Mace said. ‘But, assuming Tiny wasn't just blowing smoke about carrying life insurance, Montdrago had better call his lawyer or think twice before returning to the States.'