Deadly Lullaby (14 page)

Darkie, his eyes ablaze, winds up again and cracks Jimmy even harder, with more of a downward blow, the resulting sound reminiscent of an aluminum bat whacking a soggy softball.

This time Jimmy's body pitches forward, his head and upper torso thumping flush on the table, his eyes x'd out like a KO'd cartoon character, and Darkie gives it to him one…two…three more times, and backs away when a gob of brain matter squirts from Jimmy's left temple.

Darkie tosses the baton on the table and stands back to examine his handiwork, huffing and puffing. Working his right arm, grimacing, he looks away from Jimmy's corpse and says, “Jeee-
sus,
I think I pulled something in my shoulder. It would'a been a helluva lot easier to just fuckin' shoot him.”

“I know, Darkie, but this room is too small. I did not want to be another one of your accidents.”

He looks at me. “I'll never be able to live Spider Migovsky down, will I?”

No, I think, you have not enough time to live anything either up or down.

“Forget about it,” I say. “Have a seat.” I place my hand gently on his shoulder, lead him into his chair. “You look winded, old man.”

“Thanks, Babe,” he says, sitting down heavily with his hand over his heart. “I
am
gettin' old, at least too old for this shit.” He grabs his half-full beer from the table and takes a deep drink, puts it back so he can work more on his shoulder. “We're all gettin' too old for this shit,” he says, sadly shaking his head.

“Poor Jimmy,” I say. “I knew the guy for years.”

“Me too, but fuck 'im,” Darkie says, sighing. “He got stupid.”

“He certainly did, but he drank himself stupid. Drinking yourself stupid is not much of an excuse, but it is a better one than greeding yourself stupid.” I step to Darkie's side and withdraw my Kel-Tec .22 semiauto from the small of my back, one fitted with a suppressor. “As in, say, greedily trading out your friends?”

Darkie takes in my statement, then slowly swivels his head my way. “Ohhh,” he says, his face paralyzed, his eyes glued to the pistol as if it is a cobra set to strike.

“Yeah,” I say. “Ohhh.”

He quits massaging his shoulder and sits frozen, struggling to resign himself to his imminent fate. “So, uh”—he clears the rasp from his voice, swallows—“what's the deal?”

“The deal is, Darkie,” I say, “Mosko really did not make it out of town. Joe and Fecarotta questioned him this morning—rather aggressively, I hear. Mosko told them what you and him did for Macky yesterday.”

He shrugs his shoulders in an
Okay, what?
gesture.

“C'mon, man, you know.”

He finds the fortitude to wipe his mouth, but has forgotten how to move his face, how to talk.

“Darkie, yesterday you took Joe's Lincoln to the car wash while he was eating breakfast. On the way back you stopped at Mosko's so he could bug it.”

His hand moves in slow motion toward the table, where, barely two minutes ago—more like a million years ago when his own death was the furthest thing from his mind—he had placed his beer next to the police baton.

“Hang on a second,” I say, and retrieve the beer for him.

Darkie takes the bottle of beer from my hand, tries to smile up at me, drool leaking from the corner of his mouth. “You thought I was goin' for that club there, didn't ya?” He laughs mechanically, “Ha, ha-ha,” like a bad actor, says, “What a stupid thing to do that would'a been, huh?
Stupid,
right? Wouldn't want you to, like,
shoot
me or nothin', right?” and comes out with that plastic laugh again before drinking the remainder of his beer. “You know,” he says, “now I know why you didn't let me have a gun to shoot Jimmy with. You dick. You were settin' me up, huh, you
dick.
”

I shrug my hands, embarrassed for him, the sort of feeling I get at a comedy club when the comedian on stage is stinking up the place.

Darkie holds the mouth of the beer bottle to his eye in order to peep into the empty bottom, pouting. He looks up. “Have Sam get me another beer, will ya? Oh, and a whiskey, any kind'll do fine.”

I push Jimmy's glass across the table to him. “Drink this.”

Darkie nods, a grim understanding filling his eyes, and very deliberately takes the glass in his hand, glancing at me as he does so. He examines its contents, fascinated with the slivers of melting ice floating on top, the condensation dripping down its sides. “I hate gin,” he says, but gulps it down anyway and cuffs away the moisture from his mouth, replaces the glass on the table. “All right,” he says, straightening his spine in his chair, “I ain't gonna fight you, Babe. Just grant me one last request of a religious nature.”

A prayer? Darkie? “Sure,” I say.

He turns his head to me. “There's this priest I really liked who took my confession once. Think you could run me over to him real quick?”

“Where?”

A wavering grin. “Rio di Janiero.”

“Hey, that's a good one, Darkie,” I say, laughing and slapping his shoulder. “That's what I call going out in style,” I say and step behind him, take dead aim at the back of his head.

Darkie jerks up his hand. “Wait!”

Jee-sus.
“What?”

“That gun a yours ain't gonna blow my fuckin' head off, is it? I mean, I'd rather you strangle me or something than blow my fuckin' head off. I wanna look good in the casket, you know?”

This is the reason I always tack a 15 percent premium on whacking old associates; they can be
such
a chore.

Sighing, I step to his side and display my pistol, well beyond his reach. “This is a twenty-two caliber Kel-Tec Magnum loaded with hollow-point Magnum cartridges—a combination that, yes, when fired in the back of your head would ordinarily pack a big enough punch to make a large exit wound in your face. I loaded the cartridges myself, however, with a subsonic charge of exactly twenty-two-point-five grains of WC eight- forty-four ball propellant. This light charge keeps the sound down, of course, and when you factor in the suppressor, the shot comes out as soft as a whisper. To address your concern—a legitimate one, I might add—this morning I tested the charge on a pumpkin. Trust me, the charge contains just enough juice to propel the round through your skull and halfway into your brain, thus assuring a quick and painless death with no exit splatter.”

He puts his face in his hands. “Just do it,
shit.
”

Heh heh. You asked, motherfucker.

Again I step behind him, take dead aim at the back of his—

“Wait!”

I lower the pistol. “Darkie, I know we are friends, but you cannot keep—”

“Just listen. What's left of the money Macky gave me, for, you know, the bugging thing?”

No, please do not try to bribe me. “Yeah?”

“It's in the bottom left drawer of my dresser, in my bedroom, under some underwear and shit. I got nobody to leave it to, you know? If you don't take it, my landlord will, and I hate that cocksucker. So, it's all yours—about eight K.” A shrug. “Apartment keys are in my front pocket.”

“Hey, thanks, man.”

“Forget about it,” Darkie says. “Take anything else you want in the place, too.” He remains quiet, very calmly folds his hands in his lap and says in a much lower voice, “Wait just one more minute, Babe.”

“Sure.”

“I want to say I'm really glad you're the one who—”

Pop.

On paper I'm a robbery-assault detective, but due to manpower restraints from budget cuts I'll catch a murder case every now and again. The murders that usually land in my lap are the slow grounders, the ones that start out as barroom squalls or domestic quarrels, then spiral out of control—best friends, wives, lovers, the killers motivated by compulsive anger or passion, who bystanders finger the instant you arrive at the scene. There's a possibility, though, that the Sonita Khemra case is a real whodunit and I might have to actually expend some brainpower to solve it—a welcome change of pace that's given me a sense of purpose, maybe even a sense of redemption.

Eager to get to my desk and plan where to go from here, I hustle down the row of empty interrogation rooms and hang a left into the detective squad room. A bland space the size of a medium McDonald's, the squad room's crammed with cubicles and adjoining file cabinets, mismatched wooden and metal desks, and a glassed-in office at the head of it where the squad lieutenant, Abel, lives. The place is buzzing today, detectives chattering into their desk phones and crisscrossing paths with clerical personnel as they hustle in and out and back and forth from the coffee machines at either end of the room.

Plastic signs hang from the ceiling above the cubicles of the different detective units stationed here. Carol Gleason sits at the desk under the Vice sign, talking to a heavy, wild-eyed Latina facing her in a side chair, a hooker. The hooker's poured her body into a pair of florescent-pink hot pants, and her equally tight white halter top might as well have “Blowjobs for Crack” written on it. Gleason's saying to her, “All right, Marquita, your eyes are red. You been eating Oxycontin again?”

“So? Your eyes are brown, bitch. That mean you been eatin' shit?”

Gleason shakes her head, grinning meanly and saying, “I was gonna let you go with a warning, but, girl, you are sooo
fucked
now…”

When I get to my desk, my eyes wander to the glass wall of my lieutenant's office at the head of the squad room. Abel's standing ramrod straight, one hand on his hip and the other arm extended fully in front of him, wiggling his index finger at me in a beckoning gesture. His body language and stone-cold stare are all saying to me,
Get your ass in here. It's
mine.

Abel's door is open and I step through it.

“Close the door and sit down.”

I do both.

Lieutenant II Jonathan R. Abel doesn't look up as he addresses me, his eyes riveted on the file before him as if studying a script. He's seated at his desk, and over his shoulder the shabby strip mall at Sixth and Valencia is visible through the window.

There's not much else here to hold my attention.

Abel's office is as unadorned as that of any brass hat's I've ever sat in: totally squared away with only one file on his desk and only two pictures on the wall, a posed shot of Abel glad-handing our chief at a banquet and an autographed portrait of George W. Bush. Still, he doesn't look like the tight-assed cop his drab office suggests he should be. He's wearing a navy pinstripe suit, crisp white shirt, and green-on-green silk tie, all more suited for the boardroom than the squad room. His most distinguishing feature is his bright-red hair—thick, wavy, just long enough to flip off regulations, and moussed to
GQ
perfection. His thin frame belies his legendary physical toughness, as does his face, which is too heart shaped, with lips that are too full, a nose that's too slender, and a complexion that's too peaches-and-cream, all of which makes you suspect he's gay. Not that anyone who knows him would voice that suspicion to his face. An ex–army sergeant, decorated after Desert Storm, he'd maim anyone who questioned his manhood.

Abel looks up from the file he's reading and his big green eyes take full measure of me; he flinches when he sees my bandaged eye, and shakes his head as if deciding to ignore the issue for now. A native Kentuckian who took root here after he finished his hitch at Los Alamitos, his voice is still Southern-fried around the edges. “Crucci, you have any idea why I called you in for this little talk?”

The authority packed in his delivery would make you think he's addressing a raw cadet at the police academy. I loosen my tie, unbutton my collar. “No.”

He cocks his head and gives me an even closer once-over. “You need to work on your body language, son. It's givin' me the notion that you've fucked up even more than recent reports suggest.”

I quit futzing with my tie. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

He grins. “Bits and pieces of the sky are startin' to rain down on you right now, aren't they?”

“What the hell do you mean by that?”

The way he looks at me reminds me of a scene from a documentary I watched in middle school about the California condor, a male perched on a boulder, poised to swoop down on a sick baby elk struggling to keep its feet.

“There you go, Crooch. Playin' dumb just might be the best way for you to play this.”

“Just come on out with it, Lieutenant. It's not like you to beat around the bush.”

“That's right, everything I do and say around here has a calculated purpose,” he says and segues into an uncomfortable pause that drives his point home. “Have you been associating with Joe Sacci's crowd?”

The room tilts.

“I'm not sure I like the way you asked that question.”

“Just answer it, damn it, directly and without further delay.”

I regain my equilibrium, recalling the half lie I've rehearsed for months to recite in situations like this. “I've been to the Venetian a few times in the afternoon, yeah, hanging out with a CI to keep him lubricated.”

“
You,
working a CI during your off-duty hours?”

“I've worked CIs off duty before.”

“I don't recall you ever noting that fact on your OT reports, and you claim OT every time you dream about a case.”

“We don't get paid for it, hell, so there's a lot of work I do off duty I don't claim on OT reports.”

This sends his eyes rolling toward the ceiling. “Save the OT discussion for a slow day, if there'll ever be a slow disciplinary day when you're concerned. For now, reveal the identity of this supposed CI.”

“Lieutenant, we wouldn't call 'em confidential informants if we revealed their names now, would we?”

“Don't insult my superior intelligence, numbnuts. The identity of this person is as safe with me as it is with you. Who the fuck is he?”

“His name's Nico Wang. I knew him when I was a kid.”

“Now we're rollin'….Do you associate with this Wang character for reasons that do
not
include police work?”

“No.”

“Has he provided useful information to you before?”

“Yeah,” I say, and this time I'm not lying. “Last month he informed on that Vietnamese fuck that beat up and robbed the Korean dry cleaner down the street from the Venetian.” What I don't mention is the Viet had a little illegal loan business going, minor competition of Nico's, but competition nonetheless. Turns out the dry cleaner was overdue on a loan payment and the dink's collection efforts got aggressive, so I talked the dry cleaner into filing a robbery charge against him so we could get his felony probation revoked.

“Is he assisting you in an investigation now?”

“No, I just popped in to stroke him. You know, have a drink or two to maintain the relationship.”

He shakes his head in disgust, then jabs a finger at me. “You know my rules. You're not supposed to associate with known criminals without informing me of your intent to do so, in writing and in advance, and you're supposed to report on the contact as soon as possible thereafter. This goes double when you meet an informant on
his
turf. What do you think the chances are of Wang giving you any information on Sacci's crowd when they all know you're hanging around him?”

“Not much, but—”

“And what do you think the perception is when somebody sees a cop walk in a joint like that?”

“I—”

“They think you're corrupt, that's what they think, especially if that somebody knows who your father is. Goddamn, Crucci, hanging around Sacci's crew is just plain stupid in light of your father's connection to them. Can you imagine how embarrassing it was to learn of your presence there from other people?”

His mention of the old thug throws me off a beat, but not as much as his vague reference to the source of his knowledge. “What other people?”

“None of your
got-damn
business.”

He pauses, and the skin of my face withers under his gaze.

Abel leans back in his chair. “Let's delve into your father a little deeper. Have you seen him since he got out?”

The room tilts again. With the specter of surveillance lurking out there, there's no way I'll lie about this—at least not completely.

“Once, yeah. We had lunch.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

His big-toothed smile turns saccharin-sweet, like a TV evangelist. “Pardon me for not asking already, but how's your daddy doin'?”

“He's all right.”

“Enjoying his vacation from the pen?”

“That would be the cynical way to put it.”

“You two have a pleasant lunch?”

That smile, Jesus.

“No,” I say. “It was the worst lunch I've ever had with anybody other than him.”

“Uh-huh…Your recent presence around Sacci's crew have anything to do with Babe?”

“No.”

A piercing stare. “You're sure he hasn't talked you into doing some bent work on the side for Sacci?”

“Damn, Lieutenant, why don't you just call me a liar and be done with it?”

He leans forward. “Hang on, boy. I might go there any minute….What's the old killer up to?”

“He claims to be going straight.”

“Of course he does. Did he mention whether he's still working for Joe Sacci?”

“Didn't I just tell you he said he was going straight?”

“I guess that didn't quite ring true to me. Did Macky McLeod or Viktor Tarasov come up in conversation?”

Oh, shit.

“No.” I shake my head to clear it. “Look, Lieutenant, you're fucking interrogating me here and I don't know to what end. Why don't you treat me like the detective I am and tell me what the hell's goin' on?”

He leans back in his chair again to ponder my question, flaring his eyes at me like I'd just asked him to list his wife's sexual preferences. “A competent and motivated detective under my watch, one with your obvious connections, would be telling
me
what's going on.” He leans forward again, crosses his arms on his desk. “I know you're competent, though I hate to admit it, but what I don't know is how motivated you are. More accurately, I don't know in which direction your motivation lies.”

“That's insulting.”

He shrugs. “So be insulted, see if I give a flyin' fuck. The fact of the matter is that dead bodies are turning up in this town due to a power struggle that's boiling over right under your nose, and you either can't smell it or aren't reporting what you know about it. The latter possibility really concerns me.”

“What dead bodies are you talking about?”

He tilts his head and looks away, thinking something through. He finally says, “Last night, when I called you about the Khemra case, I mentioned there'd been a gang-related murder over on Beverly, down the street from the Medusa Lounge. The homicide team working it has dubbed it the Beverly Barbecue.”

“Why are they calling it that?”

“The two vics, a male and a female, got fricasseed with a flamethrower while sitting in their car—more than a hit, more like a
message.
The female stiff's burned through and through, so the coroner's going to need dental records, DNA, something besides visual, to identify her.” His eyes meet mine. “The male, though, was wearing military-spec dog tags—heat-resistant stainless steel, like he wore them because he knew one day we'd find his sorry-ass remains in an unidentifiable state. This fine, departed citizen's name is Peter Theodore Latzo.”

My thoughts twirl as I focus on maintaining a poker face.

Abel gives no indication that he can sense the thought-riot raging inside my head. “We think the other one's Allesandra Levitch,” he says, “mainly because of her known association with Latzo.” He lowers his voice. “Tell me, Crucci, you ever heard of either of them?”

To lie or not to lie? Decide quick, pull the trigger: “Sure, I've heard of them. Pappas is Macky McLeod's niece, and she and Latzo are associated with Macky McLeod, both collection muscle in his gambling operation.”

He nods, his eyes softening as if he's pleased that I just passed the first question of his test; I brace for his next one.

“Word on the street is that McLeod's been whacked, too, and that Sacci and Tarasov had something to do with both that hit and the Barbecue.”

This strikes too close to home, and my sense is Abel's closing in on me and the old thug. To flush out his hand, I just shrug and say, “That wouldn't surprise me. Is the point of all this that you want me to see what I can find out about it?”

“Hell, no, Crucci. The homicide dicks working this are Paterson and Marten, and collectively they operate like a runaway freight train. It's just a matter of time before their informants start whispering your name, and I want you to stay away from them. If they ask you for information on Sacci or McLeod's crew, tell them you know nothing and report it to me. Anything you do know you will tell me, and I will pass it down the line as if it came from a confidential source. You now officially have a conflict of interest on both the Barbecue and the McLeod murder. If the investigation goes south later, I don't want anybody saying you funneled crap information along to us to thwart it. Most importantly—and I mean
most
importantly—you are to have
zero
contact with any known associates of Sacci or Tarasov. And that, my friend, includes your father.” He crosses his arms at the wrists and places them on the tabletop. “Are my orders clear?”