Drawing Dead (18 page)

“YOU KNOW
Old Greytooth?” Cross finally broke the silence.

“Yes” was all So Long said.

“And he would know this Pekelo? And wouldn't trust him?”

“Yes.”

“Could you speak to him? And tell him that Pekelo is the body we want?”

“I don't understand.”

“You don't need to. You go in one of those doors…we wouldn't know which one. Just hand Old Greytooth this stick,” Cross told her, proffering the item retrieved from Tiger's safe. “Tell him that it is a message from his friend Cross—the stick will prove that to him. The message is: ‘Pekelo is the body we want.' But tell him we need that body alive—there are some questions he may know the answer to, and
we
want to ask him those questions.”

“I will do that.”

“BOSS…?”

“Buddha, what more do you want? I don't think for a second So Long was in on any plot to hit Ace.”

“You don't much act like it.”

“Just leave it, okay? You want it straight, here it is: I
know
So Long's a thief. I
know
all thieves are gamblers—risk versus gain, right? So Long's smart. Real smart. And no matter what she might be offered to sell us out, she wouldn't like the odds.”

“I don't see a guy like Hemp dealing with those freakish people, anyway,” Tiger added. “They couldn't even get close enough to him to pitch a deal, no matter what it was.”

“And whoever hired Hemp—this could not have been his own idea—they now know the result of that error,” Tracker said, supporting Tiger's position. Or reassuring Buddha…although why he would do so was knowledge he kept to himself.

“Somebody wanted Hemp dead, you're saying?”

“No,” Cross cut into Buddha's question. “Be easier to just dust him. But how would they get Hemp to put out a hit on Ace? The man's not insane.”

“Then
you
explain it,” Tiger challenged. “We know the contract was to kill Sharyn—at the
least,
kill Sharyn, maybe her children, too—just to bring Ace out into the open.”

“Had to be Hemp's own idea,” Cross said. “It's the only thing that adds up. Nobody'd have to pay Hemp for Ace's body, not if Hemp believed somebody had already paid Ace for
his.
”

AS IF
by mutual agreement, the whole gang went silent.

“It wouldn't be a hard sell,” Tiger finally said. “Plenty of drug gangs in this town. Street-level slingers kill each other over who gets what corner all the time, so why wouldn't one of the kingpins want to take
all
the corners?”

“For Hemp to listen to a warning that Ace had him targeted, it would have to come from someone he trusted.”

“Tracker would be right,” Cross said. “But this isn't some old-school crime family—those guys don't trust them
selves.
Word about a contract? Sure. But who'd know for sure Ace had that contract?”

More silence, this time one of agreement.

“Still, Tiger's just saying what happened. No argument about that. But what if it wasn't Ace who Hemp was afraid of? Maybe Hemp wasn't afraid of any of us? Or even all of us? What if
he
was the one getting paid?”

“There isn't enough money—?”

“Not money, Buddha. Remember that girl? The one whose father kept telling her he was safe forever—that ‘statute of limitations' thing?”

Buddha closed his eyes and watched the film spool inside his mind. Like it was yesterday:

Cross watched the woman descend the stairs to the basement poolroom, thinking,
Who would tell a girl like her about Red 71?
The bank-security mirror the old man with the even older green eyeshade kept just inside the door showed her clearly, standing as if she didn't know what to do next. All in black, she was—but dressed for mourning, not for style.

Finally, she threaded her way through the maze of tables, a dark, slender wraith not even drawing a glance from the men playing their various games. Cross was too far away for her to have spotted what she had been told to look for—the bull's-eye tattoo on his right hand—but she walked to the far corner as if guided by a signal.

The black pillbox hat with its matching half-veil did nothing to conceal her features. Or that she was anemia-pale under the mesh.

“Mr….Cross?”

“Sit down” was all the answer she got. The woman took the only empty chair at the small table, pulled off her black gloves, and fumbled in her purse for a cigarette. Cross extended his left hand, opened it, and flame flickered out. If the woman was surprised, she gave no sign.

Two men detached themselves from the wall and racked the balls, starting a game. Even though their combined bulk would have concealed a reclining elephant, that wasn't what caused everyone in the basement to keep looking in some other direction.
Any
other direction.

Cross lit a cigarette of his own. Said nothing.

It took the woman two more cigarettes to realize that she wasn't going to be asked any questions.

When she spoke, it was in a chemotherapy voice, juiceless and resigned. “You have to make him stop. He's never going to stop.”

Not a battered wife,
Cross thought.
Otherwise, why come here? If she knew enough to find this place, she knew about the Double-X. So those widow's weeds aren't to cover scars.

“Just tell me,” he said.

“I can pay. Whatever it costs, I can get it.”

“This part, it's the down payment.”

“I thought…”

“I don't know you.”

“And you don't trust me.”

Silence was answer enough. She lit another cigarette with the glowing butt of her last one.

“I could still lie to you,” she said. As if she knew all about lying.

“No, you couldn't.”

“Are you going to strap me into a lie detector?”

“I am one,” Cross told her, holding her eyes so she'd understand, get down to it.

“My…stepfather,” she finally said, the last word sliding from her mouth like a venomous snake crawling from under a rock.

“What about him?”

“He…had me. When I was a baby. When I was a girl. When I was a teenager. Now I'm away. But I'll never be free from him. I'll never have a boyfriend, never have a husband. I'll never have a baby—he burned me inside.”

“There's people for that. Therapists…”

Her eyes were twin corpses. “I'm not talking about my mind. He burned me with a soldering iron. Right after I had my first period. He put it inside me and pushed the switch.”

Cross waited for more. When it didn't come, he said: “What do you want?”

“I went to the police,” she said. “They told me I was too late. Too much time had passed since the last time he…had me. The statute of limitations, they said. He can't be prosecuted. So I went to a lawyer. He has money. I thought, if I could sue him, take his money, it would take his power. But the lawyer told me I was too late even for that.”

“So…?”

“The prosecutor, he was very kind. He told me I couldn't even get an Order of Protection. You can only get one if there's an ongoing criminal case. Or if there had been a conviction, and it was part of the sentence. But he said if he…my stepfather…ever bothered me again, they'd lock him up. He said they know about him. From other things—he wouldn't tell me what.”

“Would that be enough? Taking his power?”

“Enough?” she said, as if the question were absurd. “Taking his life, that wouldn't be enough. But if he could lose his power, if he could be in prison, that would…I don't know, give me a chance, maybe. To be free.”

A bodyguard wouldn't help this one. Her enemy's already inside her gates,
Cross thought.
And she's right about a therapist—nothing they can do when a cutter's already hit a vein. We know this guy, works with every kind of crazy you can think of, but he goes partners with his clients, says that's the only way. They team up to fight what's already inside. She's not here looking for a partner; she wants to hire a gun. The scanner didn't pick up anything electronic on her, but she still has to say it out loud.

“So what do you think we could do?”

“Hurt him,” she whispered.

“You expect us to take that kind of risk, for how much, exactly?”

“I meant him. He'd pay anything. He has a record,” she said.

“For what?”

“The prosecutor didn't have to tell me; I already knew. For rape. Before he married my mother. A long time ago. My mother didn't find out about it until much later. He was the one who told me first. When I was just a little girl, he told me. He had raped a girl and he went to prison for it. He told me he'd never rape a stranger again. He hated prison—it was full of animals. ‘Savages,' he called them,” she said, her voice too acidic to be mistaken for sarcasm. “That's why he married my mother. So he could do what he does and never go to prison again.”

“He has money? Where would it come from?”

“He's like some kind of…gangster, I think. He'd talk real hard on the phone sometimes. And other times, he'd grovel. Crawl on his knees to whoever was on the other end of the line. I heard him doing that once, and he caught me at it. As soon as he was off the phone, he hurt me very ugly that night.”

Cross lit another smoke, watching her. “You want this bad?”

“It's all I want,” she said. “Everything I want.”

“What now?” the hard-faced cop asked, his tone making it clear even his deeply respected patience wasn't endless.

“You know a sex-crimes prosecutor? Guy named Wainwright?” Cross said, naming the man in the DA's office the girl had said was so understanding.

“He's good stuff,” McNamara said. “Young guy, but you can tell he's not in the DA's office to learn how to be a defense attorney. He's on our side; every cop in the county tries to get their dicey cases to him. I'll put it so you can understand, Cross: he doesn't give a damn about his conviction rate. See what I'm saying? He doesn't expect us to bring in videotapes of some slimeball committing the crime, with a signed confession for the cherry on top. And he's not giving away the courthouse just to get a plea.”

“Doesn't even want to be the DA himself, huh?”

“Nope. He's a soldier. Like us. Us cops, I mean.”

“ ‘Us,' huh? You guys are no more all alike than this guy is with his job.”

“That's right. But the only guys using all the juice they have to get him on a case, they are.”

The target lived alone.

In a nice house in the suburbs. Neighbors on both sides, but there was a high fence all around the property. Solid cedar, brass-braced, with a cast-iron hasp. It wouldn't keep out an amateur.

A hard, slanting rain wasn't doing much to break the summer heat as Cross rang the bell just before midnight. No dog barked. He didn't expect any, not after a week of watching and waiting.

Suddenly the door was thrown open. Standing there, a big man, paunchy, hair combed to one side exaggerating the baldness he was trying to conceal. Wearing a white T-shirt over baggy black dress pants, barefoot.

Cross politely asked the man's name, holding his wallet open so the man could see the police shield. The man looked at it closely, eyes narrowing.

“You don't mind waiting outside, Detective? Just long enough for me to call the precinct, make sure you're who you say you are?”

“No, sir,” Cross said, watching the man's expression change as he felt the pistol barrel jammed into his spine.

Cross stepped inside, pushing the man back gently with the palm of his hand. He tilted his fedora back on his head, quickly pulling the brim down again as the man's eyes flashed to the Chang B tong tattoo across his forehead. He gestured for the man to turn around.

Buddha, his face covered with a dark stocking mask, showed the target a short-barreled .357 magnum, holding it close enough for him to see the copper-tipped rounds in the cylinder.

“Let's go into your study,” Cross said.

They walked the target down the carpeted hallway in a sandwich, took him over to his glass-topped desk, told him to sit down, make himself comfortable.

“You know who I am?” the man asked, unperturbed.

Cross put his fingers to his lips, made a ssshing gesture.

“Look, you want money? I got…”

Buddha ground the tip of the pistol barrel deep into the man's ear. The man let out a yelp; then he was quiet.

Cross opened the satchel Buddha handed him, taking out one item at a time, very slowly, as if he were a salesman displaying his wares.

A pair of handcuffs.

A hypodermic syringe.

A small bottle full of clear fluid with a flat rubber top.

Surgical bandages.

Velcro tourniquet.

A roll of pressure tape.

A mini-blowtorch.

A stainless-steel butcher knife.

“Wh-what is this?”

“Just a job, pal,” Cross said. “Just earning our living. Don't worry, it won't hurt a bit. Once I give you a shot of this stuff…”

The man watched as Cross stuck the hypo into the rubber-topped bottle, filled the syringe, pushed the plunger slightly to check that the liquid was flowing smoothly. The man's face was a white jelly of terror.

“Please…”

“Look, pal, you think I get any kick out of this? Hey, I don't mind telling you the score. Woman comes to see us, says you did her real bad. Paid good money to take a piece out of you, even the score. Only thing, she watches too much TV. So she wants us to bring her the proof. And no photos, the real thing.”

“Proof?” The word bubbled out of his throat.

“Proof,” Cross repeated. “Couple a broken legs wouldn't satisfy this broad. She wants your hand. Your right hand.”

“Oh God…”

“Look, it don't make no difference to us. She paid full price for a body, you understand? She's paying the same for your hand she'd pay for your head. You just relax, do it the easy way. My man Fong's gonna cuff your hand to the top of your fancy desk, hold it down flat with some tape. Then I'm gonna wrap this tourniquet around your arm, find a good vein, shoot you up with this happy juice. You go to sleep. You wake up, you got one less hand. All nice and bandaged, better than they'd do it in a hospital.”

Cross switched on the blowtorch. The hissing butane was the loudest sound in the room. He opened his left hand—the torch flared into life.

“What's that for?” The man was trembling so hard, his voice sounded like his mouth was full of pebbles.

“To cauterize the wound, pal. So you don't bleed to death.”

“Ca-cauterize?”

“What do you think I should use? A soldering iron?”

By the time the man forced himself to open his eyes, he was all strapped down. Buddha had the tourniquet around his biceps; Cross was gently tapping a vein to make it stand out.

“Could I talk to you?” The man's voice was a weasel's whine, begging and promising in the same breath.

“Better talk quick,” Cross said, calmly.

“Look, you're professionals, right? I mean…you got paid to do this, I could pay you more not to, okay? I mean, pay you right now. Whatever she paid, how's that?”

“You got twenty large in this house, pal?” Cross asked, sarcasm lacing his voice.

“I got it. Every penny. That's why I thought you were from Falcone, like I asked, remember? But…I'll give it to you, right now.”

“I don't know. I mean, we already took the broad's money.”

“Come on. Please! You're a man. I didn't do anything to the bitch she didn't have coming. I mean…cutting off a man's hand, for God's sake, what's that tell you? I know who sent you, now. She is one sick slut. Spent years in the crazy house. Come on! My money's as good as hers.”

Cross sat back, mimed thinking it over. Watched the hope grow in the man's eyes.

Looked past him to Buddha.

“Where's the money?” he finally said.

The man went through a full-body shudder before he whispered “Safe.”

He wasn't lying. Besides cash, there were a dozen kilo-sized bags of white powder, shrink-wrapped in clear plastic. The bills were neatly rolled inside Mason jars, ready to be transferred.

Cross speed-counted the cash and kept counting even after he passed twenty thousand.

He dropped it all in his medical case. Cash and coke together.

“Hey! That wasn't—”

“Quiet, now. You got a good deal. You paid us to call it off, right? For the rest of this money, we'll do a job for you. How's that?”

“What job?”

“You think that broad's not going to come after you again, pal? You think this ends it? You bought yourself one safe night, that's all.”

“But that powder, I was holding it for—”

“You got all kinds of cash, all kinds of places, don't you? Hell, you got enough in this house alone—equity, I'm saying—you can make things right with this Falcone guy.”

“You mean…?”

“Sure. Way I figure it, for what we're leaving with, we owe you a job…right, Fong?”

Buddha mumbled something in an Asian language from behind the stocking mask.

Cross could see the man thinking it over.

“When would you do it?” he finally asked.

“Tonight.”