Grift Sense (14 page)

Nick jumped up, knocking his chair over.

“Over my dead body,” he said, running out the door.

15

C
hewing on an unlit cigar, Nick drove his Cadillac Seville through the prefab development Nola Briggs called home. A hundred yards ahead, Longo's unmarked sedan turned down a dead-end street. Nick flipped his turn indicator on, then fiddled with the AC. They'd been on the road twenty minutes and the vents were still blowing hot air.

Valentine rode shotgun, Wily and Sammy Mann in the back. No one had spoken since leaving Metro LVPD headquarters, and it made the ride seem twice as long. Finally, Wily broke the silence. Sponging his face with a hankie, he said, “Where the hell are we, anyway?”

No one knew. Sammy griped about not being able to find his way around the burbs anymore, the developments choking the desert like weeds. Nick slowed down for a mob of kids on roller blades.

“You still think Nola's guilty?” Wily asked Valentine.

Valentine fanned himself with a magazine. “I sure do.”

“I don't know,” Wily said, drawing glares from everyone in the car. He quickly added, “I mean, she's looking at five to ten years. Why doesn't she turn state's evidence and rat on Fontaine? They'd probably let her go.”

Wily was talking like a moron. Valentine tried to explain it to him. “Because she's in too deep. She's switched sides.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I've seen it a hundred times before.”

“You have?”

Valentine turned around to look at him. “When the circumstances are right, most people will cheat. It's human nature.”

Wily said, “Define
most people.”

“Most people
means everybody who gambles,” Valentine replied. “Look, my own grandmother used to cheat. I'm talking about family games, mind you. She'd hold her cards in one hand and her rosary in the other. I used to think she was praying, but one day I noticed her lips moving, and I went out of the room, then snuck back in behind her. Guess what? She was using the rosary like an abacus. Granny was card-counting.”

“Your own grandmother,” Wily said, astonished.

“It was a real eye-opener,” Valentine admitted.

Longo pulled his sedan up Nola's driveway. Nola's house was identical to every other one on the block, the sameness giving Valentine pause. How could someone live here ten years, he wondered, and not get angry?

Nick parked across the street. The four men got out and crossed together. Handcuffed, Nola huddled on her front lawn with Longo, Higgins, and her defense attorney.

“Let's make this fast,” Longo said as they converged. He had pinned a silver badge to his lapel to make it clear to everyone that he was in charge.

“I want to see those letters,” Nick said.

“They're real,” Nola told him. “You'll see.”

A pubescent horde had gathered curbside. Nola raised her manacled wrists and called to them. “Hey, Johnny; hey, Taylor; hey, Josh. You boys staying out of trouble?”

“Yes, ma'am,” they chorused, heads nodding in unison.

To her attorney, Nola said, “There isn't a boy on this block that I haven't changed diapers for.”

“It must be hard to have them see you like this,” Underman said.

“It sure is.” Pointing her manacled hands at a potted cactus by the front door, Nola said, “The key's under there, Lieutenant.”

Longo lifted the plant and retrieved it.

“You have a security system?” he asked, slipping the key into the front door.

“No,” she said, “and I don't own a dog.”

“Thanks.” Longo opened the front door and went inside. A blast of cold air hit the front lawn, momentarily cooling everyone down. Valentine took a direct hit, the sudden drop in temperature making him shiver. He watched Wily stroll to the curb and pull out his wallet.

“Here,” the pit boss said, tossing each kid a dollar. “Do everybody a favor and get lost.”

Pocketing the money, the boys sauntered down the street, stopping at the corner to resume watching.

Longo appeared in the doorway. “House is clean.”

Nola marched inside with her attorney and Bill Higgins on her heels. Nick and Valentine followed. As Sammy Mann and Wily tried to follow them, Longo filled the doorway.

“Six is a crowd,” the lieutenant said. “You boys wait out here.”

“Why?” Wily asked petulantly. “We're part of this, too.”

“I know,” Longo said. “You fingered her. That's why you're staying.”

Then the lieutenant slammed the door in their faces.

Back in Nick's Caddy, Wily said, “What do we do now?”

Sammy turned on the engine and flipped on the AC. More hot air blew in their faces. Nick's Caddies never worked right, yet he was more loyal to them than he was to his women.

“Hut eeduck be thesuck ou shoufut,”
Sammy said.

“What the hell you saying?”

“It's Arabic,” Sammy explained. “It was my father's favorite expression.”

“I didn't know you were A-rab,” Wily said.

“Well, now you know.”

“So what does it mean?”

“It means ‘Put your finger up your butt and whistle.'”

“Same to you,” Wily said.

At first, Valentine thought Nick was having a stroke.

On stepping foot inside Nola's tiny house, the little Greek had started to babble, the drab interior dredging up long-forgotten memories. Clutching Valentine's arm, he said,
“Jesus Christ,
I remember this place.”

“You do?”

Nick nodded, pointing at the floor. “Same cheap orange shag carpet. Has to be the ugliest carpet ever, next to the stuff in my casino.” He laughed timidly, eyes sweeping the barren living room.

“Maybe she couldn't afford to replace it,” Valentine suggested.

“The house is
the same,
Tony. She hasn't changed a thing in ten years. Not since that night.”

Valentine got Nick a glass of water from the kitchen. “What night was that?”

“We were fighting,” Nick said, standing by the sliding glass door and staring at the rock garden in the backyard. “God, I can see it like it was yesterday. Me standing here, Nola where you are, screeching at the top of her lungs.”

“Why was she yelling?”

Nick put his hand to his forehead. “I don't know. I must have said
something.
You know how women get. A few wrong words and
pow!
—you're dealing with a demon.” He stared into space, struggling to remember. “She threw a flowerpot at me—nearly took my head off. Then she says, ‘I'll castrate you, you fucking son of a bitch.'”

Nick stopped, looking confused.

“What's wrong,” Valentine said.

“Did Nola really say that,” he questioned himself aloud, “or was it another crazy babe?” Scratching his belly, he said, “I've had so much pussy over the years I sometimes forget where one relationship ended and a new one began, the sex and booze and crazy things I did to impress them all flowing together. Know what I mean?”

Valentine didn't know what Nick meant at all—because he was one of those strange birds who'd slept with the same woman his entire adult life.

“Any regrets?” Valentine asked.

“Yeah,” Nick said. “I should have written it all down.”

Nola's pitiful cries carried from the back of the house. Valentine went down a hallway with Nick on his heels. He found the others standing in Nola's bedroom. The space was small and dark, the blinds tightly drawn. No longer handcuffed, Nola knelt on the floor, a slender cardboard box she'd pulled from beneath the bed lying open before her.

“Sonny's e-mail letters were
here,”
she insisted tearfully. “I kept them in an envelope with the marriage certificate.” She looked up into their faces. “I swear to God I'm telling the truth.”

“Anyplace else you might have put them?” Higgins said, giving her the benefit of the doubt. “Think hard.”

“No!” she said, rummaging through the box one more time. “They were here. He must have come and taken them.”

“Who?” Higgins said.

Nola dropped her chin on her chest and began to weep.

“Sonny set me up,” she sobbed, her chest heaving with each word. “I let him into my life, and look what the fucker did to me.”

She was racked by sobs, unwilling to accept this latest setback. Even Valentine felt his heartstrings take a little tug. Nick dug out a silk hankie, suddenly feeling bad about the whole thing.

“Don't,” Longo cautioned him.

Nick ignored the lieutenant and knelt beside her.

“Here,” he said.

“Thanks, Nick,” she said, wiping her eyes.

“Tell me something,” the little Greek said. “I remember being here a long time ago. You and I had a fight.”

“It was more like World War III.”

“I really pissed you off, huh?”

“You sure did.”

Nick glanced at Underman, wondering if he should be having this conversation in his presence. He asked anyway. “What did I do?”

“You don't remember?”

Nick shook his head. “Was it a whopper?”

“Maybe this will spark your memory.”

With Longo's permission, Nola crossed the hall and entered the bathroom. Opening the medicine cabinet, she removed a can of hair spray and tossed it to the lieutenant.

“I couldn't afford a safe,” she explained.

Longo turned the can upside down. It wasn't a can of hair spray at all but a fake with a removable bottom. A ring box fell into the lieutenant's hand. He opened it and whistled. Then he handed it to Nick. “Look familiar?”

Nick stared at the diamond engagement ring that had been hidden in Nola's bathroom for ten years. Judging by its clarity, he guessed it had come from Mordechai's, the finest jeweler in town.

“I bought this for you?” he asked in astonishment.

“You got down on your knees in that living room and asked me to marry you,” Nola blurted out, her face flushed, the years of pent-up rage spilling over. “Asked me to be your bride, your honey, your sweetheart. Only there was a stipulation.”

Nick closed the box, finally remembering. The ring had cost him twenty grand. He'd paid cash. Nola was the best lay he'd ever had. At the time, it seemed like a bargain.

“You wanted me to get my tits done before the wedding,” she went on. “I said no, I'd do it after. You said no, before—you wanted me to come down the aisle with big tits, and I said, ‘What are you marrying, me or my tits?' and you said, ‘I want the whole package.' And I said, ‘Aren't I good enough for you the way I am?' And you just shook your head and said, ‘That's not the point. I want big tits.' And we fought, and finally I threw you out.”

Nick tried to give the ring back. When Nola refused to take it, his face grew pink with embarrassment. It was Higgins who spoke next.

“Wait a minute,” the GCB chief said. “Back at the station, you said Nick never asked you to have your breasts done.”

“That's right,” Nola said.

Higgins burned her with a glare.

“I lied,” Nola explained.

Her defense attorney groaned. Longo and Higgins stared at him, then at each other. Valentine looked at everyone in the room. Only Nick wasn't getting it. Nola had set them up.

Which was why it didn't come as a complete surprise when Valentine heard the bedroom window shatter. The blinds came down, and something round and heavy rolled across the floor and came to rest at Longo's feet. It was a police-issue smoke bomb, normally used to quell riots. Within seconds, a black mushroom cloud enveloped the bedroom.

Valentine reached the door first. Leave it to Longo not to have any backup. In the hall, he encountered a wall of smoke and saw ribbons of gray pouring out of the air-conditioning vent. He tried to remember the layout of the house as he stumbled through it. Back in the bedroom, Nola was screaming for help.

“Let me go! Let me go!”

Valentine hesitated. Emotion was hard to fake, and Nola's cries sounded real. What the hell was going on? Or had Sonny set her up as well?

Underman burst through a wall of smoke and ran into him. Together they staggered out the front door. Nick appeared behind them, puffing furiously. Upon reaching the lawn, he viciously kicked Underman's legs out from under him and sent the defense attorney sprawling to the grass.

Valentine's heart was pounding furiously, his breath gone. The world was spinning, and he heard the neighborhood kids having a laugh at his expense. He sat down on the grass and waited for his head to clear.

Moments later, Higgins and Longo burst through the front door and onto the lawn. Odorless smoke poured through the front door. Later, they would learn that it had been created by a dry-ice machine and was harmless.

“Where's Nola?” Valentine asked them.

No one knew.

“Let me go, let me go,” Nola screamed at a man wearing a black ski mask who'd come through her window.

Instead, the man knocked her down. Nola felt a cloth bag being fitted over her head, then felt the man toss her over his shoulder and climb out the shattered window. His body was solid muscle. Nola pounded his back until her hands ached. Laughing, her kidnapper slapped Nola's fanny.

“Stop it!” she screamed through the hood.

The ground became macadam. Her kidnapper stopped running and Nola felt him dig a key ring out of his pants pocket, then heard the trunk of a car pop open. He stuffed her into the trunk, forcing her body into the cavity where a spare tire had been.

“Don't worry, honey,” he said, his drawl pure Texan. “I drilled plenty of air holes. You won't croak.”

Then he slammed the trunk closed. Moments later, the car's tires were squealing. Her kidnapper hit his horn; the unmistakable shouts of the neighborhood kids rang out.
Please, God,
Nola prayed in the darkness,
don't let him hit one of them.

The car went up a steep incline, and Nola guessed they were on the parkway entrance right outside her development. She waited for the wail of police sirens, her last chance. But soon they were speeding down the highway, and she felt the fight leave her body.

Her kidnapper played let's-get-laid music as he drove. Guns 'n' Roses, Van Halen, Aerosmith. Women were horny bitches, and men, beer-guzzling predators. Nola pressed her hands against her ears as Aerosmith's Steve Tyler implored her to “Sit on my big ten-inch.” She wanted to cry, but her conscience would not let her.