Lethal Affairs (10 page)

omino watched Hayley and Vasquez leave the bar and briefly converse in the parking lot outside. For a moment, she viewed them in a nonprofessional manner. Hayley definitely had a talent for picking clothes that suited her figure and personality. Her deep purple dress fit like a body glove, helping her exude an appealing, sensual selfconfidence. And the ex-cop, Domino noted, seemed to enjoy the view as much as she did.

The two of them bypassed Hayley’s red Ford Mustang and were headed toward Vasquez’s battered station wagon when Reno’s voice came over the transmitter from inside the bar. “Get pictures of the guy who’s leaving. Blue shirt and tan pants.”

She scrambled for a camera with a telephoto lens and snapped pictures of the man as he hesitated in the doorway and scanned the parking lot. When he watched Vasquez and Hayley leave in the station wagon, he pulled out a pad and paper, wrote something down, and hurried to a dark blue sedan. It peeled away in the same direction as the wagon, and Reno emerged from the bar and jogged to the van.

“Did you get all that?” he asked as she headed after them. “Yes. Did Vasquez make you?”
“I’m pretty sure he didn’t. I was sitting too close to know for sure,

but I suspect he also wondered who the hell this guy in the sedan is. Vasquez may be a paranoid drunk but he’s nobody’s fool—seemed in a hurry to get out of there after he noticed the guy didn’t want to leave prints.” He retrieved the memory card from the camera and plugged it into a laptop computer that lay open on the console between them. “I’ll put the office to work on his picture and plate number to see if we can ID him.”

Hayley noticed Vasquez kept one eye on the rearview mirror as they pulled away from the bar. “Where are we going?”
“My crib,” he answered. “But I have to make sure we ain’t being tailed. So we’re taking the scenic route. In the meantime, just be quiet. Chill.”
“Whatever you say,” she replied, wondering again if he was being paranoid or smart.
They drove around for a half hour, with Vasquez making U-turns and cutting through alleys. At one point, he parked and watched the direction they had come from for five minutes. While they waited, he asked for her cell phone and checked it for a tracking device.
Finally they pulled up in front of a run-down apartment building. A sixty-something woman in a well-worn housedress watched them from an open first-floor window nearby. She was smoking a cigarette, her face in the shadows. She hailed Vasquez as he slammed out of the station wagon.
“Rent’s late again, Manny. I need it today.”
“I’ll get it to you, Edna. You know I’m good for it.” He headed toward one of several first-floor entrances to the apartment complex, just down from where he’d parked. Hayley followed.
“You know you’re not supposed to have ladies over,” the landlady called after them.
“She’s my niece,” Vasquez paused to reply. “I told you she was coming to visit—you musta forgot.” He continued into the building and down a long hall, past several other doors. At the end, he followed another hallway to the left to apartment 117, where he pulled a heavy ring of keys from his pocket and fumbled for the right one. Hayley noticed his door held not the usual one or two locks, but a total of six, spaced from top to bottom.
“What was that all about back there?” she asked. “Your niece?”
“Old woman is senile as hell. Anything you tell her’s gone in ten minutes.”
Finding all the right keys took a couple of minutes. Once inside, Vasquez spent a few more locking up again and added a heavy metal bar across the door, fitted into custom hooks on either side. As he busied himself with the task, Hayley took in the filthy chaos that was his living room. No wonder he chose the Three Sisters bar. It was exactly like his home.
The half-dozen empty Scotch bottles scattered about and the dirty glasses everywhere confirmed that he was a serious and dedicated drinker. The overflowing ashtrays, soiled clothes, and old take-out containers spread throughout the room added to the stench.
The furniture was upholstered with repulsive floral prints from the 1970s, and she could make out random vomit stains among the sunflowers and daisies.
Oh yeah, that spruces it right up.
She kicked aside an old pizza box at her feet and sat on the floor. From there she could see something half underneath the couch that resembled a desiccated mouse corpse.
Oh, please. Tell me that’s not what I think it is.
What would make a mouse drop dead in the middle of someone’s living room?
“Want something to drink?” he asked.
“No,” she replied, a little too quickly and a lot too loud.
Hell no
. The mere idea of drinking out of one of his glasses made her stomach churn. Why didn’t she just drink out of the toilet? “I mean, no thanks.”
Who lives like this?
“Suit yourself. Don’t mind if I do,” he said, more to himself than to her, as he poured another Scotch into a glass that looked like something might be living in it.
“So what the hell is going on?” she asked, anxious to leave as soon as possible. “Why all the cloak-and-dagger in the bar and on the way here?”
He turned on a radio before he answered. “Have you noticed anything different in your house since you got your envelope?”
“Different? Different how?”
“Have things been moved around? Anything missing? Things like that?”
“No. Not that I’ve noticed, anyway,” she replied. But in truth, she hadn’t paid close attention. “Why?”
“Well, somebody likes you. That guy at the front of the bar, looked like he just stepped out of the shower? He was tailing your ass.”
“Yeah, I know who you mean. I saw him, too. He came in right after me. But he didn’t seem to be paying me any attention.”
“Wouldn’t.” Vasquez sipped his Scotch. “But he was. He followed us for a while after we left the bar, but I lost him. Seen him before?”
“No. Never.”
“Look, whatever you’re being so mysterious about is enough reason for somebody to follow you. Now tell me what it is.”
“Do you think I should be worried?”
“I’ll know more when I see what you got.”
She had to risk it. “I have a copy of the Miami tape. Not with me, of course.”
“I knew it,” Vasquez said. “In a safe place, right?”
“Yes. And I have a spare.”
“What’s on it?”
“Presumably a female assassin trained by the EOO. It’s not great in terms of quality. You can’t really make her out. It shows the four guys being killed—her accomplice, and Guerrero and his two men.”
“I know a guy could clean it up, enhance her image.” He was beginning to slur his words. “Sometimes you can pick up clues that way. Tattoos, birthmarks, shit like that.”
“It sounds worth giving a shot.” She berated herself that she hadn’t thought of that. “So, what do you know about this organization?” Hayley hadn’t pried much information out of Vasquez, but had volunteered a lot. She needed to get something in return, and soon. The way he was hitting the Scotch, he might pass out any time. But before he could answer, her cell phone rang.
“Go ahead.” He waved vaguely in the direction of her ringing purse as he rose unsteadily to his feet. “I gotta get something to show you.” He staggered toward his dented metal desk, which was covered with files, papers, and unrecognizable mummified food remains, and began to rifle through the drawers as she dug for her phone.
She smiled when she checked the display and saw who was calling. “Hi there, miss me already?”
“That transparent?” Luka replied. “Thought I’d see what you might be in the mood for tomorrow.”
“Well…
you
. And I’m open to suggestions for the rest. Do you have something in mind?” she asked playfully, keeping an eye on Vasquez, who was mumbling to himself in Spanish. He gave up his search of the desk and tottered off toward what she assumed was his bedroom.
“Sounds like you’re not alone. Sorry for interrupting.”
“Hey, don’t be sorry. I’m always happy to hear your voice. Besides, when I’m really tied up, I let it go to voicemail. But I
am
kind of on the clock and can’t talk long. Actually, I’m in New York, following a lead on that story I’m working on. I won’t get back till late.”
“Making progress?”
“Things are looking better, I guess. Still kind of early to judge. So, what are you up to tonight?”
“Aside from sitting here alone missing you, not much else. Just listening to music and doing some things around the house. What do you want to do tomorrow? Shall we start with dinner again somewhere?”
“Sounds good to me.”
“What do you like?” Luka asked. “Thai? Mexican? Steak?”
“All of the above and in no particular order. I’m not picky,” she replied. “I’m more interested in the company than the cuisine.”
“Perhaps we can take a drive after dinner. You can show me some of your favorite places around Baltimore?”
“Is that all you want me to show you?”
“I can’t wait for the eventuality of you showing me more.”
“And you call me relentless?” Hayley watched as Vasquez reemerged from the bedroom holding a VHS tape and a manila file folder. “I hate to cut this short but I gotta run. I’m happy you called, though, so keep calling. See you tomorrow?”
“You will definitely see me tomorrow. By the way, I know this place where they play classic movies seven days a week. Care to join me?”
“Sounds like fun. Count me in,” she replied.
“Great.
Gone With The Wind
is playing next week. You name the night and I’m there. Guess I’ll let you go. Reluctantly—but if I must, I must. Have a good evening, and I hope your lead pans out.”
“Thanks, Luka. ’Night.” She ended the call and slipped her phone into her purse. While she’d been occupied, Vasquez had slipped the videotape into his player and turned on the TV.
“Here’s a taste of what I got.” He hit the play button. “Victim was a state senator. Dennis Linden.”
A dark-haired man in his mid-thirties, wearing a suit and tie, shook hands with supporters at an outdoor political rally. Red, white, and blue campaign signs bearing his name waved in the crowd. “Seemed like a regular guy, bright future in politics, but after he died, our investigation turned up evidence he was on the take, big-time. Nothing we could ever prove, and we never found out who he was working for, but large cash deposits had been made in bank accounts he had under a false name.”
“This isn’t a security camera,” Hayley remarked. It looked like standard TV news-crew footage and was in color.
“No. That’s coming.” Just as Vasquez said the words, the tape changed to blurry black-and-white footage that looked similar to hers. “A surveillance camera outside a post office took this.”
The view, from high up, showed a street with little traffic and few pedestrians. All of the faces were indistinguishable. “That’s Linden,” he said as a lone male figure appeared. A few steps behind him walked a woman, a head shorter, wearing a long dark coat, dark boots, and a dark hat with a brim that covered her face and hair. She had her hands in her coat pockets.
Hayley watched as the woman pulled a gun from her right pocket and shot the man in the back of the head. When he went down, she put another bullet into his head, slipped the gun back in her pocket, and continued walking. It all happened in seconds.
It was similar to the video Hayley had. The close range, second bullet to the head, the shooter’s calm professionalism. But there was no way to tell if it was the same woman.
“How do you know this was a professional assassin?” she asked. “And not a jealous ex or something?”
“Had all the signs of a pro. Type of hit, weapon, ammo, cool attitude. And nothing in our investigation pointed to anything else. Again, nothing we could prove. But likely.” He popped the tape from the machine. “This is my loony file. Letters and tips I got when I snagged the case. None of ’em went anywhere.” He handed her the manila file, thick with printouts of e-mails and handwritten notes.
She leafed through them—several confessions, a few illiterate scrawls, some drawings, and numerous other missives.
“Just to give you an idea that notes in the mail claiming to know something are nothing new,” he said.
“But they don’t come with tapes stolen from major police departments.” Hayley retrieved a copy of the note included with the Guerrero tape from her purse and handed it to Vasquez.
He took his time reading it. “Your informant’s right about one thing. This EOO has a big reach. Some major players in its pocket.” He took another swig of his Scotch. “Looks legit to me. And I think you’re right. Got to be a powerful guy to get this tape away from Miami PD.” He held up the note. “I’d like to keep this. Compare it against others I got.”
“Nothing personal, but I’m not comfortable with that, Manny. For obvious reasons. I hesitated to even show it to you.”
“How about if I promise not to make a copy and give it back to you in a couple days, after I’ve had a chance to check it out? No one else sees it, and I’ll let you know anything I uncover. My word is my honor, Hayley.”
She considered his offer for a minute. The note could really hurt her, but she had a gut instinct Manny was a straight-up guy, despite his drinking problem, and would keep his promise. “I’m going to trust you. Don’t make me regret it, okay?”
He put his hand over his heart. “
Bueno
. Now tell me, what’s your tape show?”
“For that, you’ve got to give me more,” she said. “What do you have to trade? This, what you’ve shown me, doesn’t help at all.”
He scratched the stubble of beard on his cheek. “You trust me, I trust you. I got more.
Mucho mas
. Information about your EOO, for one thing. Maybe even an idea about who your mysterious informant might be.”
“You know who sent me the tape?” Vasquez had her full attention now.
“Let’s say I have a short list of suspects.”
“Then why haven’t you done anything with it?”
“Nothing I can do any more.” He took another large swig of Scotch. “It was asking questions about these guys got me fired. No one will talk to me now, especially without a badge. I can’t get near them. Shit, I think they’d shoot me on the spot.”
“You think I’ll have any better luck getting the answers?”
“You might. You’re a hot woman—and you’re a journalist. You can’t do worse than me. What I don’t get is why you? Why’d this guy send the tape to you?”
“I’ve asked myself that very question a million times, and I really have no idea. He makes it sound like he’s doing me a favor, but I don’t know anyone who owes me any favors. And he says he’s been following my career. But it’s not like I’ve done anything yet to warrant someone powerful thinking I can break a story like this.”
“He was pretty smart concerning you, if you ask me,” he said approvingly. “Here you are, after all. You found me.”
“Yes. True. And you know something about this organization,” she prompted.
“I interviewed a guy who did.” He finished off his drink and poured himself another. Hayley wondered how he was still conscious. “Told me a big story. Hell of a story.” He stared into his glass, as though remembering. “But he’s dead now. Oh, yeah…they’re good at covering their tracks. Real good.” The bitterness in his voice suggested his personal woes had something to do with the EOO too.
“Tell me the story,” she urged.
Vasquez settled back against the cushions of the couch with a groan. “Remember the Castellano case?”
“You mean the organized crime family?”
“That’s the one. After Angelo Castellano got whacked, his guys started to panic and get sloppy. We arrested a shitload of them, and one was a guy called Frankie the Fox. We had him in custody, facing a lot of charges, and his lawyer was in and out of there for weeks, telling him his best bet was to give us names, locations, and anything else. Working a deal with prosecutors would get him twenty years with a good chance at parole if he cooperated. Otherwise he might get the chair. Frankie decided to take it, and I was the guy who questioned him.” He lit a cigarette with slightly shaky hands.
“He told me he got involved in the Castellano family right after he spent six months working for a secret organization called the EOO. Said someone he knew put him in contact with them as a favor. This organization decided to give him a chance because of his military background and trained him—in spying, interrogation, torture, weapons. All stuff he hadn’t learned in the army. They gave him a couple of assignments, but Frankie said it was boring, low-level stuff, and they cut him loose when he started asking for more responsibility. Afterwards, he worked alone for a few months as a for-hire thug and did a few hits for Castellano. Castellano liked his style and took him on full time.”