Nightlife (52 page)

At first glance, Rene Espinoza thought it looked like a standard dope-deal-gone-sour slaughterfest. Of particular interest was that all three of the DOAs were ranked as known associates in the file of the one, the only, Tony Mendoza. You had your basic shot-up body, shell casings of various calibers strewn everywhere, a couple fallen guns. But closer looks showed wild deviations from that typical scenario.

Anyone could see that Eduardo Lupo’s throat had been torn away to the extent that his head wobbled atop a fragile stalk of spine. But forensics said that the bulk of the damage had been caused by as-yet-unclassifiable teeth. Not human. Even so, a single bullet had been dug out of the ruins, having lodged in the spinal column.

Then there was Ivan Barrington, in the boxcar. A hunting arrow?

Nothing settled comfortably into place. And upon leaving the scene, well before dawn, the dismal night lit with swirling beacons and the entire area roped off like a grisly museum exhibit, her first stray thought had been,
Justin Gray? No. Couldn’t be.
For even if it were, that still wouldn’t explain everything.

Midmorning in the homicide bullpen. Rene and Nate Harris were poring over the dead men’s files and logging paperwork time. Nate’s metronomic two-finger hunt-and-peck keyboard prowess always grew irksome after five minutes. Her ashtray was loaded with enough butts to resemble a jumble of dry bones. She had started in on her fifth cup of coffee when Lieutenant Chadwick materialized. He wore the look of a terrier who’d just been tossed a particularly tasty scrap.

“I want you down on the lot in twenty minutes. We just got the go-ahead to move on Mendoza.”

She let the sheaf of papers she’d been holding slap the desk blotter. Typing halted in midpeck. “Something must’ve broken on Agualar.”

Chadwick nodded, fluorescent lights gleaming a nimbus around his balding pate. “Agualar’s dead.”

“Pity,” Harris said. No mourning and a cockeyed smile.

“I just left the captain. Oh, this is rich. Turns out the DEA-had a man inside on Agualar even higher up than we did. Guy’s cover was the name of Diaz or something, one of Agualar’s newer lieutenants. We never knew. Shit, don’t you just love interagency communication?” He bummed one of Rene’s cigarettes from the pack on her desk. “It’s still kind of sketchy, but Thursday night Mendoza did the job on Agualar. Don’t ask me how. Then, yesterday morning, he calls the lieutenants together to show off Agualar’s head and announce a change in management. He lines a bunch of Agualar’s goons together and pops them in the head, one by one. Diaz saw the whole thing, said it was like something out of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. He also popped one of the lieutenants.”

“How come we’re just finding out about this now?” Rene asked.

“Diaz—whatever his real name is—he didn’t get a chance to come out of cover until late last night. Probably about the same time you were out scraping up what was left of Mendoza’s boys.”

“So maybe that was a retaliation move?” Harris hunched his shoulders, spitballing.

“Who knows? All I know is, we got fresh warrants on eight counts of murder. Probably more’ll turn up too.”

Rene frowned. “If Mendoza falls on straight murder, the DEA won’t get a thing out of it. How come they’re being so generous?”

Chadwick blew smoke and shook his head with haunted eyes. “Diaz doesn’t want to go back, not after what he saw. Says Mendoza’s the most unstable guy he ever saw, he’s wired tighter than a drum. The last guy he shot? Diaz says he cannibalized the guy right there in front of everybody.”

“Oh,
that’s
a cute wrinkle. Just when we thought these guys can’t get any sicker.” Harris threw down a bottle of white-out in disgust. “So where are these bodies now, anyway?”

“This is the sweet part. After he shot them, Mendoza picked a cleanup crew to get them out of Agualar’s place and lose them. He picked Diaz. Low man on Agualar’s totem pole and all, he got the shit detail. Diaz says they loaded up these eight guys and some other stiffs, and Mendoza had them drive this panel truck down into the Glades and dump the entire load. Diaz is heading back down there right now with a couple of meat wagons so they can pull the bodies back out of the swamp.”

Rene held up crossed fingers. “Let’s hope the gators left enough for us.”

“Amen,” Chadwick said. “We got two teams going after Mendoza. One at Agualar’s place, in case he’s still there, and one at Mendoza’s condo. I want you with that team.”

“If we pull him in, I want you to push for two things,” Rene said.

“What are they?”

“No bond. I don’t want this guy out in time for lunch.” Chadwick nodded. “Way ahead of you on that one. What else?”

“I’d like some damned loud press releases.”

“What for? What’s it to you?”

“Are you forgetting two weeks ago? How we stonewalled that Justin Gray character, after the Webber killing? Gray’s holed up just trying to stay alive. I don’t know where to find him offhand, so I want to make sure he knows it’s safe for him and his girlfriend to crawl out again. We owe him that much.” Chadwick flipped a dismissive wave, cigarette clamped between two fingers. “Not my call, but I’ll try.” He checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes.”

And then he was gone.

Rene reached into her purse, checked the load in her service revolver. Prebust ritual, obsession-compulsion masquerading as better-safe-than-sorry precaution.

She looked at the telephone and bit her lip in frustration.
He didn’t even trust me enough to give me a phone number.

Satisfied with her revolver, she thrust it back into her purse.

So keep sitting tight, Justin. And I hope like hell you ’re not planning to try anything else on your own.

Tony’s day began to develop serious kinks by late morning.

He’d begun to feel some concern over how the mass grave down in the Everglades had gone. No word yet. Of course, it was his inner staff who generally followed up on piddly little details, then reported back to him. And his inner staff had, overnight, been decimated.

He briefly considered tapping a couple new up-and-comers who had performed well at Agualar’s. Get them to back him up in secret at the late-afternoon meeting with Justin and company. New faces—the anonymity would serve well. But. It would be downright embarrassing to have to admit he’d been unable to handle witless amateurs, that they’d gotten lucky. Letting new guys in on this, it might be a tough call keeping the truth secret about what had happened to Lupo and BB and Ivan. Which translated into a serious loss of respect, negating yesterday’s show of strength.

So nip this one last problem in the bud today solo, then bulldoze on ahead afterward with new business. No looking back.

Tony couldn’t say precisely what prompted him to wander to the balcony doors and peer out at the virgin day. Some protective guardian looking down upon him, perhaps. The
hekura
watching out for its vessel. Whatever. Tony knew only that he should take a peek.

And didn’t like what he saw.

Saturday mornings were always prime pool time. Sun and water worshippers by the dozen. But a couple guys in suits were down there evicting the whole crowd. Swimmers, sun-bathers, towels, tanning oil, air mattresses—
everything
was going inside.

If the suits weren’t cops, Tony was the Pope.

His breath hitched in his throat. He looked at the condos directly across the parking lots. A starburst of sunlight glimmered off polarized sunglasses, just above the edge of the roof. Some guy wearing a dark cap. No, two guys, different locations. Snipers. No doubt one or two raiders were perched on his own roof, ready to drop straight down onto his balcony and blast right through the doors.

A low growl rumbled in his throat, unintentional and ferocious. He felt his mortal self tipping low, lower, countered by the rise of the primal, whose sole instinct was survival. At all costs.

Tony went sprinting down the main hallway, slammed open a closet door, and tore through the detritus until he could reach a hidden panel. He ripped it out of its brackets and plucked up a pair of objects just behind it. Serious firepower. A Browning Automatic Rifle, World War II ordnance. And an Israeli-made Uzi. The best of yesterday and today.

Heightened senses were almost excruciating in sensitivity. He felt, heard, sensed the multiple footsteps clicking up the outside stairs. The scent of his guns’ oil was as potent as an aphrodisiac.

He slung the Uzi around his neck and held the massive BAR in both hands, then went charging back to the living room. Careful to avoid direct lineup with the balcony doors.

His breath panted, a husky grunt. It wasn’t the change, but he was nevertheless packing a lot more beneath his scarred hide than before. Some hybrid state, the seesaw balanced with equal weights at both ends.

Motherfuckers. They tried to take him, wouldn’t
they
be in for a big wet surprise? Absorbing a few shots from them didn’t mean squat. He’d take a licking and keep on ticking. Firing away the whole time. Their safety-in-numbers machismo would wilt soon enough, once they understood that he wasn't going to roll over and play dead. Ever. He wondered who held the world record for copkill.

Tony bared his teeth, jacked shells into the chambers of both weapons. It sounded very loud, metallic adrenaline. He could smell the advancing fearsweat, at least six or seven sources coming close, closer. Could even distinguish one female in the group.

He took aim at the door . . .

And reconsidered.

Why be hasty? There
were
other ways.

Like giving them the totally unexpected.

He remembered childhood, Mama dragging him to Mass and Sunday school. Remembered the lessons. Jesus—now,
there
was a guy Tony could respect. Because He knew how to take people by surprise. Tony couldn’t see much use for that turn-the-other-cheek rhetoric, but hey, go please the world, right? He remembered a snippet from some prayer all the little tykes said:
Gentle Jesus, meek and mild . . .

Yes. Yes! He loved it. Besides, he had a meeting in a few hours. It wouldn’t do to show up full of holes, even if they were halfway healed.

Tony was guessing the cops were on the third floor by now. Barely enough time. He chugged for the closet and stashed the guns again. Ran for the door and unlocked it. Swung it wide open and lifted his smiling face to the warm winds lapping in. In the entry hall behind him, a hanging fern swayed, fronds rustling.

He took a seat in the hall floor, and the
hekura
submerged. For it respected treachery, above all things.

Gentle Tony, meek and mild.

And when the attack squad showed up on the landing and before his door, Tony gave them the biggest bright-eyed smile he could muster. Plainclothes detectives, uniformed guys, a few shock troops in the lead with AR-15s and bulky tactical vests. All staring down their gun barrels at a smiling childlike man in the lotus position.

“Hi, guys!” he said eagerly, then noted the sole puzzled woman. “And ma’am.”

They would have none of his good cheer. The tide surged in, surrounded him, and he offered no fuss. Next thing he knew, he’d been rolled facedown and somebody had a heavy knee at the base of his skull, and the floor didn’t taste all that great. His arms became pretzels, his wrists home to a pair of handcuffs. The really inconvenient kind, the bracelets linked by a rigid steel bar instead of a chain.

Once they were secured, one of the tactical guys, built like an NFL linebacker, hauled him to his feet.

“Thank you.”

“Shut up,” the guy said.

And then the policewoman was in his face. Nice-looking, but too serious. A few more years, and worry lines would carve into the smoothness of her dusky skin. He smelled too many cigarettes too.

“You have the right to remain silent,” she said. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law . . .”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tony nodded sheepishly. “So what else is new?”

He watched the world go by from the northbound lanes of Westshore Boulevard. To his left, the silver-gray plains of the bay helped lull him into the proper frame of mind. The language of water.

They had thrown him into the back of a patrol cruiser, one of the bland white sedans with a blue stripe down each side and a municipal shield on each front door. Altogether uncharming. No handles on the inner back doors and a wire mesh, like chain link fence, separating him from the pair of uniforms up front.

“Hey,” Tony piped up. Practically forced to sit on his hands. Undignified. “You guys get very good gas mileage in these things?”

The cop in the passenger seat swiveled around, looking irritated to no end. His trim little moustache twitched indignantly and looked ridiculous on a face much too broad for it. Earlier, Tony had heard the driver call him Alvie.

“What do you care?” Alvie said. “You’ll be lucky to worry about mileage when all you can do is push the gas pedal with a cane.”

The driver chuckled and drummed big hands on the wheel like a snare rimshot.

“Just curious,” Tony said. He was leaning forward, pressing his forehead to the wire mesh. Testing its tensile strength. “I was just sitting here wondering if they were very fuel efficient. How much gas a big caravan of these things burns on the way to a funeral—for, like, cops who
die
in the line of
duty.”

Alvie had been smirking, but smoldering anger wiped it away. He cracked his knuckles. “Better watch your step when we let you out. Be a shame if you slipped and banged your face on the roof—broke your fucking nose.”

Tony leaned back. The wire mesh hadn’t flexed much, but enough to leave him reasonably optimistic. He charted their route to the police station in his mind. They could hang on Westshore all the way up to 1-275, then cut east. A straight shot from there all the way to the station, which was cradled in the crescent formed where the elevated 275 curved to the north.

Soon, however, it appeared that they were taking a less distant route. The convoy of police vehicles veered northeast onto Henderson, which slashed diagonally across the north-south/east-west street grid. Tony began to smile. Henderson linked with Kennedy, which they would probably take until after they’d crossed the Hillsborough River. Then turn north and run him up to the station through downtown.