No Place Like Hell (19 page)

He shifted his attention to the first of the bookmakers.

The address Seve had scrawled took him to Ernie's, a dumpy corner bar slumped in a neighborhood of decay. Lighted beer advertisements hung behind fly-blown windows. The door dragged on the concrete as Kasker wrenched it open.
Soulful Strut
played on the jukebox.

The interior reeked of cigarette smoke and grease. Kasker's stomach growled in protest. His mouth was so dry that his lips stuck to his teeth. He couldn't resist the kitchen's siren call.

Kasker grabbed a stool at the bar. A brawny middle-aged Negro sporting a huge Afro stood behind the bar and polished its surface. When he'd finished his cleaning, he walked Kasker's direction.

"Give me a beer," Kasker ordered the barman.

The barman ignored him and walked down the bar to remove the empty glass sitting before a grizzled old drunk who swayed on his stool. Kasker gritted his teeth, opened his wallet, and laid a twenty on the bar.

The barman hoisted a rubber tub of dirty glasses and marched by, headed for the kitchen.

"Give me a beer," Kasker said louder than before. "And a burger."

The barman disappeared around the corner without so much as glancing Kasker's direction.

Kasker shifted on his stool and looked around to see if anyone had noticed the barman's snub.

No more than a dozen patrons occupied the seedy joint, all of them Negroes. All of them had eyes on Kasker.

A group of three hard-looking men lounged by the pool table, their cue sticks rapping against the palms of their hands. They muttered among themselves and nodded Kasker's direction. One made a quiet comment. The other two enjoyed a nasty laugh.

The drunk down the bar returned Kasker's stare, slipped off his stool, and shambled out.

In a dark back corner, four souls watched. They were the real predators. Kasker could tell by their stillness.

The one in the middle had skin so dark he faded into the black upholstery of the booth. Only the glint off his sweating face gave him away. The other three glanced at this man every few seconds, waiting for his command.

The barman returned and swaggered along the bar carrying a tub of clean glasses. As he passed, Kasker leaned forward, snaked out a hand, and grabbed the man's forearm.

"Beer," Kasker said, looking the man hard in the eyes.

The barman turned a haughty look on Kasker. "That'll be ten dollars."

Kasker bristled, but he was desperate. He tapped the twenty.

The barman slid the tub under the bar, fished out a bottle of beer, and plunked it down unopened before Kasker. He snatched the twenty and walked away. He brought Kasker's change and slapped it down on the counter.

"And a burger," Kasker said.

"Kitchen's closed." He swaggered away.

Kasker twisted the top from the bottle and drank half in one go.

The front door opened, and a new patron entered, another Negro. He took a booth near the corner where the bookie held court.

Kasker swigged down the remainder of the beer and turned toward the corner. All eyes followed him as he ambled to the booth. The three thugs slid out and stood like an ebony wall between him and their boss. One had a hand in a baggy pocket, another a hand behind his back.

It would take no more than a moment to abandon the flesh and devour their souls. They would taste so sweet and probably deserved a place in Hell.

If he did, there would be consequences—dire consequences.

"You a little off yo' turf, whitie," the leader said with a sneer. His dark eyes shot daggers.

Consequences
, Kasker reminded himself, wanting more than ever to slip the flesh and teach the soul respect. Despite his restraint, his mouth watered.

"Seve Calderon sent me," Kasker replied, hiding his distaste at being thought to be the demon's errand boy. "You see Alan Mong tonight?"

Invoking the demon's name caused a weakening in the ebony wall. Looks of uncertainty turned on the leader. For his part, their boss sat straighter and lost the sneer.

"Knowin' that suppose'ta make me jump to?"

"Never hurts to have a man like Calderon in your debt," Kasker said, pushing his will at the man, "for example, if you were having a problem with your competition."

The boss's face turned thoughtful. "What's he want with Mong?"

"A job," Kasker lied.

"Good. That cat owes me money. He ain't been in today though. You try his girlfriend?"

It was Kasker's turn to sneer. "Where else does he hang out?"

The bookmaker stiffened. "Don't know, man."

Displeasure rumbled in Kasker's chest. Or perhaps it was only gas from the beer. He stalked out.

Kasker strode to his car and fervently wished he had Mong's blood. All this talking with untrustworthy souls was an inefficient way to hunt. He longed for an exciting chase—one that ended in a tasty meal.

He was glad to see no one had stolen his hubcaps while he'd been inside. As he unlocked the driver's door, two men approached. He recognized one as the new customer who sat near the bookmaker. His companion—a Caucasian—stood out in this neighborhood like nipples on a cold female.

"Hey, bro, wait up," the Negro called.

Kasker tensed. He closed his fist around his keys, keeping one jutting between his fingers, and squared his shoulders. The hackles on his neck bristled.

"I heard you was lookin' for Mong," the Negro said. He was a big man, well-muscled in the upper body, but the beginnings of a beer gut overhung his belt. Dark eyes watched Kasker from an acne-scarred face.

"You know where he is?" Kasker asked.

"What's it worth to you?" the white guy replied. He stood next to his companion, chest puffed out, muscles taut, but the smell of fear rolled off him.

The Negro elbowed his mate hard and gave him an angry look.

"What?" the white guy protested. "We ought to get something for our trouble."

Kasker sauntered around the Mustang's nose and joined the men on the sidewalk. They took an unconscious step back. He drew out his wallet and removed a twenty.

"If you lie to me, I'll come for you," he said looking the white man in the eyes.

The white guy shrank away.

"Hey," the Negro said, "we ain't stupid. We wouldn't lie to Mr. Calderon."

Kasker raised the twenty, holding it near his chest so they were forced to move closer. The Negro reached for the bill but stopped when Kasker lifted his eyebrows.

"He's at a warehouse on Frasier, where it intersects Pomona. They hold dog fights there. On fight nights, Mong keeps the book." He checked his fancy gold wrist watch. "Fights will be over now, but Mong stays late counting the take."

33

My muscles were as taut as high-tension wires. I hadn't shown Dave the map, hadn't told him about my meeting with Mack. It was all I could do to be civil.

We drove through a neighborhood where neither whites nor cops were welcome. Dave insisted we look for the thugs I'd identified. I thought it was a waste of time. We'd tried Jake Bronski's last known address. He'd moved out months ago—without notifying his parole officer.

We were cruising toward Harold Warner's place when I saw the maroon Mustang. Sleeth stood on the sidewalk talking to Warner and Bronski. I slammed on the brakes, veered to the curb, and doused our lights.

"It's Sleeth," I said choking on his name, "talking to the guys who chased Tad."

Dave recovered from my abrupt stop and looked where I pointed. His forehead wrinkled, and the corners of his mouth pulled down. He glanced at me and let out an exasperated sigh.

Warner took something that looked like cash from Sleeth's hand and stuffed it in his pocket. I leaned closer over the wheel and held my breath. My skin crackled with excitement.

Warner and Bronski were Sleeth's accomplices. And we'd just witnessed a payoff. We'd just scored a big win against the bad guys.

Sleeth rounded his car and got in. The two thugs traded looks and stepped back against the building. Their body language shouted triumph.

"Did you see it?" I squeaked. "I told you he had accomplices, and there they are. That was probably their payoff for the Haskell murder. Or maybe it's down payment for kidnapping Sleeth's next victim."

"He could have been repaying a loan," Dave said, his voice flat.

"Bull. Did you see how he was holding the money? He was waiting for something, and he got it."

Sleeth pulled away. Should we stay and question Warner and Bronski? Or should we follow Sleeth? Sleeth was the mastermind, and the one we had hard evidence on.

I shifted into gear, checked my rearview mirror, and pulled out. I cruised by Warner and Bronski. They gave us the eyeball before hurrying away.

"You can't go after him!" Dave said. "Greene will skin you alive. Pull over and we'll question those two."

"We've been had. I think Sleeth paid those guys to kill Haskell while he had us chasing his tail."

I crawled along waiting for Sleeth to get two blocks ahead, and then I followed his retreating lights.

Dave slapped a hand on his forehead. "Based on what evidence? We should question Warner and Bronski about why they were following Newell and tell Mack about their meeting with Sleeth. He can follow up, and we'll stay out of trouble."

"You think he'll follow up on a tip from us? Ha! By the time he sends anyone to check, who knows how many more victims will die." I squeezed the wheel. "Besides, when Sleeth picked us for his alibi, he made it personal."

Dave shook his head. "I thought you were smarter than that."

"You don't think he deliberately lured us into following him so he'd be cleared of killing Haskell?" I said, heat in my words.

"Yeah, and after developing a rock solid alibi, he left his fingerprints at the scene and a bloody shirt in his car. Do those sound like the actions of a crook smart enough to set up an alibi for the time of the murder?"

I glanced at my partner and frowned. "Maybe his accomplices are morons and left the evidence where they shouldn't have."

"Or maybe we're not as smart as we ought to be," Dave shot back.

"What do you mean by that?" I asked.

"Everyone has blinders on. They're so sure it's Sleeth that they aren't thinking about other possibilities. What if there's another explanation? No one will find it because no one's looking."

A new thought popped into my head, and it turned my stomach to ice.

"What if Warner and Bronski were trying to snatch Tad when he ran into the street?"

Dave's face paled in the dim light of the streetlamps. "All the more reason to report this up the command chain. If you're right, Newell should be assigned protection."

"They'll never believe us. Greene will say we're trying to horn in on the Slasher case."

Dave gave me a who's-fault-is-that look. My face warmed. As we neared the edge of our patrol zone, he called dispatch and told them we were on break. I gritted my teeth and focused on following my prey.

Sleeth was headed west toward the industrial district. Maybe he was casing his next ritual site. Or maybe he was on his way to a kill.

Traffic was darn thin in this part of town once the sun went down. He'd spot us if I wasn't careful. Whatever it took, I'd nail the bastard—despite Dave's reservations.

At our next turn, I doused my headlights and dropped back another block while we drove past warehouses and factories. Parking lots stood empty. No one lingered on the streets.

We continued another mile, working ever deeper into the industrial neighborhood that bordered the train tracks. Hot wind kicked up trash in a vacant lot. A crescent moon rose above the skyline.

Dave drummed his fingers on the dash. "This is taking too long. We should call it in and get back to our area."

The Mustang's brake lights flashed, and it swerved to the side of the road. I drove a block closer, hid the cruiser on a side street, and ran to a spot where I could watch our suspect unobserved.

In a second, Dave was at my back. We both peeked down the street.

Sleeth got out and turned a slow circle, head up, as though he were looking for something. At this distance, I couldn't be sure, but I thought his eyes were closed. He walked cautiously to the door, hovered his hand over the handle before grabbing it, and disappeared inside.

"What do you think he's doing in there?" I whispered. "Picking up a drug shipment for Calderon? Or setting up his next ritual?"

"I can't imagine," Dave said. He checked his watch. "The place looks deserted. We need to leave. We're way out of our territory, and we're already overdue back from break. How will we explain to the duty sergeant?"

I trotted back to the patrol car, fished out the map, and shone my flashlight on it. Electricity buzzed up my neck. Two ley lines crossed through our location.

"What's this?" Dave asked, looking over my shoulder.

I tossed the map onto the seat. "He's on his way to his next kill. We have to stop him."