The Book With No Name (10 page)

The last week had been a very testing time for Scraggs and his team because of all the grisly murders that had taken place, and today was no exception. The kitchen was a foul mess. As well as the blood, which looked as though it had been sprayed around with a garden hose, there were pots, pans and all manner of broken dishes and cutlery scattered over the floor and on the work surfaces. Thomas and Audrey Garcia had either put up one hell of a fight, or whoever killed them had trashed the place in the hope of finding something valuable.

The medical examiner had already been and gone, but an ambulance crew was also on hand, waiting just outside the front porch for someone to give them the nod so they could cover the bodies and ship them out. Somers duly gave them that nod and they sprang into action.

‘Who was the first man on the scene?’ Somers asked aloud as the medics hurried past him.

‘That would be me,’ replied Scraggs, walking over to greet Somers with his hand outstretched. ‘Lieutenant Scraggs, sir. I’m in charge here.’

‘Not any more,’ said Somers bluntly. ‘Detective Jensen
and myself will take over from here.’

Scraggs looked understandably peeved and lowered his hand, realizing that Somers was not going to shake it anyway. He knew who Somers was and should have known better than to try for a handshake. The word ‘Asshole!’ formed in his mind, but all he said was, ‘Very well, Somers. As you wish.’

‘Do you have any leads yet?’

‘Yessir. One of my guys took a statement from the brother of one of the victims.’

‘A brother, huh? Anyone we know?’

‘You might know him, sir. It’s Sanchez Garcia, the bar manager at the Tapioca. The dead guy, Thomas Garcia, was his brother.’

Somers pulled a small notebook from the pocket of his overcoat, opened it and extracted a pencil from a loop inside the book.

‘Did he have any ideas who might have done it?’ he asked.

Jensen almost let himself smile. Somers looked and sounded just like Columbo, albeit for only a brief moment. He held the smile back. This obviously wouldn’t be an appropriate time for smirking, especially with Scraggs looking right at him. ‘Said he had no idea who’d want to kill them,’ the Lieutenant replied. He went on, ‘I can tell you this, though: he didn’t think it was anything to do with aliens.’

This was a gibe aimed at Jensen, and one he’d heard before. New town, same crap jokes. Very predictable. Very tiresome.

‘Hey!’ barked Somers. ‘You just answer the fucking questions. Keep your juvenile little comments to yourself. We’ve got two dead here. Innocents, in all likelihood. Your sarcasm won’t help us find who killed them.’

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Damn right you’re sorry.’ Somers obviously commanded respect, and up to this point Jensen still couldn’t see why he was so roundly hated by all the other cops. He watched as the older detective continued: ‘Now, who found the bodies? Was
it Sanchez?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Scraggs. ‘Says he arrived here about eight o’clock this morning. He called nine-eleven straight away.’

‘Eight, you say? And where is he now?’

‘He had to go back to work, get his bar ready for opening time.’

Jensen decided it was time to make his presence felt. It was always important to make an early impression on his first investigation in a new jurisdiction. He added his two bits’ worth: ‘The victims don’t look like they’ve been dead for very long. Did this Sanchez guy see anyone nearby when he arrived? I’d say those two were killed only this morning.’

‘Says he saw nothing.’

It was noticeable that Scraggs didn’t attach a ‘sir’ to the end of his sentence as he answered Jensen. Jensen wasn’t especially bothered about it. He would earn the respect of this lieutenant and the other cops eventually. He always did. Ignoring Scraggs’s surly tone, he asked another question: ‘This is a pretty secluded place, out here. There’s only one road leading in and out. Did you ask Sanchez if he saw anyone going the other way as he drove up to the farmhouse?’

‘Of course we did. And like I just told you, he said he saw nothing.’

‘Okay.’

Maybe it had been a stupid question, but Jensen wasn’t to know how thorough a questioning from the Santa Mondega police force was, and he certainly wasn’t going to take it on trust. He looked over at Somers, who asked, ‘You want to question Sanchez yourself?’

He could probably tell that the newly arrived detective was keen to clarify Sanchez’s statement, and he obviously felt the same. Jensen was just beginning to sense that maybe he was starting to earn a little respect from his older partner. He too had integrity and pride in his work, and Somers was now starting to appreciate that.

‘You wanna come with me?’ Jensen asked.

‘Nah, you go on. I’ll stay with these guys and see what I
can find here, y’know – make sure they don’t miss anything.’ It was obvious that this comment didn’t sit well with the forensic experts, who threw a few hard glances in Somers’s direction. It didn’t bother him, of course. He enjoyed winding them up. ‘Oh, and Jensen – you’ll probably work this out for yourself, but I’ll tell you anyway. Sanchez will lie through his teeth when you question him. He’s not one for cooperating with the police. If I know him like I think I do, he’s probably already got a hitman on the job, looking for the killer or killers, so don’t believe everything he tells you. There’s no more than fifty per cent truth in anything he says.’

Leaving Somers behind to annoy the forensic crew, Jensen made his way back outside. It was a relief to be out of the stink in the kitchen and in fresh air, and for a minute he just stood there, gulping down great lungfuls of the stuff. The ambulance had been backed up to the porch at the front of the house and two of the medics were lifting a stretcher up into the back of it. The larger of the two bodybags was already in the back, laid along one side, and they were now putting what was probably Audrey’s body on board with it. One guy was backing, stooped over, into the ambulance while the other struggled to hold up his end of the stretcher from below. He was blocking Jensen’s exit, and the detective waited for the stretcher to be loaded before tapping the medic on the shoulder.

‘I’ve got to go see a guy called Sanchez Garcia at the Tapioca Bar later. Do you know where it is?’ he asked.

‘Sure. We’re driving past it on the way to the morgue,’ the man replied through gritted teeth as he helped push the stretcher into place. ‘You can follow on behind us if you want.’

‘Thanks, I’ll do that.’ Jensen pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket and held it in front of the man’s face. ‘One other thing. If Sanchez was going to take the law into his own hands, who would he most likely get to do his dirty work?’

The ambulanceman looked at the note for a second, considering whether or not to take it. It didn’t take him long. He
grabbed the note from Jensen’s hand and shoved it in his breast pocket.

‘The only man Sanchez would trust is the King,’ he said.

‘The King?’

‘Yeah. Elvis lives, man. Didn’t you know?’

‘Apparently not.’

Marcus the Weasel was still hungover. Not that he cared too much. He was happily drinking his way through the worst of it. He had fallen on his feet the night before. Robbing Jefe had turned out to be much easier than he had expected. The bounty hunter had slept like a baby all through the mugging that Marcus had performed on him. Of course, it had helped that Marcus had slipped a few drops of date-rape drug in Jefe’s drink. He wouldn’t normally have wasted some of his precious Rohypnol on someone he had no intention of having sex with, but Jefe had been carrying that beautiful blue stone on the chain around his neck. He had hidden it quite well, but the drunker he became, the more often it had become visible to those who look for that sort of thing, and Marcus looked for that sort of thing. As it turned out, too, Jefe was carrying a few thousand dollars in his pockets, so Marcus would be drinking for the next two or three months, and the drinks were all on Jefe.

He had booked himself a fairly nice room at the Santa Mondega International. He didn’t intend to stay there for too long, because of the expense, but just a few days of living a life of luxury would be good. Marcus figured he had earned a lucky break. Dammit, he deserved to spoil himself for a while.

It was almost two o’clock in the afternoon and he still hadn’t opened the curtains. He was just sitting around lazily on the huge king-size bed in the hotel room, still wearing his black leather trousers from the night before, and a string vest that had once been white. The TV was nicely positioned
directly in front of him on the far wall, and his bottle of whisky was conveniently located on the bedside table, right at hand when he wanted to take another swig from it. This was the high life, for sure. It was how Marcus imagined Heaven would be, or at the very least it was how he imagined he would live if he were a king.

He was sitting through the second episode of a
BJ and The Bear
double bill on one of the obscure satellite channels, when there was a gentle knock at the door.

‘Room service,’ a woman’s voice, slightly muffled, called through the woodwork.

‘I didn’t order no room service.’

There was a pause. ‘Well, I’m, like, really the chambermaid. I’ve just come to make the bed and tidy up for you.’

Marcus reached under the pillow at the head of the bed and pulled out his gun. The weapon always stayed under whatever he had for a pillow at night, just in case. And Marcus had been in a particularly paranoid mood the previous evening. He was at his most cautious for fear that Jefe would find him and exact some terrible revenge for the theft of his wallet and, more importantly, of the blue stone.

He climbed off the bed and staggered to the door, realizing for the first time just how much he had drunk the night before. It suddenly dawned on him that he reeked of booze, and that his clothes were due for a wash, but his immediate concern was whoever was at the door claiming to be a chambermaid. When you’ve stolen a wad of cash and a precious stone from someone in Santa Mondega, you’d better watch your back for a few weeks and more.

Covering the door with his pistol, he looked through the spyhole. In the corridor outside he could see a fair-skinned young woman in her early twenties wearing a typical black chambermaid’s outfit with a white apron. She looked harmless enough so he slipped his gun down the back of his leather trousers and opened the door, careful to keep the chain on the latch, just in case.

‘Good afternoon, Mister … Jefe, is it?’ asked the maid,
reading his name from a piece of card in her hand. Marcus remembered he had booked into the hotel the night before using some of the cash from Jefe’s wallet. As identification he must have handed Jefe’s driving licence over to the clerk behind the desk.

‘Yeah, Jefe, that’s me. You wanna come in and tidy up the room, yeah?’

‘Yes please, Mister Jefe, but only if it’s convenient.’

Marcus released the chain on the door and opened it for her.

‘Come on in, sweetcheeks. What’s your name?’

‘Kacy.’ She smiled at him, a real sweet smile, one that could melt a man’s heart. And Marcus’s heart was melting fast. This girl, this hotel maid standing before him, was absolutely gorgeous. It wasn’t that he still had his beer goggles on, this girl was just the sweetest thing he had seen in a long time. She looked like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and she had great hair. The Weasel was a great admirer of women’s hair. Good hair was one of the things high up on his list of the assets that any prospective partner should have. This girl had silky shoulder-length dark hair. Real dark. Most of the guys in Santa Mondega were crazy about blondes because they were so hard to find in these parts, but not Marcus. He’d take a brunette every time.

‘I’ll be in and out in ten minutes … Mister Jefe. You’ll hardly notice I’m here,’ she said with a cheeky smile and what might almost have been a wink.

‘Now lookit here, Kacy, don’t you go feelin’ like you’ve gotta rush yourself outta here. Why don’t you stick around, have a drink with me?’

The chambermaid giggled. It was a high-pitched giggle – a sure sign that she was into Marcus. He could tell these things. Thief’s intuition.