by Karl Tutt
Chapter Fourteen
The Coast Guard guy had called and left a message. Priss pulled the pending file with his phone number out of her drawer. He answered on the first ring. She identified herself, and he began.
“This one was easy, Detective. No ID on them, but their prints came up almost immediately. He was Liam O’Malley, the wife Heather. They were bail jumpers, both from New York. The guy was a well-known plastic surgeon, lots of money, but some very bad habits. They were up to their eyeballs in debt, the Riviera, a chalet in Switzerland, cars, boats . . . you name it. The New York cops and the feds think he was tied in with some criminal organization. He had been arrested, made bail, and disappeared. They were reputed to have connections in Miami. My guess is they were running south, maybe headed for Mexico or South America. They made an unscheduled stop in the Atlantic Ocean. Good thing the fishermen got the bodies before they sank or the sea scavengers got to them. Could have been dumped from boat, but based on the injuries, more likely shoved out of a private plane. The locals are checking all of the small airports . . . anyone who might have filed flight plans around the date of their fall from grace. That’s what I have right now. I’m faxing photos and all of the info to you at your office. Check it out and let me know if anything meshes.”
“Thanks, Captain James. We’ll do what we can and I’ll get back to you.”
Priss thumped the eraser of a chewed-up pencil on her desk. Okay . . . a crooked doc, his wife, connections in Miami. Both quite dead. Someone obviously thought the man might talk, and that person was probably in Miami. She thought about the major cases they’d been investigating. It wasn’t some cheap thug with a nasty habit. They were barely worth the trouble. Private planes meant big money, and ruthless murder was a specialty of the excrement at the top of the criminal chain.
Priss had experienced hunches before and she knew better that to ignore them. El Hombre Invisible. They still didn’t know who he was, but a man like him had juice, and big cojones. Private planes, murder . . . no problemo.
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Stuart was ready. It had already been too long. He was tired of waiting, tired of planning, and tired of jerking off into a dirty napkin. He needed the real thing, and he would have it. He wiped the blade of his knife on a used paper towel. The stainless steel glimmered in the yellow light. He turned it in his hand and eyed it like an old friend. Then he grinned and nodded to himself. It was a coiled snake, “like me,” he thought . . . quick, true, and deadly. This time there would be no witnesses. The cops were too close. He would finish it, and move on to new hunting grounds. Maybe a cooler climate next time where he could enjoy the change of seasons. He loved the fall.
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She was about to leave for the day. Priss was exhausted. Every theory she’d come up with ended in a dead end. Pete and Don had already left for the day. The office was quiet. “The calm before the storm,” she whispered to herself. Everything changed after dark. That’s when the bad guys came out to play. But tonight they’d have to play by themselves. She’d already determined that this was her night. She’d go home, have a glass of cabernet, lounge in a hot tub, and decide.
She looked at the phone on her desk. The sound blared and lights were blinking. It was a transfer. She stared at it for a moment, then picked it up. All she really wanted was that steamy bath and that glass of ruby cab. Sorry, Babe . . . not tonight. She hurried for her unmarked.
The EMTs had already arrived. She flashed her badge and pushed past a pair of uniforms. The stairs felt like mountains. Her legs hurt and her breath came in flashes. She entered the apartment and another uniform tipped his hat and pointed. She noticed the pools of blood on the sofa and the carpet as she moved toward the back bedroom. A forensics guy was on his knees poking at the fresh stains with a silvery probe. Others were already combing the apartment. Prints, bits of hair, anything that might provide DNA.
A woman in light blue was kneeling over the girl. She spoke in quiet, reassuring tones, while the child moaned and shook. Priss stood very still, waiting for the emaciated blond to notice her presence. She didn’t need to be frightened any more that she already was. If the kid went into shock, all of the equations were scrambled. Priss needed her conscious, aware, as rational as possible . . . to assess, to question . . . to find out who had assaulted her . . . . . who had carved crimson scars into that pale flesh, and into a tortured soul that might never find peace on her scorched earth.
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Mig knew he was in a car. Every pothole sledged a spike of pain through his knee. His mind screamed, but still he was drifting. He’d bled before, but not this much. The muscles in his arms felt flabby, useless, and his head bobbled forward and back with every stop at a light or turn at an intersection. He wasn’t sure what he had told them, but if it wasn’t enough, he was certain they would kill him. He could feel the steely barrel of the .40 burrowing into his ribs. Maybe it wasn’t too late for Lobo to come to his rescue, but what then? Would he end up in an oil can, weighted and drilled so it would sink quickly into the blue depths? He’d always tried to see the Patron as a figure of authority, but also a man who valued him. After all, Lobo often referred to Mig as a son. But the big man knew it was a fantasy. He had embraced it because of his need. He was expendable, only a breathing mass of flesh as long as he was useful. If Lobo knew he had led them to him, Mig would join a long line of those who had become liabilities, just like the New York surgeon and his wife. His head fell to his chest. There was the slight trace of comfort in the darkness.
