by Karl Tutt
Chapter Sixteen
The lights flashed their warning, alternating circles of electric blue and red. Pete hadn’t hit the siren. He didn’t want panic. Bart sat in the passenger seat, his hands clutching the console as Pete ran the reds that screamed stop. He even pulled onto the sidewalk a couple of times to streak past the endless traffic. Pedestrians scrambled for their lives as the unmarked forged relentlessly on. Time . . . the thing was time . . . and they had little of it. He wanted to believe Maria Elena was alive, damaged . . . maybe forever . . . but he told himself she was alive . . . at least if Lobo was to be believed. And there was no one alive to dispute that now.
The glow of the small airport was close on the horizon. Pete silently prayed it was the one. They squealed up to the gate. There was a guard, but Bart’s mouth hung open as Pete crashed the unmarked through the barrier and swerved toward a private jet on the runway. A limo was parked nearby, the driver’s door open. As the distance closed, Bart saw two men get out. One of them opened a rear door and a small figure emerged. It was a woman, or maybe a girl . . . but which girl? His beloved Maria Elena or another . . . perhaps a willing guest, or a child about to enter her own private hell. The lights of the police cruiser still screamed their threat, and the tires screeched to a halt just in front of the silvery aircraft.
Pete was out in an instant, his badge held chest high, and his Glock drawn, locked at his side with purpose. Bart followed, the Sig racked and ready. It was a still life for a moment. The two men, the girl . . . motionless like granite statues in a park in the Sunday twilight.
Both men raised their hands over their heads. One clutched a fist full of papers that fluttered in the light breeze.
“A mistake,” he said, “we are diplomats from your friends in China. A trade mission. Please observe.”
He shook the papers, then lowered them slowly and pointed toward Pete.
“Observe,” he said again, “no need for weapons.
Pete was silent and still.
Bart stepped cautiously toward the girl, the Sig pointed in the direction of the guards. He spoke her name. She raised her head and looked at him, still with eyes of glass. She mouthed the word, but there was no sound.
He watched her lips. The word was “Daddy”.
The two men stood rigid, but ready, awaiting instructions. One looked toward the plane. A small Chinese stood in the arc at the entrance to the jet. He bowed, smiled, and spoke just loud enough for all to hear.
“You make a grave error, gentlemen. We are your friends. We have no quarrel. But if you want the girl . . . only, of course, as a gesture of our good intentions . . . she is yours. No worry. We will seek recompense.”
He bowed again, gave a quick wave of dismissal to the guards, and he was gone. The door closed behind him and the jet revved it engines. The plane wove its way around the car and began a smooth taxi toward the runway. The two attendants were in the limo quickly. It pulled back toward the ingress, accelerating slowly.
Bart held the child to his chest. He spoke in Spanish.
“You are safe. No one will hurt you again. Your padre is here. Let your tears sink into my breast.”
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Priss went to the bathroom, the blood trailing down her legs. She knew, but she didn’t want to admit it. She tried to breathe, but it came in gasps, more like a woman choking on something vile and unfathomable. The baby . . . it was lost. She staunched the sanguine flow with a towel, went to her dresser and reached for the cell. She had Don’s private cell number. It was late, but he’d answer.
“I need you . . . Now . . . I’m at the apartment.”
“Twenty minutes,” he said.
He knew Priss too well. She didn’t usually panic, but this time her voice was strained and urgent. He was in the car and at her apartment quickly. He knocked three times and spoke her name. The door was cracked open. When he entered, the sight of Stuart’s lifeless body leaped out at him. He drew his weapon, stepped over to it cautiously and put his fingers to the carotid. The man was very dead. The pool of gore on the carpet framed him in a misshapen and malevolent circle. She stood at the door to the bedroom, her face a mask, yellow and waxen. Broken glass was everywhere and the wine bottle lay on the floor, the blood already crusty in places. Then he did something he never thought he’d have to do. He put his arm around her shoulders and held her while she shook.
“I gotta know what happened,” he said quietly, “then we need to get you somewhere safe, and clean this shit up.”
She began the story. The brown uniform, her lousy judgement, and the violence that followed. Don didn’t ask any questions. He could guess the parts she’d left out. He looked into her eyes and took her again by the shoulders.
“Clear case of self-defense,” he whispered. Then he palmed his cell and dialed quickly. Before the homicide dicks got there, she cleaned her thighs, secured a Kotex, and slipped on a pair of jeans with a green Dolphins t-shirt. They asked a few questions, but Don had already told them what was obvious. In a half-hour, she was in his car. He took her to his place and gave her a Xanax, which she washed down with a shot of bourbon. Then he tucked her into his bed and got a blanket from the closet. He settled onto the couch, and listened for a while. She sobbed for few minutes, then made no more sound. But even in the silence, he didn’t sleep much.
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Macelli’s DNA was a perfect match for the physical evidence recovered from Madison Elson’s apartment. Exactly six cops had seen his body at Priss’s apartment, and the autopsy report filtered down to way too many on the force. There were whispers at the water cooler, and in the locker room, but no one said a word to Detective Priss Maybry. The newspapers got part of the tale, but important details were left out. Most cops knew enough to honor an unwritten code. After all, they were a team, and these days a lot of them felt they patrolled with targets on their backs. If they didn’t stick together, they were all fucked. Besides, this wasn’t the kind of publicity that anyone needed. If you wanted to keep your job, you’d better understand that.
Macelli was linked to at least three other sexual assaults that had occurred over the past year. Two of them were able to give positive identifications after viewing the grisly photos of the corpse. The M.O. in all of the cases matched. It was a win. The bastard was dead and the women of Miami were safe, at least until the next pervert crawled out from under his own filthy rock.
Dr. Page had examined Priss. She knew . . . but patient privilege was a vow she took very seriously. Fortunately, Priss wasn’t damaged . . . at least not physically. The rest was beyond the Doctor’s control. She suggested counseling, but she didn’t think Priss was listening.
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Kids are tough, and Maria Elena wasn’t an exception. Bart went back to the Bebida Mexicano. Pedro hadn’t skimmed that much and the regulars were glad to see their old compadre. Pepe had indeed been safe with his grandmother. There were still nights when Bart heard his girl child toss and moan in the night, but her body was still sacred, just as her mother would have wished.
In the daylight, she laughed, and bathed in the distractions of a young teenaged girl working her way toward womanhood. The nuns at her Catholic school cherished her, and the boys were all at attention. She was healing.
Lobo’s chair wasn’t vacant for long. Mig was good, but wasn’t missed. There was a replacement all too quick and all too easily. Business went on, and it thrived. Meanwhile Priss, Pete, and Don kept their mouths shut and their eyes open. Maybe next time their luck would be just a little more timely . . . and a little better.
“One tough bitch . . .” that was the take on the force. Maybe so, but in the dark pit of the night . . . when the sweats began, and the nightmares rolled on endless reels, Priss wasn’t so sure.
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