by Deanna King
“Vice set a sting up over there?”
“We’re working a case over there, Xi, not to bust the girls, but to find out who’s running them. It’s not your usual run-of-the-mill operation, it’s bigger than, say, one pimp running a few girls, and we want the man who’s at the top and is making all the decisions.”
“So, you think this bar is connected to this in some way?”
She bit her bottom lip when she looked over at Jace. “We think so, but can’t confirm, yet. We watched several of the ‘girls’ with the men. It was obvious they were hooking, but we just let it happen. Rick saw at least three different girls go up to this Delvecchio dude, hand him some cash, then he would hand them a napkin. We’re sure it either had a name or a number on it.” A sad looked passed over her face. “How women can stoop to this level has always stymied me. I went to the ladies’ room, hung out in one of the stalls. I saw two of the girls heading that way. These chicks are lunatics, and if they’re dead one day and you’re working their homicide, I won’t be shocked.”
“Why, what were they talking about?” Jack’s ears tingled, and his gut lurched.
Katherine Spark’s lips curled in disgust. “S&M, bondage crap, handcuffs, other scary shit, and they were laughing about it.”
Lucky looked at Jack. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking, that Wolff frequents this place?”
“Remember what I said about him still being into dominants, submissive, bondage, and all the other nasty shit related to that kind of behavior?” Jack’s face went grim.
“I remember.”
“Jack, leave this alone, let Vice handle it. Because, one, it’s what we do, and two, it’s more than just the girls.” Sparky stood up and pushed the chair back. “It’s stuff we need to handle. I came to thank you for getting this crappy bar, the Crystal Barrel, on Vice’s radar, it’s been a tremendous lead, so we got it from here.”
“Spark—” Jack began, but she raised both palms up and stopped him.
“Jack, listen to me, there’s more at stake here. A year’s worth of work for Vice. You getting us involved and giving us this Delvecchio dude was a huge break.” She gave him a hard stare, both hands on her hips. “It’s so much more than hookers, Jack. It’s drugs, and we’re after the big Kahuna. We discussed the possibilities of your Delvecchio being in the top tier. So, leave it alone.” She pushed the chair back against the wall.
“Hell’s bells, Spark, I don’t want to mess up Vice’s work, but you and Rick better damn well keep us abreast of what’s happening. You know what we’re dealing with.” He put both hands flat on his desk, stood up, and stared at her.
“We will, we will. If anything pops, I’ll call you myself, I swear.”
“Thanks, Sparks, I’ll hold you to that.”
“You bet, Jack.” Katherine Sparks waved and went out the door.
“Hey, Jack, think we should get someone to keep tabs on our girl, Sara C. Steel, the new and improved former dead girl, Celeste Mason?” Lucky looked across the desk at him.
Jack drummed his fingers on top of his desk.
“Jack, I asked you if…”
Jack’s hand slapped the desk in a loud thwap, repeating it with the other hand, and then both hands like a drumroll. “I’ve got a damn idea.”
“Well, you want to tell us or are you gonna keep playing the drums on your desk? A simple ‘hey guys, I got an idea’ without all the sound effects would work, pard.”
. . .
At one o’clock, the ADA walked into the station. Jonell Simone was a top-notch attorney, and Houston had done the right thing placing her in the position of ADA. She was tough; she never gave up and never backed away from a tough case. Jack respected her tremendously, even though she had come from the other side. Years ago, Jonell had worked in the public defender’s office, which was not always that friendly with any cops on the force, in any department.
“Good to see you, Jack.”
“You too, Jonell, Are you ready to hear an unbelievable story?”
“I’ve heard ‘em all, Jack, give it your best shot.” Her notebook and pen were on the table, her hand poised above, waiting for him to begin his so-called “unbelievable” story.
He began, and the more he told her, the wider her eyes grew and her jaw dropped open in a shut the front door look, more than once.
“Holy crap, Jack, this is unbelievable. Never in my life would I imagine that Troy Wolff…I mean, I would never have thought him to be that kind of man…you know, that type of sexual lifestyle. That behavior boggles this gal’s mind.”
“Believe me, Jonell, it boggled the shit out of mine.”
“Here’s what you don’t have, Jack. One, there is no eyewitness and two, no proof that the dead girl is this prostitute JoAnn Cutter. Crap, let’s tick this list off, Jack.” She looked at him, and he opened his mouth to speak, but she held up one finger. “Let me talk, I let you, now it’s my turn.”
“Okay, Jonell, talk.”
“We need proof that a hit was ordered for the shooting off Richmond for the attorney and the Bowers man. If the missing prostitute, this Cutter woman, was the only witness, and she is dead, pardon the pun, that’s a dead end. Simpson and Bullard were on the take, but no proof of that. There is also no real proof that Pete Bullard killed his partner’s son, Randy Simpson. I know you said Simpson admits this, but he has dementia. Furthermore, Ian Simpson admits that he executed a man named Scottie Buccella, on the boss’s orders. The missing prostitute is the dead girl and the dead girl, this Mason woman, is not dead. You obtained all this information from a prostitute dying of lung cancer, a Daphne Walden. Problem is we cannot call her in because she died. Xi and Jace get a homicide, caught on camera, and the killer is none other than the dead prostitute’s husband, Harvey Walden. He executes a man named Skip, who happens to be the same man who told the dead hooker, Daphne, the story about Wolff, and what happened that night. And last but not least, your killer on the run, this Harvey man, his real last name is Buccella, and he happens to be related in some way to the guy Scottie, that Ian Simpson executed. Did I cover it all?”
“That about sums it up, I’d say, Jonell.” Jack kept what Vice was working on to himself.
“Jack, this sounds like a complicated drama, I mean, a made-for-the-big-screen movie or one of those who-done-it miniseries. Where’s your proof that the dead girl in the car was this Cutter woman and—”
Jack cut her off. “So now you are up to speed on the actual cases, let me update you on our progress in getting proof.”
Her forehead shot up, he had proof…real proof?
“I’m listening.”
Jack explained their trip to Antone’s and the stakeout on the judge, the fingerprints on the wallet, and the seat belts.
“DNA, huh, you can’t argue with that, or fingerprints, and getting the DNA off that plastic drinking cup was a very smart move. The judge can’t deny he was there and that the cup was his since you have pictures to back up this evidence. But what do you have to match it to, that connects anything to anything?”
“We have the scarves from evidence lockup that were found with the dead girl, Jonell. I had Bennie do a DNA test—you know, touch DNA—Bennie put a rush on the cup for us, and the report should be here by tomorrow. He knows a man who owes him a favor.”
Jonell’s mouth opened, then closed and opened again, but she said nothing. She sat in a state of unbelief. It was so quiet Jack heard his watch ticking, the scene felt frozen, on pause.
As if someone had hit play, Jonell moved and her mouthed opened again, and words came out.
“You say this counter person at Antone’s, uh, Viola, would swear an oath that the judge was there
and she saw him drink out of that cup?”
“She was, and she would testify, I guarantee it.”
“Okay, let’s see.” She tapped her pen on top of her notebook. Find this Mason woman, Jack, then...”
“We did find her, she’s going by a different name, we have a phone number and an address, and…”
“You did?” Jonell interrupted him.
“Yeah, it’s a long story.” He didn’t want to explain the craziness that they had come up with to find her. Who would ever believe they’d done it with an anagram?
“Let’s talk about a few things first. I don’t think there’s much we can do about the Randy Simpson killing. I mean, even if we had real proof, not the ramblings of a dementia-ridden man, it wouldn’t matter, Bullard died, I heard.”
“Yeah, he died last year, and the kid Randy is dead. Leaving that alone is fine by me. Even if we proved that Ian Simpson whacked that Scottie fella, what difference would it make? Simpson’s pretty much at the door of death, and he couldn’t withstand a trial.”
Jonell did a sideways shrug and crinkled her nose on one side in an okay by me indication.
“So, we agree on all that. There is one thing though.”
“What do you mean, one thing?” Jack wondered what he left out.
“I know finding this Mason woman will prove that she’s not dead, but how are you going to prove that the dead girl was the Cutter woman, maybe it isn’t her?”
“Ah, that one thing we have, Jonell. I do have one witness that saw the dead woman and can identify her. Two witnesses saw Troy Wolff in the room that night with the dead hooker. The best news is they aren’t dead.”
“Really?” she asked, giving him a suspicious look. What did Jack West have up his sleeve?
“Uh-huh, and I came up with a plan.” Jack had yet to explain who Max Renner or Jenna Berrie were, how they were involved, and how one of them fit into his plans.
Jonell Simone listened to the idea Jack spun.
“Jack, that might work, I mean, what other shot do you have at a confession?”
“We have zero other ways to do this, but he does have to agree. Renner would be willing to strike a deal, he would like to bypass jail. There is a ‘but’ here.” He stopped to look at her.
“But what, Jack, there’s a ‘but’ here, are you joking?”
“If he gets her to admit to ordering the execution on Richmond, we still have the judge to deal with. Are you up for that and any possible consequences?”
“You’re damn Skippy I am. Houston doesn’t need a man with moral turpitude handing down sentencing or representing our city. Even if it was an accident, Jack, he’s responsible for telling the truth. Christ Almighty, he was a lawyer representing scum just like him and it makes me wonder how much he bent the law back then. Now here he is, a judge, doing God knows what, even now. I feel sorry for his wife and kids, this is going to tear them apart.”
“Then let’s do this and let the dominoes fall. Let’s go see if Max Renner’s here.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“Max, stop fidgeting, I can’t get this taped on if you keep squirming.”
Art was getting exasperated. The big man was squirming, and sweating and the tape wasn’t adhering.
“You sure about this, Detective West, what if she doesn’t tell me anything or she gets suspicious?”
“Relax, sweating isn’t gonna help the wire stay on. Get whatever you can get her to say. Just get her talking, it’s a chance we have to take. The team will be around the corner, if anything starts to go south, we’re on it. Besides, look at you. You’re huge. She’s a tiny woman.”
“Yeah, well, tiny women can hold guns, and I ain’t ready for that.”
When Max said that, Jenna’s eyes bugged out and her hand flew to her mouth. Max heard her audible gasp and turned his head.
“Hey, don’t worry, she ain’t gonna pull a gun on me, she trusts me, you know that, Jenna.”
“There’s bunches of stuff that could go wrong, Sarge, be careful please.”
“Sure, baby, these fellas are gonna watch my back, right, Jack?”
“Absolutely, if we hear anything out of the ordinary we’re busting the doors down.” Jack looked at Jenna, and she studied his face. Not once had Jenna ever trusted a cop, but for some reason she trusted Jack.
“Max, here’s the button, just press it and it will engage the microphone.” Art poked him to get him to pay attention. Max wiped the sweat off his hand and took the small square box.
“Put it in your pocket, my team and I will be in a van around the corner. As soon as you get to the front door push the button, we’ll be able to hear everything.”
“That’s it?” He looked at Art.
“Easy-peasy, my man, that’s it.”
“Jack, we’re going to set the van up, and then we’re headed to the address. When do you expect you’ll be there?” Art Walsworth checked his watch.
“We’ll be twenty minutes behind you, and Art, man, thanks for your help.”
“Don’t know why you’re thanking me, Jack, we’re all on the same team.”
“I guess because you and your team are doing this, no questions asked, and well, you know.”
Art slapped him on the back. “Jack, you’re a strange man. Me and the boys in Tech never know the full story, we do as we’re told.”
Lucky, Xi, and Jace all made comments as Art left. Art got a “Thanks bud, we owe ya, man,” and Jace said, “See ya on the other side.” Art rolled his eyes but smiled.
. . .
The Tech van parked around a corner on a side street, not more than two blocks from the target address.
“Jack, it’s Art, you read me?”
“Yeah, Art, we read you loud and clear. We’re about a mile out on the north side. 7-11 will be coming up from the south end.”
“Roger that.”
Jack drove past the house, did a U-turn, and then he eased the car up and pulled over. He had a clear line of sight to the front of the house. One street led into the neighborhood from the main road; the rest of the streets behind them wove in and out of the neighborhood.
He clicked on his radio. “Art, Lucky, and I are in place. We’re across the street, two houses from the target address.”
“Roger, we’re ready to rock and roll once your man gets here.”
“Guys, this is Jace, we’re northbound on the main street. There’s a short driveway on an empty lot, and from here we can see anyone approaching from both ends of the street. Where’s Sarge?”
“Lucky texted him, he’ll be here in less than ten.”
The clocked ticked, yet time felt like it stood still as they waited.
“Jack, our guy’s coming up the street, he just turned.”
“Copy that, Jace, we see him.”
“You ready, Art?”
“Absolutely, Jack, we’re set to go.”
Jack and Lucky watched as Max Renner pulled his truck up, turned off the engine, cut the lights, and sat there unmoving.
“What’s he waiting for, an invitation?”
“Give him a minute, Lucky. He’s trying to gear up.”
They watched. Max didn’t move. Dawson Luck’s hand was on the car door. “Maybe he needs a pep talk.”
“Wait, he’s getting out.”
“Good thing, I didn’t want to have to try to yank the dude outta his truck.”
“I don’t think that would have been an issue.” Jack turned to look at his partner. “The guy’s a tank, you’re a bicycle, he would crush you.”
Dawson Luck snorted. “Yeah, well, this bicycle packs a mean Glock.”
Max walked up the walk and to the front door, put his hand in his pocket, and pressed the button on the remote. Everyone was listening in now.
“Testing one, two, three,” he whispered into the air, and then glanced back at Jack’s car. Jack gave him the thumbs-up. He was ready and Jack knew Art was already recording.
Max rang the doorbell; Jack and Lucky ducked once the front door opened.
“Sarge?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Long time no see, Celeste.”
She stood there looking at him, her eyes suspicious.
“Uh, you gonna let me in or what?”
“Where’s Jenna, she with you?”
“Naw, she’s at home, back in Waller, I’m alone.”
Jack could barely see the woman; Max was so big he was blocking their view.
Jack peeked up and saw her head glance around Max, looking behind him and to the street.
“Stay low, Luck, she’s looking to make sure Max is alone.”
“Fine, Sarge, sure, come in, then you can tell me why in the hell you’re here.”
Sarge walked in, and she closed the door.
“He’s in the house,” Jack reported to all that were listening.
Now it was all up to Max Renner.
“You look good.”
“Thank you, but I’m sure you didn’t come all the way out here to tell me I look good. What are you here for?”
“Are we going to stand in this damn long entryway and talk? Jesus, Celeste, I haven’t’ seen you in what now, almost fifteen years, and this is the welcome I get?”
“Of course, come in by all means, where are my manners.” Her voice was uninviting.
“Look, don’t get an attitude, be polite for once in your life.”
“For once in my life, what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
