by Samson Weld
Maybe it’s the heels?
At least the skirt drew their eyes away from her chest, which was a nice change.
“As for lunch,” she continued. “I’m going home to change so you simpletons can concentrate on your work.”
She turned away and strode back to her desk. Unfortunately, the clatter of her heels drew every eye in the room. The detective sat, crossed her legs, and scowled.
I swear, this is the last time I wear a skirt and heels to work.
Picking up her cell, she called Ash again. Why wasn’t he answering?
The report of a fierce gun battle over in Flower Mound had her sitting on pins and needles. That incident had Ash written all over it. He was supposed to lay low and let the police deal with the killers.
Yet, it happened in another city so she didn’t have enough information about whether or not Ash was involved. The fact that he wasn’t answering his phone or returning her calls didn’t help.
“Good morning, Bellucci,” Boone said, making her jump.
“Stop sneaking up on me!” she snapped, and then laughed. “Sorry. Good morning, Boone.”
She noticed him staring down at her lap. By crossing her legs, she’d stretched her skirt’s thin fabric. Bellucci rolled her eyes and uncrossed her legs, wondering if she should break down and go home to change right away. The last thing she wanted was to be a distraction.
“Uh, did that tip pan out last night?” Boone said, suddenly looking anywhere but at her.
Tip? It took a moment for her to remember. An anonymous tip had come in over the weekend. Since she had a court appearance first thing, she hadn’t looked into it yet. Heck, she barely had her computer booted up and coffee in her cup.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I just got in from court. I’m assuming no one else checked into it?”
“Not that I know of,” Boone said. He looked embarrassed. “I’ve been too busy this morning to do so.” Then he brightened up. “But I received good news this morning.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, I have a date for the detective’s exam. Soon I’ll be able to join you guys in Homicide,” Boone announced to the room.
Some cheered, applauded, and slapped him on the back. Bellucci stood and hugged him.
“Congratulations, Boone,” she said. “I think you’ll make a good detective.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I think it was your support that pushed me over the top.”
“Well, I do push a lot of people over the top,” she said, turning to her right. “Isn’t that right, Tucker?”
Laughter filled the room. Tucker turned red, but laughed and gave her the thumbs up. Boone just looked confused.
“When’s the exam?” she asked.
“Next week, I think,” he said. “I haven’t received official paperwork yet.”
Boone returned to his administrative duties, so Bellucci looked into the tip. It was simple and straightforward: Locastro’s Restaurant ran an illegal Saturday night poker game in a room upstairs. It didn’t claim any of the victims gambled there. It didn’t name any possible suspects. All the tip did was reveal the poker game.
Disgruntled player? she wondered. A sore loser?
The tip had come in on the department’s tip line. It wasn’t even about the homicides. Most likely, someone wanted to shut down the game. She only received the tip because Locastro’s was on her watchlist.
Consequently, Bellucci began looking through the victims’ bank and credit card records. Almost all of the home invasion victims had withdrawn cash from ATMs on Fridays and Saturdays. To gamble with?
A few had made even larger cash deposits the following Monday. Then she discovered payments to an online gambling site on one man’s credit card. A little more investigation turned up three others who also gambled online. This could well be the common denominator she’d been searching for all along.
“Very interesting,” she whispered. Looking up, she spotted him. “Boone! Are you available to take a little trip to Locastro’s?”
“I am now,” he said. “Let me get my hat.”
Bellucci drove. The restaurant opened at eleven, so they found it bustling with activity. She found the manager, an Alberto Romany. He proved a short man with a dark complexion and easy smile.
“Good morning, Mr. Romany,” she said. “I have a few questions for you.”
Alberto looked a little put out, but smiled and nodded. “I’m always happy to help our boys in blue.”
She quirked a brow, but spoke before he could amend his comment. “Tell me about the Saturday night poker game. In fact, can we go upstairs and look at the room?”
He looked dumbstruck, before dropping his eyes and rubbing his temples.
“I told him it would come back to bite us in the butt.”
“Him?” she asked.
“Mr. Locastro. The owner, and my father-in-law,” Alberto said with reluctance. “Claude Locastro. He’s out of town right now.”
“Where?” Boone asked.
“The Bahamas, for two weeks.”
Both Bellucci and Boone noted that on their pads. Bellucci then signaled for Alberto to lead the way. He frowned, and then turned away.
They followed him into the kitchen and then through a door. It was a storage room, but with wooden stairs up to the second floor. The converted attic was a nicely appointed room, with four round poker tables and a small wet bar.
A bartender was busy restocking the bar. He was a tall, slim, African-American, looking early twenties, dressed in the white button-down shirt and khaki trousers of the restaurant’s wait staff.
“Who are you?” Bellucci asked.
“Terrance Houseman.”
“Do you ever work up here during the Saturday night poker games?” Boone asked.
Terrance looked at Alberto, who nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ve worked up here every Saturday night for the past eight months.”
“Then you know the players well,” Boone continued. “Any of them give you a bad vibe? Or openly threaten another player?”
“Tempers flare all the time,” Terrance said. “Losing a lot of money brings out the worst in people.”
“Anyone stand out?” Bellucci asked.
Terrance started to speak, but stopped himself. Boone stepped closer, trying to intimidate him despite being a good four inches shorter. The bartender did give him a wary look.
“Who?” Boone demanded. “You were about to tell us a name, but stopped.”
“I don’t want any trouble with Mr. Ogden.”
“Ogden?” Bellucci asked. “First name?”
“Nathan,” Alberto said. “Nathan Ogden has a temper.”
Terrance spoke up, “And he always loses his shirt. The man doesn’t know when to quit. And then he accuses everyone of cheating.”
Bellucci and Boone exchanged a look. Yeah, she was sure they’d found their man. But they still remained to question the two men about the other players. Most were regulars. They knew about the dead players, but didn’t believe Ogden had killed them. They were killed in home invasions after all, right?
Returning to the office, Bellucci pulled up all of the home invasion cases. Every single one had occurred either late Saturday night, or before noon Sunday morning. No cash was found in any of the homes and none of the victims had deposited cash after the game.
“Looks like Mr. Ogden wanted his money back, and then some,” Boone said.
“It does indeed,” she said. She checked the police database. “He doesn’t have any priors. The police have never been called out to his house.”
It only took a little effort to pull up his home phone number. A woman answered on the third ring.
“Hello, this is Detective Bellucci, Dallas Homicide,” she said. “To whom am I speaking?”
She put the phone on speaker so Boone could listen in.
“Laura Ogden,” she said. “Has my husband been arrested? Was he in an accident?”
Bellucci frowned at Boone.
“Wh
y do you ask?”
“You’re the police calling me. Why else would you call?” she said. “Wait, you said homicide. Has Nathan been killed?”
Mrs. Ogden didn’t sound particularly shocked or upset.
“Actually, we just want to ask your husband a few questions,” Bellucci said. “He attends a regular Saturday night poker game. Several of the regulars have been killed and we’re questioning everyone who attends that game.”
“Poker! Son of a bitch,” Mrs. Ogden growled. “I knew he was lying about gambling.”
“So you knew about it?”
“Not specifically about any poker games, but my soon-to-be ex-husband has a problem. A very bad gambling addiction,” she said. “It’s the reason I filed for divorce. He’s lost everything and I can’t live like this.”
“Is your husband a violent man, Mrs. Ogden?” Boone asked.
“Well…” she said, her voice petering out. “He has a very bad temper, but he’s never been violent toward me. Back in college, before we met, Nathan had a reputation for getting into brawls. He’s a big man. A strong man. Hell, he was a star linebacker in college, but excessive concussions and knee injuries kept him out of the NFL.”
His lifelong dream denied? Sounded like a reason to make Mr. Ogden even angrier. Bellucci had dealt with brawlers, and brawl-loving athletes. It was a mindset. She could well imagine such a man taking the leap to a revenge killing.
“You mentioned divorce. Does Mr. Ogden still live at that address?”
“Hell no,” she said. “He has an apartment nearby. Hold on, I’ll get you the address.”
While waiting, Bellucci glanced at Boone. He was staring at her with a pleased look. He’d done a fine job, too. Maybe she should speak to the captain about assigning him as her new partner once he made detective?
Bellucci smiled at him. “I think we found our man, Boone.”
Chapter 39
Pulling into the Hyatt Regency parking lot, Ash found an empty spot and killed the engine. He sat, hands tight on the steering wheel, and tried to rein in his raging emotions. He hadn’t felt anything like that since the first dark days after his wife and children’s murder.
There has to be a good explanation, he thought. There damn sure better be.
He looked up at the ball atop Reunion Tower. Memories of the fun he and Deanna had had with Dale flooded back. It had really seemed like he was finally establishing a good relationship with his brother.
Was it all a lie? Was Dale playing them?
The possibility sickened him. What could make Dale betray him so terribly? And what part had he played in Deanna’s murder? Ash was determined to find out.
Ash steeled himself and went inside.
He found the hotel lobby a study in understated elegance and a sea of calm in a chaotic world. Everyone looked so serene, not a care in the world. Hotel staff smiled and nodded when they made eye contact. He rode the elevator alone up to the twenty-fifth floor. Dale’s room was just three down from the elevator.
He stopped in front of Dale’s door and stared. Try as he might, Ash could not lift his hand up to knock. What if Dale knew Deanna had been marked for death? What if he didn’t care that she died?
What can I do? He’s my brother.
Anyone else and Ash would kill them without a second thought. It’s what he did. The last fight with Osorio flashed before his eyes. He’d told the vicious drug lord who killed his family, “I am the Angel of Death!” Sometimes he genuinely felt that way. And not necessarily in a good way.
To knock was to lose his brother for real. There would be no going back. Yet, how could he have a relationship with Dale if he was involved in that situation? Did his brother understand that Steinberg was trying to kill him? Did he know that he had helped to kill Deanna as well?
Nothing but questions that had haunted Ash all morning. Maybe they’d haunt him to his grave, and beyond. Ash wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Hell, he wasn’t sure he wanted to live.
That last thought sucked the life out of him. Ash’s shoulder’s sagged. Why? Why bother? What was the use? The more he fought, the worse his life became. Even more depressing, he’d dragged the sweetest, most loving woman down to her death. Deanna had died because she loved him.
I’ll lose my brother if I confront Dale, he thought. He let out a bitter laugh. I’ve already lost him.
I’ve lost everything.
Ash turned around and headed for the elevator. He hadn’t felt that emotionally exhausted, that beaten down and defeated, in over five years. Even the fire inside was dead. He felt cold.
He didn’t remember pushing the elevator call button, but the doors opened before him. Men and women stood inside the car, smiling at him expectantly.
“Sir, are you getting in?”
Ash stared back a moment, his eyes dead, empty, and let the doors close without answering. The elevator car left without him.
Instead, he found the stairs. The prospect of being with such happy people was too much to bear. Instead of going down, Ash headed up the stairs. He was only five floors down from the roof. He needed fresh air to clear his head. It just seemed right to go up to the roof.
It wasn’t Ash’s first rooftop visit, but in many ways it was the most impressive. Downtown Dallas was right there. He could see everything. Only the observation deck on top of Reunion Tower had as good a view. He glanced up at the iconic ball. That was the first and last time he and Deanna had enjoyed time with Dale.
“You were living the lie even then, weren’t you?” he muttered, thinking about how gratuitous and personable Dale had been.
Ash walked over to the front of the building, looking down into the parking lot. He found his car parked below. With just a little effort, he could jump off and land on top of it.
It could be over.
I’ve always wanted to fly like Superman, he thought. A sad smile spread across his face. But my superhero name would be Dead Weight. Emphasis on dead.
His eyes kept returning to his car. It would be so easy to jump…
Oddly enough, the thought didn’t cause him any discomfort or distress. No racing heart. No sick stomach or tremors. One step, it was all it took. No dying in a hail of bullets. No pain. Just nothingness.
Squawking to his left pulled his eyes over. A hawk was swooping down on a nest of baby birds. The mother and father birds went after the hawk. Fearlessly. Ruthlessly. They successfully blocked the much larger predator, driving it away. More of the small birds joined the melee. They swarmed around the hawk, which beat a fast retreat empty-handed.
Everything changed. Ash looked up at downtown Dallas. He gazed up at the clear blue sky. Yes, there were a few dark clouds drifting across the sky. There was always darkness somewhere.
But the birds didn’t let that stop them
Even when attacked by the apex predator in the area, those little birds attacked and never gave an inch. They prevailed out of pure determination and grit.
Nothing attacked them and got away with it, no matter how big and powerful. They never gave up.
Is that the meaning of life? Never give up?
A gust of wind pushed him toward the edge. He felt a jolt for the first time. Ash quickly stepped back.
He looked at the small birds, still chasing the hawk.
That’s it. I knew what to do all the time, he thought. Take the fight to them. I have to become the ruthless avenger again.
I have to be the Angel of Death!
Chapter 40
The twenty-fifth floor hallway stretched out to either side. Ash heard nothing but the AC’s quiet hum. Not another sound. The lightning remained muted, not dim but not bright either. Restful. Soothing.
He paused outside Dale’s door. A Do Not Disturb placard hung off the doorknob.
Ash felt anything but soothed. Outwardly, he remained calm. Inside, he seethed. Every slight, every passive-aggressive insult Dale had ever spoken to him returned.
Up close to the door, he heard the muted sounds o
f a sporting event. The TV was tuned to some game or another. Dale was constantly watching sports, watching the games and races he constantly bet on.
Ash covertly looked around. Small, mirrored domes dotted the ceiling. Cameras. Security was watching. He remained calm and knocked on Dale’s door. He had to knock three times before his brother finally opened the door with a what-the-hell expression.
“Can’t you read the…” Dale snarled, but stopped and gawked. “Ash? What are you doing here?”
“Oh, I can read,” Ash said. “But I’m the one who’s disturbed.”
Not waiting for an invitation to enter, Ash pushed past Dale and stormed into the room. It was quite nice, far larger and luxurious than he’d anticipated. A king-sized bed rested against the left wall, the sheets all rumpled. A rugby game was playing on the large HDTV.
“Australian rugby?” Ash asked, doing a double take. Yep, it was an Australian National Rugby League game. “Let me guess, you have money on this game.”
“It’s a sure thing,” Dale said. “My team is already leading and it’s only five minutes into the game.”
Ash picked up the remote and turned up the volume, before pulling up the menu. He picked an action movie and switched over just in time for a loud, violent gun battle. Schwarzenegger was killing people and blowing stuff up. Dale glared at him.
“I never liked rugby,” Ash said. “It’s not violent enough.”
“What is wrong with you?” Dale demanded.
“Deanna’s dead. Murdered,” Ash said, eyes narrowing. The blood drained from his brother’s face and he averted his eyes. “Killed by men Joel Steinberg hired to kill me.”
His brother looked wary for a second, but quickly recovered. He chose to respond with anger.
“So you come over here to harass me? Go talk to the police. Talk to a priest. But leave me alone.”
“Why aren’t you attending your dentist convention?”
“Why are you so concerned about what I’m doing?”
Ash pulled some folded papers out of his pocket. He spread them out on the foot of the bed. Dale watched him, but his eyes kept darting toward the door.
