The Burning Season

by Jeff Mariotte

  “I don’t know what your workload is tonight, but I know there are several open cases, so—”

  “Well, I did. And here’s the result.” Hodges handed over the sheet of paper. Ray scanned it, seeing details of fabric type that were essentially meaningless to him. “It’s an upholstery fiber,” Hodges continued. “A unique blend of rayon, nylon, and cotton. I ran it through GC/MS and separated out the chemical structure of the dye, which you can see on the printout I gave you. I also found that it’s been treated with titanium oxide, and a combination of tin and bromide.”

  “That’s a fire retardant,” Ray said, slightly distracted by perusing the details of the gas chromatography/mass spectrometry treatment Hodges described. “What’s the titanium oxide do?”

  “You know how Converse sneakers aren’t shiny, but instead have a kind of matte finish to them?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Same idea. It’s a delustering agent, designed to keep the fabric from being too shiny. Perfect for a place where you want the bodies to stand out, not the chairs.”

  “Like a strip club.”

  “Exactly like a strip club. Fortunately for you, there’s only one in town that uses this specific upholstery fiber treated in this way.”

  “Let me read your mind,” Ray said. “Think about the name.”

  Hodges closed his eyes and wrinkled his brow.

  “Are you thinking about it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And nothing else?”

  “Yes! Just the name. Come on, Ray, this is—”

  “Cougars.”

  “—silly, you can’t—what?”

  “Cougars.”

  Hodges’s mouth dropped open. “That’s right. How did you—?”

  Ray tapped his computer screen. “I’ve been looking for strip clubs in town owned by someone with a Hispanic surname. I’ve only come up with a couple. One is owned by Oswaldo Carrizoza, and an informant told me to look for someone called Oz or Ozzie. Do you know the place?”

  “Only by reputation,” Hodges said. “They specialize in dancers over thirty.”

  “That’s old, for exotic dancers.”

  “Hence the name. I gather the audience is mostly younger men, embracing their older woman fetish.”

  “I’m hardly a younger man, but I guess I’ve got to pay the place a visit.”

  “I could go along,” Hodges volunteered. “In case you need backup.”

  “I remember when you couldn’t stand the idea of going into the field.”

  “People can’t change?”

  “I think I’ll be fine,” Ray said. “Sam Vega’s working on another angle, and I’m sure he’ll be able to meet me there.”

  “Well, just in case, keep me in mind,” Hodges said.

  “Catherine wants you here. But I’ll remember the offer. Thank you.”

  “Sure.” Hodges spun around and started back toward the trace lab. “Sure, I do all the hard stuff, but am I appreciated? I am not.”

  “You’re appreciated, David!” Ray called after him. “Trust me, you’re appreciated.” He reached for the phone to call Vega and muttered, “But you’re not going to any strip clubs tonight.”

  26

  “ABSOLUTELY NOT!”

  Officer Fabrizio was surprised by the vehemence of Justine Marie Taylor’s reaction. His partner, Klein, had informed her that she would be under police protection, and her response almost blew them both out of their shoes. She was not a large woman, but she could really belt it out when she wanted to. They were at the BOOM headquarters, which still had yellow crime scene tape fluttering in a light breeze under the streetlamps.

  “It’s for your own safety, ma’am,” Klein went on. He was trying to reason with a tornado, Fabrizio thought. Pointless. “Especially since the attack on Mr. Watson, we—”

  “Officer, I have a registered, legal SIG Sauer P290 nine-mil in my purse and I know how to use it. I must have told Alec a thousand times that he was a fool for not carrying. I, however, am no fool.”

  “Ms. Taylor,” Klein bravely continued, “Mr. Watson was shot a dozen times with an automatic weapon. Probably something like an AK-47. Your SIG is a good defense against muggers and carjackers, but if someone with an automatic rifle wants to get to you, they can do it from a considerably greater range than you’re likely to be able to shoot the nine.”

  “There’s something you don’t understand, young man,” Taylor said. “This movement that I’m part of is all about personal responsibility. I have nothing against the police force fighting crime, protecting the public safety. Those are activities that a private force can’t do as efficiently or as cost-effectively. But when it comes to defending myself, I am entirely capable, I assure you.”

  Fabrizio had to give it to his partner; he didn’t give up easily. Klein was a dark-haired guy with a lean, compact build, more muscular than he seemed at first glance. He could have been constructed of tightly wound steel bands, and when he unleashed his stored energy it was a sight to see. Fabrizio, by contrast, was laid back; not lazy, exactly, but he seemed to cycle at several hundred RPMs less than Klein did.

  “I’m sure you’re right, Ms. Taylor,” Klein said. “But I’m also sure of something else. We’ve been ordered to stick to you like white on rice, and that’s what we’re going to do. You don’t have to like it. I’m just telling you so you’re not alarmed every time you see a squad car in your rearview.”

  “And I’m telling you, officer, that it’s an abuse of taxpayer money. Which makes it my money. Which means I’ll be calling your captain, your chief, the mayor, and the governor if I have to. I will not stand for this.”

  “I’m afraid the choice isn’t yours, ma’am,” Fabrizio said. Might as well take some of the heat off his partner. “We have our orders. As long as there’s a feud going on between these various groups—and especially now that the feud has drawn real blood—the danger not just to you, but to any member of the general public who happens to get caught in the crossfire, is very real. We’re not taking any chances, so as my partner says, we’ll be there, whether you need us or not.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “Yes, ma’am, we will.”

  She shot them each a look that was at once dismissive and contemptuous. It made Fabrizio wish that she, not Watson, had been the killer’s target earlier, because it made him feel about two feet tall and seven years old. But, paradoxically, it also made him respect her strength. Lady had as much backbone as any cop he had ever known, and then some. He was pretty sure that she was right—if her life was threatened, she’d have that 9mm in play before her attacker knew what was happening, and by the time he and Klein were out of their vehicle, the action would be over.

  If there were a sports book in town that would take the bet, he would put his whole retirement fund on her for the win.

  For a big guy, Brass could move like a ghost. He had a habit of appearing and disappearing at will. Catherine, concentrating on an autopsy report, didn’t notice him standing in the doorway of her office until he spoke. “Catherine.”

  She lowered the report to the desktop. He looked pale, like all his blood had gone to his feet. His arms, more likely; when someone was afraid, their feet really did turn cold, sometimes dropping as much as fifteen degrees in minutes. But the palms and underarms sweated, as if compensating for that temperature fluctuation. “What’s wrong, Jim?”

  “I don’t know if you know Joe Hewitt and Hale Boren,” Brass said.

  “I think I’ve met Boren. He’s a patrol officer, right?”

  Brass leaned against the doorjamb, but out of what looked more like exhaustion than his more typical casual demeanor. “Yeah, they both are, partners out of the South Central Command. I just heard from their commander. Hewitt’s been killed in the line of duty. Boren is in critical condition at Desert Palm.”

  “Oh, God,” Catherine said. “How?”

  “They made a traffic stop. Vehicle ran a red light at high speed. They pursue
d for a few blocks, called in the license plate, and then the vehicle stopped. They approached it.”

  “And?”

  “The vehicle was a new Mercedes sport-utility. High end. South Carolina tags.”

  “Not—”

  “The vehicle is the same one Lou and I saw the Kirklands leaving the Orpheus parking garage in. No way to know if they changed cars or not. Someone opened up on the two officers with an automatic weapon. First responders found brass at the scene, looks like the same size rounds that did Watson.”

  “Didn’t they know about the BOLO?”

  “You know how it is. In the moment, your adrenaline’s racing because you just saw this car rocket through a stoplight. You call in the plate without thinking that it sounds kind of familiar. By the time dispatch tried to warn them, they were already out of their vehicle.”

  “And then it was too late.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “We’ve got to find those guys,” Catherine said.

  “We’re working on it.”

  “I know, Jim. It’s just . . . it’s infuriating.”

  “Tell me about it. Hewitt was supposed to be married next month. Hale’s got two kids, five and eight. If he doesn’t pull through . . .”

  “Why?” Catherine asked.

  “Sorry?”

  “What are these two idiots trying to protect? Their diamond-selling scam? Their little boys’ club? Running around with guns, trying to frighten people into thinking the federal government and local law enforcement are somehow in cahoots to stomp all over their rights? It just doesn’t make any sense.”

  “You nailed it, Cath. It’s about scaring people. If you scare enough people bad enough, you can make them buy whatever you’re selling.”

  “I know we’re the good guys, Jim. But when I hear about things like this, I can’t help wanting to take off my badge and . . . that’s not very ladylike, is it?”

  “It’s human,” Brass said. “And believe me, you wouldn’t be alone.”

  27

  COUGARS WAS A splash of pink and purple neon on an otherwise dark, drab Las Vegas industrial block, miles from the Strip. It looked, from the outside, as if Oswaldo Carrizoza had simply leased or purchased a small industrial building, covered the walls with a coat of paint, and installed enough neon to be visible from deep space.

  The largest sign, thirty feet above the road on a pedestal, showed the outline of a cougar, the big cat, but subtly altered so that its typical sinewy grace also suggested feminine sexuality. Ray was not a devotee of strip clubs, and the sign didn’t necessarily entice him, but he respected the artist’s abilities just the same.

  Sam Vega approached as Ray got out of his car, wincing a little at the necessary bending and twisting involved. Ray got his cane on the ground as Vega reached him. “You okay, Ray?”

  “Fine,” Ray said. “Just a little more tender some days than others, that’s all.”

  “Good, glad to hear it.”

  “Have you been here long?”

  “I just beat you.”

  “Ready to brave it?”

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  Ray could feel the bass thumping through the walls before he even reached the door. Vega got to it first, pulling it wide, and the music blasted out like floodwaters bursting through a sandbank. “I hope we’re not deaf by the time we get out!” Ray shouted.

  A bouncer met them inside, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled back to reveal tattooed arms corded with muscle. His hair was spiked and oily, his eyes small and dull. “Twenty bucks cover, guys!” he said.

  “Not for us!” Vega showed his badge, and Ray revealed his. “We’re looking for Oswaldo Carrizoza!”

  The bouncer offered a shrug. “Hey, I just work the door, I don’t know anybody’s name!”

  “Somebody’s got to sign your paychecks!”

  “Direct deposit!”

  He didn’t block their way, but it didn’t look like he planned to be helpful, either. They went past him, through another doorway, and into the club’s main stage area.

  Here, counter-intuitively, the music was not as loud. Ray supposed it made sense—blast it toward the parking lot to let people know the party they were missing if they weren’t inside yet, but keep it softer where the dancers had to negotiate financial arrangements. The inside smelled like possibly toxic doses of perfume and body spray, and though the stage was spotlit, there were blinking lights and flashing lights and moving lights all over the place. Someone prone to seizures might never make it out. At the back of the room, beyond the main stage, stood a bar. Lights glowed under glass shelves holding hundreds of bottles, and there were two TV sets mounted above the mirror, incongruously showing figure skating on a sports channel.

  Tables surrounded the main stage. In two corners there were smaller stages, unoccupied at the moment. A staircase curved up to a VIP lounge. The men’s restroom was indicated by glowing neon, but if there was a women’s room, it was not similarly marked. Between the main stage and the bar was a hallway, dark except for shimmering lights clinging to the walls and ceiling. That probably led back to the offices and dressing room.

  The main stage was set against a side wall. Mirrors curved around part of it, and there were mirrored panels in the ceiling as well. A woman, nude except for plastic spike-heeled shoes and a fine silver chain around her hips, writhed on the stage, one arm reaching around behind her head to maintain contact with a gold pole, as if it was her only lifeline. Ray could only take the club’s word for it that she was a cougar; she didn’t look older than twenty-five or twenty-six to him.

  He did notice the glitter dusting her body, gleaming every time she moved into the spotlight.

  “You gotta pick a table,” a waitress told them. She wore a tight T-shirt tucked into a belted skirt that almost covered the tops of her thighs. “There’s a two-drink minimum, but I can’t take your order until you’re sitting down.”

  “We don’t want to drink,” Vega told her. He flashed his badge, but in a discreet way, not calling attention to it. “We’re here to see Oswaldo.”

  She gave a subtle nod toward the hallway Ray had noted. “He’s usually in his office, if he’s not out here pawing the hired help.”

  “He doesn’t paw in his office?” Ray asked.

  “He likes an audience.”

  “Thanks,” Vega said. He headed in that direction, but before they had made it halfway there, a half-naked woman lurched toward them, as if she had just strapped on her high heels and hadn’t quite learned to walk in them yet. She had masses of red hair, nothing on her upper torso but a sheer strip of metallic cloth, and a crimson G-string below. She, unlike the one on stage, was definitely cougar material; Ray guessed forty-two or forty-three, at a minimum, even though she snapped her gum like a high school girl.

  “Where you going?” she asked. “Don’t you want a dance? I want to dance for you. Both of you at once, if that’s how you like it. I don’t see many real men in here. Lots of little boys, if you get my meaning.”

  “We’re kind of in a hurry,” Vega said.

  “I can be fast. Real fast.”

  “Not just now, thanks.”

  Ray felt a hand on his leg. He looked down to see a man sitting at one of the tables with two empty beer bottles in front of him. From the looks of him, those had only been the most recent two out of considerably more. “Hey, dude, when a nice lady wants to dance for you, the polite thing is to let her.”

  Ray resisted the impulse to bring his cane down hard on the man’s arm. Instead, he pried the fingers off his pants. “When a man is on official police business,” he explained, “the sensible thing to do is to keep your hands to yourself and leave him alone.”

  “Oh! Oh, I’m, I’m sorry, dude, I’m sorry.”

  “Not a problem, friend,” Ray said. “Enjoy yourself.”

  The man waved his hand in the general direction of the stage. “How could I not?”

  The way finally clear, Ray and Vega made it i
nto the hallway. They met another stripper on her way out, this one dressed in a fetishist’s idea of a Catholic girl’s school uniform, but she didn’t impede their progress. Only when they burst through a door marked NO ADMITTANCE did they encounter an obstacle. Two of them, in fact, with dark hair and burning eyes and fine silk shirts open to the chest to reveal muscle-bound physiques. They shot to their feet, manifesting guns. “You can’t read?” one said. “The girls are the other way.”

  “We’re not here for the ladies,” Ray said.

  “Where’s Carrizoza?” Vega asked. He showed his badge. Ray did likewise. “LVPD.” Vega added, in case the message wasn’t clear.

  A third man rose from a low-slung black leather couch. He was the only one wearing a jacket, and he had a cigar burning in his left hand. He was older than the first two, fifty at least, his sleek black hair shot through with silver strands. “I am Oswaldo Carrizoza,” he said. “Put those away, you idiots.”

  His thugs obeyed. Ray breathed a little easier once the hardware was gone.

  “Welcome to my establishment. I trust it’s to your liking?”

  “It lacks a certain je ne sais quoi,” Ray said. “Oh, wait, class, that’s the word.”

  “Hey, this is one of the finest off-Strip gentleman’s clubs in the city,” Carrizoza said. “Unless maybe girls aren’t your thing.”

  “I like women just fine,” Ray said. “But I prefer conversations that don’t include a price list.”

  “We provide a service. Everything here is on the up-and-up. You might be surprised at our clientele. Cops, DAs, judges, athletes.”

  “I’m sure you have friends in important places,” Ray said. “That’s not pertinent to the conversation we came here to have.”

  “Which is?”

  “It’s come to our attention that somebody’s shaking down undocumented aliens,” Vega said. “It’s also come to our attention that it might be you.”

  “Because I’m Latino and I own a strip club? That’s a stretch, even for cops.”

  “Because evidence was found at the scene of an abduction connecting this club to that scene,” Vega said. “And because a confidential informant pointed us in your direction as soon as we started asking around.”