“So,” Diaz said. “Where were we?”
“I think I know who killed him.”
“Please. Make my job easy.”
I described the driver of the Mustang, the black-haired thug with the nasal voice.
“This guy have a name?” Diaz said, taking notes.
“I’m sure he does. But I don’t know it.” I gave him the Mustang’s tag number. “And this…” I stood and disappeared into my bedroom, returning with a plastic bag containing the .22 pistol that Eddie had removed from the thug’s ankle holster. “It’s the shooter’s. Not the murder weapon, since I had it before the kid turned up dead, but it’s got a serial number and I bet you can pull some latent prints. Maybe get an ID.”
Diaz’s eyebrows went up. “Why don’t you start at the start and tell me just what the hell is goin’ on?”
* * *
Just what the hell was going on? I had to admit that I didn’t know. But my mind instinctively began cataloging what I did know.
Eddie was into something bad, owed money to the wrong people. Shylock, drug dealer … Probably a bookie, according to his friend Milo. Must have been a lot of money to a very bad or well-connected dude. I knew quite a bit about the bookmaking business from my MBI work on the Juan Alomar sting, but I had never seen anyone get the guillotine for being upside down with his bookie.
I’d seen a few busted thumbs and a shattered kneecap, but it wasn’t good business to whack someone who owed you. You may send a strong message to the rest of your clients, but you’ll never get your money. And any serious outfit—especially a mob-connected crew—knew that they were part of a business and that there were consequences for poor financial performance. It didn’t make sense to kill someone just because he owed.
So, why did they whack him? It was clearly a message hit. But meant for whom?
Me?
I got the box, so presumably, the message was mine.
Correction: Jennifer got the box. I had no illusions that her involvement was a coincidence. Obviously, they wanted me to know that they knew who Jennifer was, where she worked, and that they could get to her. Handing her the box to deliver to me was a threat.
Ultimately, they must want something from me. What? In my experience, all these guys ever want is their money. Whatever the marker was, I was pretty sure I couldn’t cover it. They had to know this. They had to know all about my crappy apartment, my anemic checking account, maybe even my new friend Bob, draining down my meager savings to pay for doctors and drugs. I couldn’t cover any serious debt, especially one serious enough to get you shot and decapitated.
Yeah, shot. In addition to the obvious trauma of a missing body, Eddie’s forehead had been ventilated with what looked like a .38-caliber air conditioner. The gunshot probably occurred before the head was severed, administered close range, execution-style. It was my best guess, based on experience and the forensic tech’s obvious search for gunshot residue on the face. If Igor’s headless John Doe was indeed the rest of Eddie Sommerset, it would validate the ME’s hunch that the vic was dead before he lost his noggin.
So, if it could safely be assumed that I was in piss-poor financial condition, and that fact was no secret, why did I get the gruesome message? Setting aside my obvious inability to pay, even on principle alone, why should I inherit Eddie’s debt? I didn’t even know the kid. I had never laid eyes on him before a couple days ago.
What could the wiseguys possibly want from me?
TJ …
Eddie had frantically been trying to reach his cousin for at least several days. It would probably be easy enough for the bad guys to find out my interest in locating TJ. In fact, as I recalled, I first picked up the Mustang tailing me after visiting TJ’s condo.
The most likely scenario was that, knowingly or unknowingly, TJ had inherited Eddie’s debt. But TJ had turned invisible before Eddie could reach him to bail him out. The bad guys figured that Eddie was a liability and, in business parlance, chose to write him off. But the debt stayed on the books. They would still get their money from TJ.
However, to collect, they needed to find TJ, who was conveniently missing. Enter a certain ex-cop with a tumor in his head, who just happened to be looking for him.
Christ, what did I walk into here?
Where the hell was TJ, and why, really, was he missing? Was it because of Eli’s interference in his relationship with Miguel, or did it have something to do with Eddie? Was it both? Something else?
“Mike?” Diaz said, tilting his head at me. “You still with us?”
“Yeah…”
I gave Diaz the whole story, omitting a detail or two regarding the specifics of the standoff on International Drive. I’d broken a few statutes there and wasn’t interested in getting busted. Diaz didn’t press me, but he had to know there was more to it. I appreciated the pass he gave me.
“You got a PI license?” Diaz asked, taking notes, not looking up.
“No. I’m working as a consultant to Global Talent. Their payroll.”
“Cute. But we both know you’re doing PI work. I could stop you.”
“But you won’t.”
“Oh, yeah? Why not?”
“’Cause I’ve got a much better shot at actually finding TJ than you do. I have the background, I’ve done the legwork, and I’ve got contacts who trust me,” I said, thinking of Arlene.
Diaz considered me skeptically. “I’ll let you have a little more rope. Not much. But the deal is you bring me everything you get when you get it. No funny business.”
“Of course. One more thing. I need to respect the request of my client and make sure everything stays quiet. If word gets out that TJ is missing, it could be very bad for him and his business.”
“Sure. Whadda I care?” He pulled his stocky frame up from the chair. “But, like I said, any funny business and I’ll go on TV myself and put up TJ’s picture asking the public to call us with any information about his whereabouts. Do not mess with me.”
“I get the message.”
Jennifer’s door opened and Crowley stepped out. “We’re done,” she said.
Diaz nodded and they both placed business cards on the kitchen counter. Diaz assured me he’d be in touch. When the front door finally clicked closed, I turned back and looked at Jennifer. She leaned against her doorframe, physically and emotionally exhausted. She no longer appeared upset, just drained.
“You alright?” I asked.
“Yeah.… It’s just so awful.”
I took a step toward her. “I know.”
Her eyes pleaded with me. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” I said, taking another step. “The cops’ll figure it out.”
“Was he really TJ’s cousin?”
“Afraid so.” Another step. “I’m gonna keep looking for TJ.”
“Can’t you tell me what this is all about? What TJ has to do with it?”
“Not yet.” I was right next to her now. We froze there for a long moment, not moving, finding some semblance of strained comfort in our physical proximity.
“It’s just so awful,” she repeated.
“I know.” I reached out to her. She leaned into me and accepted the embrace, closing her eyes, and resting her head against my chest.
We stood like that for several minutes, not speaking, the only noise in the apartment our soft breathing. I felt her ribs rise and fall against mine as she inhaled and exhaled. Soon, the rhythm of our breathing synchronized, and we almost sounded like one person.
CHAPTER 21
When Jennifer retired for the night, I stayed up, making calls. The first was to Arlene Sommerset. She was upset about Eddie but not completely unprepared.
“We figured something like this was going to happen eventually,” she said. “God, poor Carol.”
“Listen,” I said. “I found TJ, sort of. I think I talked to him last night in an online chat room.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah. But it didn’t go very well. He kinda hun
g up on me and I’m worried.”
“I still haven’t heard from him,” she said.
“Keep trying to reach him. I’ve got a bad feeling that he has something to do with Eddie’s problems and that’s why I got the package today.”
“No … not TJ.”
“I dunno. I hope you’re right. I’m still worried that TJ may harm himself, especially after last night. But now I’m even more worried that someone else may harm him first.”
“The same people who killed Eddie?”
“Yeah. This is serious, Arlene. Serious as it gets. Get in touch with TJ and send him straight to the cops. He needs to get inside as soon as possible.”
“Oh my God…”
The next call was to George Neuheisel at home.
“Jesus, Mikey, the cops? Did you have to call the cops?”
This, from a guy who not that long ago was a cop himself. “Uh, they sent me his head in a box, George. I couldn’t exactly chuck it in the Dumpster.”
“Yeah, alright. Yeah.” I could actually hear him pinching the bridge of his nose. “What about reporters?”
“None yet.” That was a surprise. It wasn’t that often that a random head showed up in a box. The buzzards would soon start circling.
“Christ, don’t tell ’em anything.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m some rookie on a beat.”
“Sorry. It’s just the tour. Y’know, and Eli. There’s a lotta pressure here. Once the press learns it’s TJ’s cousin, they’ll be all over us. We gotta find him.”
“Look, George, there’s a chance TJ’s mixed up in whatever got his cousin iced. I think that’s why they sent me his head. They know I’m lookin’ for him.”
“Jesus…”
“If TJ’s mixed up in it, the publicity will be ten times worse than the other stuff Eli’s afraid will get out.”
“What other stuff?” George asked.
“Just tell Eli. He’ll know.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I gotta go, George.”
“Wait, Mike. Tell me—”
Click. I hung up.
Next I called Becky in North Carolina. I didn’t have the number at Wayne’s vacation house, so I tried her cell phone. She must have had it off because her voice mail picked right up. I left her a message to call me as soon as she could.
It would be best for Jennifer to remove herself from my general vicinity for a while. It concerned me that she was chosen to deliver Eddie’s head. I didn’t like the implication. I wanted Becky to return and watch her or make arrangements to send Jennifer up north.
I called TJ’s cell phone again, figuring that it was another futile attempt to reach him. It was. His voice mail message came on.
“TJ, it’s Mike Garrity again. Call me back, please. Something terrible has happened to your cousin Eddie and I’m afraid you may not be safe. If you don’t want to call me, call your mom. This is not a scam.” I left my number. Again.
I took the nighttime dose of my new antiseizure pills and lay down on top of my bed. I closed my eyes and waited for the dizziness. I had made the unhappy discovery that the main side effect of the new meds was a rolling dizziness that made me feel as if I were on the deck of an Alaskan fishing schooner. It wasn’t bad enough to make me puke—yet—but it was extremely disorienting.
When Bob feels neglected, he throws a tantrum to get noticed. I believe he was jealous of my case, of Jennifer, of everything happening in my life at the moment that wasn’t directly related to him. I’m convinced that’s why the seizures started.
To keep him at bay, I wanted to lie quietly on the bed and spend some quality time, just me and Bob. Pay him some attention.
But that wasn’t going to happen.
My apartment phone rang loudly on the nightstand, shattering the silence. The clock read 11:38 p.m. Like all cops, my home number was unlisted. Maybe it was Becky calling me back. I reached for the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Mike,” said a nasal male voice. “Busy night?”
“You could say.”
“You know who this is?”
“Yeah. My friend of a friend.”
“So? You got my money?”
“Look, sport, I don’t know anything about your money. I never even met Eddie Sommerset until the moment I met you. You got the wrong guy.”
“I don’t think so. You find the cousin yet?”
“No. The cousin is gone. I don’t think he’s comin’ back.”
“Wrong answer, Mike. You need to look harder.”
“Why don’t you just tell me exactly what you want? How much did Eddie owe you?”
“It ain’t me he owed.”
“Who?”
“A friend.”
“Who?” I said again, the anger straining my voice.
“You don’t need to worry ’bout that. You just need to find the cousin.”
“I thought all you wanted was your money.”
“Now you’re gettin’ it, smart guy.”
“This is bullshit!” I barked. “Fuck you and fuck your friend. You stay away from me and my daughter or I swear I’ll empty a whole clip into your ear. In case you haven’t heard, I got terminal cancer. I got nothin’ to lose.”
“Wrong, Mike. You got plenty to lose.”
And then he was gone, his nasal voice replaced by a click and a dial tone. I slammed the phone down onto the cradle, eliciting a reflexive ding. Pacing around the room a few times got my blood pressure out of the red zone but accelerated my dizziness. I lowered myself back onto the bed before I toppled over.
I found Detective Diaz’s card and called him, giving him the gist of my conversation. He’d pull the last incoming number to my home phone, but I suspected it would be an anonymous pay phone in a parking lot somewhere. I had a feeling I was dealing with a pro here. I even suspected that the clumsy tailing by the Mustang was on purpose, making his presence known, starting the intimidation.
Before he hung up, Diaz told me that the Mustang’s license tag was registered to a stolen Toyota Camry from Delray Beach. The serial number on the .22 pistol also came back as reported stolen. Both dead ends. They did lift some latent prints from the gun. A few, as they expected, were from Eddie, when he took it from the holster. But some others were on there, too, mostly partials, none pristine. They were running the prints through AFIS, but with only partials to work with, it might be a while before they got a hit, if at all.
Diaz also confirmed that it looked 99 percent likely that Igor’s stiff belonged to Eddie’s head. Let the jurisdictional politics begin.
* * *
“You might as well come back,” said Big Jim Dupree, leaning on the hood of his unmarked OPD cruiser. “Hell, you’re doin’ police work anyway.”
“I take it that you heard,” I said, stepping off the bottom stair of my apartment building. As I walked over to him, I sipped scalding black coffee from a travel mug.
“Hell, yeah, I heard. I heard all about it. Joey V’s gonna come see you, too.”
“Great.” Joe Vincent, the primary for Igor’s body.
“Damn, G. What you doin’ gettin’ mixed up in big-time trouble? You promised me this was straight up.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. At the time I told you that, I thought it was. But this case is an onion. Every time I peel back another layer, it stinks a little more.”
“You got to get your damn self out.”
“Workin’ on it. Soon.”
“Soon ain’t soon enough.”
I leaned next to him on the fender of the cruiser. Sipped my coffee. Looked out at the parking lot.
“You really find the boy’s head in a box?” Jim said.
“Oh, yeah.”
“Damn. That ain’t cool.” Jim scratched the back of his neck, going at it like it was covered in mosquito bites.
“Yeah,” I said.
I took another sip and bid Jim farewell. I was dizzy again, probably too dizzy to drive, but there
was no way I was sitting home on my ass. I’d called Cam early this morning—too early, since I’d woken her up, but Bob didn’t feel like sleeping in—and arranged to meet her at a Starbucks on Kirkman Road before she made her rounds of the west side’s doctors’ offices.
As I left the apartment, I made Jennifer promise to keep the door locked and not to leave without calling me first. I didn’t get any argument. She was a smart kid.
I pulled up to a red light and sipped more of my coffee. Nothing like a cup of coffee on my way to get a cup of coffee. The truck radio was off but I heard an odd, electronic chirp. Chirp-chirp. I furrowed my brow and looked around the cab. The chirp sounded again.
What the hell was that?
Chirp-chirp. It was coming from somewhere inside the truck. I poked stupidly at the radio knobs. Chirp-chirp. I leaned down and peered under my seat. There was some loose change and a few petrified french fries, but nothing that would be making the noise. Chirp-chirp.
Honk!
I jerked up to see a green light overhead and the traffic next to me rolling. Reflexively, I glanced in the mirror and saw an agitated commuter gripping his leather-wrapped Infiniti steering wheel.
I pulled through the light and spotted the Starbucks on the corner up ahead. Chirp-chirp. Damn! Where was that coming from? I turned the truck into the parking lot, pulling up next to Cam’s black Porsche Boxster. The pharmaceutical sales biz had been good this year.
Cam spotted me through the window and nodded at me with her chin. I cut the truck’s engine and paused, waiting to see if the chirping continued with the power off. Silence for a few seconds before—chirp-chirp.
I muttered a few choice swear words before stepping out.
“So? What’s up?” Cam said, shaking cinnamon powder on a vanilla latte.
“I need a favor.”
“Okay.” We found a seat at a corner table.
“Can you watch Jennifer for a while? Until Becky comes back.”
“Uh-oh. What happened? You didn’t go through her purse again?”
“No, nothing like that.” I told her about the package last night and my concern for Jennifer’s safety.
“Of course,” Cam said, her thoughts turning inward. “Of course.”
“I’ll talk to her today and arrange it.”
Head Games Page 16
