by K Elliott
Hands tied behind his back, Art rolled over on his back and looked up at Echo. “Why am I tied up like this?” “Shhh.” Echo kept watching Tombstone. “This is my favorite part.”
Without much choice, Art waited for the scene to be over.
A minute later Echo sat up on the couch and faced the man. “You’re a big, strong muthafucka for a white boy, like you’re a product of incest. Your fuckin parents related?”
“Why am I all tied up?” I was about to leave when you and your friend showed up and attacked me.”
“Most people that get knocked out don’t remember shit when they wake up.” You remember trying to break my goddam back? I took two Motrins, but if they don’t kick in soon I might overdose your ass with fifteen bullets.”
“I was just defending myself. What do you guys want with me?”
“Well, I just got a call from my partner. He told me to make sure you never fuck with Sheree again. How do you suggest I do that? I was gonna wait till it gets dark, stop your stupid ass from breathing, wrap you in a bedspread, and carry you to the trunk.”
“If you let me go, I’ll leave and never come back. I don’t want to hurt Sheree; I was paid to rough her up.”
“Stay here. I’ll be right back.” Echo went to the kitchen, retrieved a butcher’s knife and returned. He took a knee to the floor, next to Art, and showed him the knife. “I’ll make a deal with you. Answer a few questions correctly and I’ll let you leave, but you better not come back fuckin with Sheree.”
“You have my word on that. Never.”
“If you hesitate, lie, or can’t answer a question then the deal is off. Understand?”
“I-I- What if I truly don’t know the answer?”
“You better make your opinion sound awful damn good. Ready? Who do you work for and where the fuck would he be right now?”
“I work for James Westmore and he’s only known as Radar. Right now he’s probably at his office in Anaheim. You can call and check. It’s the Frontier Sporting Goods store.”
“Next question. Who the fuck robbed Tibet7u a couple weeks ago?”
Art hesitated, contemplated, then realized he’d broken one of the man’s rules. “Uh, name, that sounds something like Mag Whiskers would do.” “A woman?”
“No. His name is Magore; Mag is what everybody calls him.”
“White guy?”
“No. He’s a black guy with only a few guys in his crew or gang.”
Echo raised the knife over Art then plunged it deep into the man’s chest. “You expect me to believe a black woman named her son Magore?”
6
Echo was tired now. He was sitting behind the wheel of Art’s Lincoln Town Car, and Art was in the trunk, wrapped in a couple of comforters as promised. Echo
had pulled up Sheree’s living room carpet, cut it into forty-seven rectangular pieces, chunked them al in the backseat area. He still wore clear latex gloves as he waited in the parking lot. Carrying the dead man had aggravated the muscle in his back, and cutting up the carpet had him drenched in sweat. He had been on the phone with Brian thirty minutes ago and was now waiting for him to arrive.
It was nearly 10 p.m. when Echo saw Sheree’s Mercedes return, followed by a black Yukon. He got out of the Town Car and met the Yukon, stopping Brian before he could park. At the driver’s window Echo said, “Art is in the trunk of his Lincoln. I vacuumed him for fibers and took her carpet.”
“You carried that big muthafucka by yourself?”
Echo said, “Nah, I got help from a few neighbors. What do you think? I’mma drive to Radar’s house and knock his ass off now. Teresa gave me his address.”
“Slow down, man. You’re not driving all over the place with a murder case in the trunk. We’ll get Radar later. Let’s get that Lincoln out of view somewhere in Apple Valley or Victorville, wet Art’s ass down, and strike a match.”
“Well let’s get moving. I can’t wait to reach the hotel, shower, and relax my fuckin back.”
“I’m leaving this truck here until tomorrow. Follow me in the rental.”
Echo said, “You just bought the truck; why not take it?”
“Three assault rifles, three nice handguns, three grenades, three silencers, three sets of cuffs. Man, I got a bunch of shit in this trunk. Clips, ammo, infrared scoped—” “What the fuck you got going on with your sets of threes?”
Brian shrugged. “Don’t ask me. That’s how Sheree’s connection does his package deals. I got everything for twelve grand. Got the truck from another one of her connections, seven grand, and it ain’t even stolen. I gave Sheree five grand and told her I would get fifty more grand to her tomorrow.”
“What! She got good head like that?” Echo said.
“She can help me find the Tibetzu robbers. Once you and I get things squared away at the storage unit, we can get started on the Romanski case.” Echo nodded and walked away. He had gotten himself very familiar with the Romanski case files and thought they could solve it easily.
Brian parked the Yukon next to Sheree’s car. He thought about something then used his cell phone to call Sheree. When she answered he said, “Lock your door. We’re not coming in.”
“Okay. Thanks for letting me know.”
“You alright?”
“I am. I don’t expect to get much sleep but I’m good.”
Brian said, “How would you like to change jobs and make much more money?” “Doing what?”
He stared at her living room window. “I’ll explain it later. Try to get some rest.”
7
The next day, after other important things had been taken care of, Echo pulled up at the home of Mary Romanski in Santa Paula, California. The neighborhood suggested that the families here were barely making it.
Echo reached the front door and knocked. He wore a beige suit with no tie. Echo looked down at his brown dress shoes then checked his watch 5:52 p.m. Shortly he heard footsteps.
A young white girl opened the door but an adult woman was standing behind her and said, “How can I help you?”
“Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m Private Investigator Louis Raymond.” He displayed credentials to prove it. “Is Mrs. Mary Romanski in?” “I’m Mary. What is this about?”
Echo said, “I’d like to ask you some questions about Sylvia Romanski, your daughter.”
Mary grabbed the shoulders of the young girl and told her, “Go to your room and help your sister with her homework. Let me talk to this young man.” When the girl left, Mary said, “That’s Sylvia’s oldest daughter. She’s eleven. Come on in.”
Echo entered the house and saw table ornaments, family photos, cheap furniture, and even a floor-model television. He’s certain that the TV has stopped working many years ago. Judging from the various items, decorating the top of the TV, he concluded that it was just a big-ass stand.
Mary closed the door. “Have a seat. Would you like something to drink?”
“No, ma’am. Thank you.” Echo sat on a couch and removed a digital recorder from his inner coat pocket. Mary sat across from him in a worn armchair that did not match the other pieces of furniture.
“Mrs. Romanski, I believe I can find out who killed your daughter but I gotta get some important information from you.”
“Well I’ll answer what I can. My daughter was killed in her house eight years ago. It seemed like the police stop investigating after a few months, not even a year. I hope you’re not here to do the same thing.”
“I’m not here to waste your time or mine.” He placed the recorder on her coffee table. “Mitch Novelle was the main suspect in this case. He’s the father of her youngest daughter, right?”
“That’s right. I know he killed my daughter, raped and strangled her like she was trash. The cops knew it too, but they wouldn’t do anything about it.”
“Worn, I’ve studied the case file for the past two weeks. There was semen from two different men found in your daughter, and evidence of rape was inconclusive.” “Inconclusive
don’t mean it didn’t happen.”
“Yes, ma’am, but it don’t mean it did. The police don’t know who the other semen belongs to, but since Mitch was seeing Sylvia and had a child with her, his semen inside her don’t automatically make him the killer.”
Mary said, “It does when Sylvia stopped seeing him a few days before she was killed. She told me she didn’t want to have nothing to do with Mitch anymore after she caught him in bed with two other women. So why would she have sex with him two or three days later?”
Echo nodded, “I don’t know, but I can promise you I’ll make Mitch answer that.” He straightened his back a little and said, “Who was Sylvia’s best friend?” Can you think of anyone who she would share secrets with? Somebody her age who she could trust.”
Mary bit and held a part of her bottom lip as she reflected. “Candi, a girl named Candi who lived here in Santa Paula. I don’t rightly remember her last name, but she was working at Korvine’s Jewelry in the mal here.”
Echo hadn’t seen the name Candi anywhere in the files. Whatever the case, she wouldn’t still be working at a no-name brand jewelry story eight years later. “So they were best friends?”
“Sylvia wasn’t the type to hang out with lots of girls, but Candi’s name came up every once in a while. I never met her, though, and I don’t think she even attended the funeral.”
8
Mitch Novelle was now living in the small city of Maricopa, California. Population: maybe 1,500. Today, though, like most of his days, he’d been fishing in the
Santa Barbara Channel between the cities of Ventura and Carpinteria. He was loading his fishing tools and accessories inside the cargo area of a Chevy Blazer when Brian tapped the hood.
“Good morning, Mr. Novele.” He walked to the rear of the vehicle and displayed some credentials. “FBI Special Agent Richard Gaston.” “FBI, huh?” He pushed a cooler filled with fish aside to make room for another bucketful. “What can I help you with?”
“Two, maybe three days before Sylvia Romanski was killed, I understand she caught you in bed with two other women.” Mitch smiled. “Sounds to me like you been talking to her mother. That ain’t true; I never in my life been that lucky.”
“Then why would she tell her mother something like that?”
Mitch wiped his hands on his pants then leaned against the truck. “She never told her mother that. Mary made al that shit up after she learned that her daughter was cheating on me. The sperm don’t lie.”
Brian thought the man was too calm, unaffected by the presence of an FBI agent after all these years. “Sylvia was strangled with a thin cable or wire of some sort. That seems to me to be a vengeful way to kill a woman. Maybe you found out that she was cheating on you. Maybe you wanted to scare her for that and took it too far.”
He shook his head. “Didn’t happen. Look, I don’t mean to speak il of the dead, especially about the mother of my child, but Sylvia was nothing but a whore. I just hate that I had to find out about all of her affairs after she died. I was no different from her other man; I was just the biggest fool.” He dug inside a different cooler. “You want a beer?”
Brian smiled. “No, thanks.” It was the first time he’d met a suspect who wasn’t trying to avoid him.
“Look, Mr. Gaston, I know you probably hear this all the time, but I hope you catch the bastard that killed Sylvia. No matter what she did with her personal life, she didn’t deserve to die.”
Brian looked around and saw a few other fishermen far off. “Her mother says you haven’t done anything for your child—haven’t even stopped by to see her since Sylvia was killed.”
“Now that much is true. But the fact is, I’m not sure the young one is even my kid.” “A DNA test would solve all of that.”
“To be honest, I really don’t want the kid to be mine. I’m just being honest here. If she’s mine I would do for her, maybe even fight for custody. But I’m too scared to know the truth, al because I can never forgive her mother.”
Brian didn’t like what he’d heard but he could respect it. “She had a friend named Candi. Know her?”
“Candi Sutherland. I heard she changed her name, got married and moved up north somewhere. I think her husband has a big name in Hollywood.”
9
Savara Prescott was living off-off in her large Burbank home. She answered her door wearing a white Reebok sweat suit and sneakers. She had seen the credentials of the two black men from her peephole. “I’m Mrs. Prescott.”
Brian thought the white woman was way above average in looks. “We’re investigating the murder of Sylvia Romanski” Echo tried to picture Savara without the baggy sweat pants. He wanted to fuck her.
Brian said, “Are you formerly known as Candi Sutherland?”
She smiled then clapped her hands. “It’s about time. No cop has ever spoken to me about Sylvia’s case. You guys must be very good PIs. Come inside, please.” Brian and Echo entered the home and were just as impressed with the inside.
“Tea, lemonade, wine? Beer?”
Echo said, “Lemonade, please.”
Brian said, “Make it two.”
“Have a seat, gentlemen.”
When she left, Brian said, “We just had 64-ounce drinks before we got here. Why are we drinking lemonade?”
“Man, fuck that lemonade. I was trying to see if her ass was jumping when she walked. That white girl looks very lickable.”
Brian smiled. A minute later he and Echo were grabbing drinks from a tray. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She tucked the tray under her right arm, then sat on a velvet love seat with her legs folded under her ass. “I’m Candi Sutherland, but I had a name change less than a year after Sylvia was killed. But you guys already knew that. Any idea why the cops haven’t come to talk to me yet?”
Echo said, “Because cops don’t think they have to look both ways before crossing the street. Why didn’t you go to the cops if you had something to tell them?” “Because I’m a yellow belly, that’s why. Sylvia was murdered by a cop.”
Brian sat up and stared at her. “You got our attention. Don’t stop now.”
“Yeah, so, she was seeing a black cop but he was married with kids. She was always looking for a man with money.”
Brian said, “And she thought a cop was making money?”
“Not exactly. She was trying to set the cop up so she could get a lawsuit against the city. Maybe he found out what she was up to. I don’t know. But she was dead just two days after our phone chat.”
Brian said, “Did you attend the funeral?”
“No way. I was afraid the cops would see me as a close associate and come after me. I hear they protect their own. That’s why I applied for a name change and got the hell out of Santa Paula as soon as I could. I met a nice guy and that helped. He’s an associate producer for Gemstone Films.”
Echo said, “Godsend was hired by an anonymous member of UCASTU. Something tells me you’re the anonymous member.” She smiled. “I figure I owe Sylvia that much.”
Brian said, “So you believe the sperm found inside Sylvia belonged to the father of her children and to the cop?” “Yes and no. Mitch’s sperm was there, but he isn’t the father of her children.”
10
Detective Anthony Freeman, Burglary Division was on his way home now. He’s worked a full eight hours and had stopped at his girlfriend’s place for the past
ninety minutes. It was now time to return to the wife and kids. He was a 34-year-old black man with a secure job in Santa Barbara. He pulled up at the front of a convenience store at 8:06 p.m. He was about to get out of his department issued Chevy Trailblazer, when a black man appeared at his driver’s side window and tapped on it.
Detective Freeman lowered the window.
Echo wore clear latex gloves, blue jeans, a dress shirt, and a black leather jacket. He displayed his credentials and said, “Special Agent Louis Raymond, FBI. Step out of the vehicle, please.”
The dete
ctive was stunned. “What the hell is this about?”
Echo tossed a federal warrant inside the SUV. “Mr. Freeman, you’re under arrest for the murder of Sylvia Romanski.” Detective Freeman’s heart beat was rapid now. He looked at the warrant but could not think.
Echo grabbed the door handle and kept the other hand on the butt of a handgun, which was concealed by his jacket. “Another warrant will be delivered to obtain your DNA.” He opened the door.
“Just give me a minute okay?” He was still looking at the warrant. “Get your ass out of the vehicle, now!”
“Hey, easy, man.” He set the warrant on the dashboard and slowly got out of his truck. When both feet hit the pavement, he used his right elbow to close the door, rushed Echo, and landed a left elbow on the side of his head. Echo hit the ground and Detective Freeman took off running.
Echo was dazed for a second but still managed to draw his gun and fired two wild shots.
A few customers ducked inside the store, others were scrambling for safety at the gas pumps.
The detective ran up to a young white man at Pump 6, aimed a gun at him and said, “Get the fuck back!” Then, he threw himself in the driver’s seat of an Infiniti G37S, but there was a young boy in the front passenger’s seat and the gas pump nozzle was still settled inside the neck of the tank.
Freeman started the car and floored the gas pedal, peeling out of the parking lot, taking the nozzle and part of the pump hose with him. He heard another gunshot as the rear passenger’s window exploded, dumping glass in the backseat of the Infiniti.
The young boy was death-scared. It was nighttime and the downtown Santa Barbara traffic seemed to be approaching too fast. The kid said, “Please let me out, mister.”
Freeman glanced at him, knowing the boy could be no more than nine or ten. “Get yourself out of that seatbelt. If I have to stop for any reason, you better be ready to run.”
