Raven Rain

by David Stever

  “He’s lying.”

  “We don’t know.”

  “I do. He’s a perverted dirty old man.” She shook her head. “I am not sitting all night at the beach house unless you give me a gun. I’ll shoot him if he comes near me. Give me an instant lesson, right now.”

  “I promise I will take you to the range, and I will give you a gun for tonight. You need to have protection, but please don’t shoot Stan.”

  “No promises.”

  “Did Monica call you?”

  “No, why?”

  “Evans can’t reach her. I tried, too. No luck.”

  Katie tapped Monica’s name on her phone, and it clicked immediately to voice mail. “Should we call Captain Lane?”

  “Not yet. I’ll keep trying. Take your car to the beach, then hide the key in my toolbox. I don’t want to give him a way to escape.”

  She smirked. “I’ll put sleeping pills in his Scotch.”

  “Don’t do that either.” I grabbed her hand. “Thank you. Make sure your phone is charged. Stop for some food on your way out. Call me if you sense anything suspicious. Anything at all. You have your emergency bag of clothes?”

  “Of course.” We got up from the booth. “Johnny?” She hesitated for a second. “Should I be scared?”

  “Probably, but nobody knows about the beach house but you.” I took her hand again. “If you are not up to this, please decide now.”

  “No, I’m fine. I’ll do it.”

  “Okay, come upstairs as soon as you can.”

  The Beretta .22 and shells were on the top shelf of my bedroom closet. I heard Stan stir in the front room as I loaded the gun. If she did shoot him, the small caliber might not kill him, but would definitely scare him, or anyone else. I put it on my dresser and went to the living room.

  “C’mon, Stan. Time to go.”

  He roused from the sofa and helped himself to a beer from the fridge. “What’s the plan?”

  “You and Katie are going to stay hidden away tonight. I am trusting you on the trafficking, but the deal is you keep out of sight. Cool?”

  “Damn, Johnny. What guy wouldn’t want to spend a night hidden away with Blondie?”

  “Let’s set something straight. She has permission to shoot you if you even look at her the wrong way. Keep your distance. Got it?”

  “Hell, yes, I’m only kidding. Why are we doing this again?”

  “Got word about something tonight and I want you tucked away. Out of the line of fire.”

  “Should I be nervous about this?”

  “Very. And give me your phone.”

  “Hell, no.”

  “Hell, yes.” My phone rang. Davis Aviation appeared on the screen. “Be right back.” I stepped out to the balcony and closed the sliding door. “Delarosa.”

  “Bill Davis here, calling to tell you the Beechcraft is back.”

  “Stan’s plane?”

  “Yep. I went out for a bit and when I got back, there it was.”

  “Was that enough time for them to fly to North Carolina and back?”

  “Not really. Must have changed their plans. False alarm, huh?”

  “Appears so. The pilots still around?”

  “Nope, only me and I’m about to lock up.”

  “Well, thanks for the call. I appreciate it.”

  “Anytime. Happy to help.”

  I clicked off. The plane was back—why the change? Something told me to keep that information to myself for the moment. Stan didn’t tell me the truth from the start. He was not honest with me about the phone calls and his involvement with Talia—why should I believe him now about the trafficking?

  Katie and Stan were in the kitchen, discussing football, when I went in. Their conversation seemed normal and civil, so I took it as a positive sign.

  I had her follow me into the bedroom where I demonstrated the gun. “This is a Beretta .22. It is loaded, easy to use—here is the safety. Click it off, point, and squeeze the trigger. If anything would happen, somebody comes out there, make sure you identify your target. I don’t want you to shoot me. And you only shoot as a last resort.”

  “Got it, boss. What about more ammo?”

  “More ammo? If you need more bullets, then we are in big trouble.”

  “Just want to be prepared.” She put the gun in her purse.

  “You have plenty. Let’s go.” We went to the kitchen. “Stan, phone.” I held out my hand.

  “Johnny, please.”

  “Only way, Stan. Or I throw you to the wolves.”

  He handed me his phone. “Boy,” he said to Katie. “Your boss here is no joke.”

  “Either am I,” she said.

  “And I thought this was going to be a fun night.” He winked.

  “She’ll drive her car. Katie, text me when you get to the beach. Lock the doors.”

  “Copy that, chief.”

  “Stan, behave.”

  “Copy that, chief,” he said.

  And out they went, with me hoping to God I called the right play.

  41

  Athree-quarter moon peeked over the horizon to begin its trek across the sky on a clear but humid night. It was 8:00 p.m., one hour before my meeting with Talia. I wore a white shirt, jeans, and laid out my blue blazer. Katie sent a text confirming their arrival at the beach cottage. So far, so good. I poured a short bourbon and took it to the chaise lounge on my balcony. A dramatic sunset of yellow and orange shapes and layers filled my view and I thought the perverse actions of tonight were such a contrast to God’s beauty on display.

  I tried Gil Evans again, my third call in the past hour; the first two went to his voice mail. He answered after two rings. “Delarosa, glad you called back.”

  “Wanted you to know the plane is at Davis Airfield. Didn’t go to Georgia after all.”

  “What? How do you know? Our agent on site confirmed four girls boarding a twin-engine Beechcraft.”

  “My man at the airstrip told me it came back early.”

  He paused; a shuffling of papers. “Are we talking the same aircraft? Any chance you took pictures of the call letters?”

  “Sure did. Hold on.” I went inside, set the phone on my kitchen table, pulled my camera from the case and scrolled through the shots I took from the cornfield. I stopped on a picture with a clear view of the rudder and zoomed in.

  “Evans?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The numbers are N3123Z.”

  “Yep, matches the plane in Georgia. Took off an hour ago.”

  My stomach dropped. The same plane. Bill Davis lied to me, which means he, and probably his brother Jacob, were part of team Talia.

  “Obviously I received bad info. We’ll get out to the airfield.”

  “Remember, please observe. We want intelligence on all the players in the chain. If we disrupt the line now, it could blow the entire investigation.”

  “Understood.”

  “Hey, any word from Mattson?”

  “None. Has me concerned.”

  “I have my phone beside me all night. Don’t hesitate.”

  “Will do.”

  I slipped my phone into my pocket and stood in the middle of my kitchen. This case had been a series of lies from the start. Stan never told the truth, whether it was about Kenzie, the phone calls, his financial involvement with Talia, or his airplane going for his friend. A professional bullshitter to begin with, I was disappointed in myself for allowing him any benefit of the doubt. And now, a lie from the Davis brothers, who had to be links in the chain.

  Somehow, though, after all the deceit, I still wondered whether Stan was the ultimate mark. Did they use his plane without his knowledge? It was possible. Did Talia entice him with women, promise him money, have Dee Dee satisfy his every need, just to boost him up to the legend in his own mind? He had an ego the size of a football field, and she did a hall-of-fame job of keeping it fed.

  If Anthony DeRenzo and Bobby Rodriguez were flying girls to Port City tonight, and we could confront
Stan with their actions, the night could finally reveal the truth.

  The bourbon went down smooth, but I refrained from a second pour. I needed to keep a clear head if I was to match wits with Talia. I slipped on my shoulder holster with my Beretta, grabbed my blazer and went downstairs.

  ###

  “You got a date?” Mike said, as he set two beers on the bar.

  “Something like that. What’s this?”

  “They won their championship.”

  A bowling team and their groupies filled the place and their celebration was in full swing.

  “Damn. I planned on you for back up tonight.”

  “On my own, here, brother. Carlos pulled overtime. I’ll kick them out as soon as I can, but they are in a happy mood and the money is loose.” Two bowlers, with The Gutter Ballers, emblazoned on the back of their shirts, staggered to the bar and ordered shots for everyone.

  “Text me when you close up,” I said. “Sorry to leave you.”

  “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  ###

  The address on Rosewood was the same spot I met Anthony the first time I had a meeting with Talia. It was 8:50 p.m., ten minutes early, so I tried Monica again. Nothing. It immediately went to voice mail, as if the phone were off.

  Katie and Stan were safely at the beach house. Mike’s hands were full at McNally’s. The lack of contact from Monica worried me. Even if she was working and not in a position to answer her phone, she would at least send a message. A check of my gut told me Bill Davis lied, the plane was on its way to Port City, and Monica was in jeopardy. How, why, and where was the mystery.

  The German-made digital clock in the dashboard of my BMW Z-4 clicked to 9:00 as a black Jeep Cherokee with black rims turned in to the parking lot. Anthony? He was to be flying the illegal aliens from Atlanta to Davis Airfield.

  The car stopped beside me and the driver’s window went down. Dee Dee.

  Surprised, but not shocked, I lowered my window.

  “Change of plans,” she said.

  “I don’t like change.”

  “Meet Talia at Max’s. She’s waiting.”

  “Hey, not even a hello?”

  “You blew your chance.” She squealed out of the lot and disappeared.

  I started the engine and headed for Max’s, curious as hell as to what truth the night had in store.

  42

  The first oddity was the vacant street in front of Max’s. The bar would normally be open at this hour. I parked my car at the curb and got out. The second was the sidewalks were empty, as if it were Super Bowl Sunday and everyone was home watching the game. A placard on the door: Closed for a Private Event. My first, albeit scary, thought was Talia planned a private party and I was the only guest. I pulled open the door and the second thought was a snare waited inside and I would never be seen again.

  Talia sat at the end of the bar. Alone. No bartender, no other patrons. She wore jeans, a black T-shirt, and ankle boots. Her hair was down and around her like a protective shield. She smiled as I approached.

  “I figured you had some power, but the place all to ourselves?” I said.

  “Cozy, don’t you think?” Her hand was wrapped around a martini. “Drink?”

  “Of course.” I pointed to hers. “One of those.” I took the stool beside her.

  She hopped off hers and walked behind the bar.

  “Bartender, too?”

  “I make a killer martini.”

  I glanced around for thugs lurking in the corners. None. “Gin or vodka?” I asked.

  “Gin. The only way to go.”

  She made the drink—stirred, not shaken—and put the glass in front of me, then came around and took her seat. “To dark yesterdays and bright tomorrows,” she said, as we raised our glasses.

  I gazed into her siren eyes.

  But she had these vivid, emerald eyes and I couldn’t stop staring. Eyes that belonged on the cover of a magazine, not hidden in the obscenity of a crack-house hotel.

  “They have always been my strong suit. Men love them,” she said, as if she read my thoughts.

  I did a slow nod, taking in her face, the hair, all of her. “I appreciate the privacy tonight. Not sure how you pulled it off, but impressive.”

  “I thought you would. What’s on your mind? Besides me.”

  I smiled. “Only you.” I sipped the martini. “Perfect.” I set the drink on the bar. “Not to ruin the moment, but we need to talk.”

  “A moment? Sounds like you’re going to ruin another night.”

  “I’m disappointed in your line of work.”

  “Escort business?” Our legs touched and she leaned in close. “Nothing wrong in providing a needed service. Right?”

  I half-whispered, “Let’s not waste time. The other line of work.” Even though I requested the meeting, I wondered what her goal was for tonight.

  “You mean the one where I take girls and give them a life they could never imagine growing up in some God-forsaken third world country.”

  I nodded.

  “With me, they have a chance. A chance to succeed, make real money, buy food, a clean place to live, nice clothes, help their families,” she said.

  “It doesn’t justify the means. They are illegal. What you are doing is illegal. They will eventually be sent back and you’ll be arrested.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you, Johnny?” She took a serious tone, pulled her hair back so it was off her face.

  “Sure I do. How many of those girls end up on the street, like you did? How many will die of overdoses?”

  “None. I stay with my girls. I tend to their well-being. They are never alone.”

  “Remember the damage done to you? They destroyed you, and I am amazed you are sitting here today. Not many girls, women, have the fortitude you had to pull yourself from the dregs of hell and carve out a life. These girls are young, impressionable, limited education, and you are shaping their world. All they will learn is what you teach them.”

  She stared at her drink while she talked. “Most days, I never think about what happened to me. The childhood I missed, the abuse. You were the only person who helped me and never asked for anything in return.” She turned her face to me. “I will never forget your kindness. At the time, I knew you were different, but deep down I thought you wanted what all the others wanted. It wasn’t until years later I realized you only had the best of intentions. I am only doing for them what you did for me. In a way, you are responsible.”

  A clang from the kitchen stopped the conversation.

  “I thought we were alone,” I said.

  “Cleaning crew.”

  “Ah.” I scanned around again for thugs in the corners. “I don’t want to be responsible for illegal aliens coming into the country to work as prostitutes.”

  “These girls would find their way to the States eventually. I’m only offering a hand. They appreciate it and remain loyal. I don’t want any of them to go through what I went through.”

  “Talia, I don’t know why I did what I did twenty years ago, taking you in. If the department found out, I would have been fired. And I don’t know why I am telling you this now, but the FBI is all over this. They’re about to close in.”

  She put her hand on my leg. “Nothing new.”

  “Not sure I understand…” A sudden queasiness in my stomach… “I can’t stop them, and I can’t…” A rush of warmth through me. I wiped beads of sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. “Whoa…”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, just felt a little off for a second. Dizzy.” Her face blurred and I blinked her back in focus. “I can’t stop them…” A tingling in my fingers, arms, legs, traveled through me. “I need some air…” I went down. From the stool to flat on my back on the floor. I gasped… “The drink…”

  She crouched beside me, the emerald eyes coming through a curtain of hair. “I told you I make a killer martini.” She placed a hand on my chest. “You are a good man, Johnn
y Delarosa and I will never forget you.” Her face came close; I thought she kissed me. “But if you ever get in my way again, I will rain down a hell on you that will make you wish you never saw these green eyes.”

  43

  Acool dampness on my right cheek was the first signal I was alive. Where was I? I opened my eyes to blurry darkness as my brain slowly tried to assemble the pieces of my current predicament. Flat on my stomach, a coolness, hands beside my face, my eyes cloudy, but I could breathe. My fingers moved, scratched at…what...the ground, dirt?

  I squeezed my eyes closed and sucked in three or four deep breaths hoping they would wake me. Talia. She crouched over me. Talia…

  My eyes opened—and two eyes stared back at me. What? Two dark, lifeless eyes. Was I looking into a mirror? No. It took a few seconds to register, but I was staring into the eyes of a dead man. The shock jolted me awake and my body reacted with an instinctive jerk to the right to distance myself from him. My right leg dropped out from under me. Was I falling?

  My hands grasped, clawed at the dirt as my leg dangled beneath me. An edge, a ledge, a what, my body half on the earth, the other half…My heart pounded; my right hand under my chest pressed against the ground to push me from the edge. My left arm flailed, needing to grip…something…only dirt…gravel, in my grasp…nothing to help pull me…If my other leg went off, so would my weight and I’d never be able to hold on…

  Finally—my hand touched the arm of the dead man. An anchor. I grabbed his forearm, and he gave new meaning to the term dead weight. I pulled myself from the ledge and rolled against his body. I laid on my back and stared at the stars. My heart pounded; my chest heaved. Alive.

  The entire ordeal took seconds, but it seemed an eternity. I sat up and looked around. The three-quarter moon on the clear night provided enough light to illuminate a familiar location. The old quarry. They placed me on the edge of the quarry cliff. To die. No, my death left to fate. One roll to my right and I would have dropped into the abyss. I said a prayer to God, every saint, and every dead relative I could think of, thanking them for my life.