Beneath the Bleak New Moon

by Debra Purdy Kong

  Casey prayed that Danielle wouldn’t end up another victim. After a visit to Winnie’s Donuts and a chat with Regency Fitness Center staff about Danielle, Casey had yet to come up with a single lead. Frustrated, she’d called Denver and learned that the police weren’t faring much better. Denver had talked to Eagle twice now, and the kid claimed to know nothing about Danielle’s disappearance or Roadkill. Denver had perked up at the news of Richie’s binder, though. He’d already known about tonight’s race.

  “Any idea where the race will be?” she asked.

  “United Way Boulevard in Coquitlam.”

  “That’s different.”

  “They’ll go where they think police presence won’t be as strong.”

  “I’ve worked that route. I’ll let my supervisor know and see if we can keep watch.”

  The M7 cruised past the tribute for Beatrice Dunning at Granville and Forty-First. Three and a half weeks had passed since her death. More flowers than ever covered the lampposts.

  At which end of United Way would the race start? Who would be there? If someone from Roadkill’s A team had taken Danielle, would that person show up for the race? The quickest way to find answers was also the riskiest, but it was nothing compared with what Danielle might be going through.

  TWENTY

  DECKED OUT IN HER SLEAZIEST mini-skirt, stilettos, and trusty black leather jacket, Casey stepped out of her Tercel. She gasped as the cold November air hit her thighs and wafted upward. Stan, Denver, and Lou would be ticked if they knew what she was up to, but she couldn’t sit back and wait for Danielle to be found. Besides, she’d dealt with knife-wielding drunks, wigged-out addicts, and even a couple of killers. And a macho street racer and self-proclaimed ladies’ man would probably rather talk to a civilian in a low-cut top and push-up bra than a cop. As much as she loathed the idea of trading sex appeal for information, desperate times called for desperate measures.

  She’d chosen to approach Dominic Mancuso because he’d been out with Danielle and Casey knew where he worked. It was far safer to approach him in a public place than his home, and, thanks to Richie’s binder, she knew exactly where to find him. She’d already spotted his Dodge Neon parked in back of the gas station.

  Casey had pulled up in front of the air hose, which was next to three open bays, where men in greasy coveralls were working on cars. She recognized Mancuso’s goatee and mustache. He was wiping his hands on a rag and talking to a co-worker. Casey didn’t have to strut more than a few steps before he noticed her. Wearing her best hey-there-stud expression, enhanced by glossy red lips, she watched Mancuso swagger up to her.

  “What can I do for you, pretty lady?”

  Since he was zeroing in on the black lace bra peeking out from her top, Casey pulled her shoulders back and smiled. “I was hoping someone could fill my left front tire. It’s a little low.” Not that she couldn’t do it herself, but this was Mancuso’s world, where damsels in distress boosted his needy ego.

  “Sure, no problem.” Dimples appeared on either side of his lopsided grin.

  “My name’s Casey.” As he knelt in front of the tire, she shivered from the cold.

  “Dom.” He looked up and winked. “You live around here?”

  “No, I’m looking for a friend.” She took Danielle’s photo from her pocket and held it in front of his face. “I believe you know her.” It was fun watching Mancuso’s smugness crumple. “She told me you two had a date Tuesday night, and now she’s disappeared.”

  He stood. “If you’re a cop, I’ve already—”

  “I’m not. I just want to know where she is.”

  “No idea, honey. Last time I saw her was Tuesday night. The cops told me she disappeared two days later from some fitness club.”

  The same club where Casey had seen him cruise through the parking lot two weeks ago. “Do you remember what time it was when you last saw her?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m trying to figure out when exactly she disappeared.”

  “Talk to the cops.”

  “You’re much friendlier than the dumb cops, not to mention easier to look at.” He looked her over and chuckled. Was Mancuso actually buying this crap? “When did your date end?”

  “About eleven. I don’t want to bad-mouth the chick, but she wasn’t much fun.”

  “In what way?”

  “Talked too much. Asked a lot of questions.”

  “About the hit-and-run deaths?”

  He frowned. “You like to ask a lot of questions too, huh?”

  “Yep. So, how about I buy you a couple rounds at the River’s End Pub?”

  Again, he glanced at her bra. “I’m due for a break. Throw in a meal and we’ll talk.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fifteen minutes, darlin’. Get ready.”

  Back to the macho crap. Casey headed for the pub, confident that he’d show up. If Mancuso was innocent, he wasn’t likely to pass up free beer and food. If he wasn’t, he’d still want to find out what she knew.

  The River’s End’s country decor seemed out of place in a metropolis like Richmond, known for its large Asian population. Yet, two-thirds of the patrons were young Asian adults. A few of them were even sporting cowboy hats. Chatter and laughter nearly drowned out the country music that completed the atmosphere.

  At the bar, Casey ordered a beer and showed the female bartender Danielle’s picture. “Have you seen this woman?”

  The bartender peered at the photo, then at Casey. “Who are you?”

  “A friend of hers.”

  “The cops came around. I told them she was here Tuesday night.”

  “Did she leave with anyone?”

  “She was with one of our regulars. I saw them leave at the same time, but I doubt they stayed together. They were all wrong for each other.” The bartender placed the beer in front of Casey, took her money, and went to serve someone else.

  When the bartender was finished, Casey said, “Did anyone drop by my friend’s table that night?”

  “Yeah, and another man was spying on them. I told the cops that, too.”

  Casey leaned forward. “What did the spy look like?”

  “Big and cute. Dark curls, gorgeous blue eyes.”

  Whoa. That sounded like Liam MacKenna. “Were they aware of him?”

  “Don’t know.” She wiped the counter. “He was sitting at the end of the bar, watching them. When they left, he followed.”

  A customer waved at the bartender. A couple of minutes passed before she returned.

  “What about the guy who approached them?” Casey asked. “Can you describe him?”

  “An East Indian creep who hits on all the blondes and treats every­one else like scum. Doesn’t take rejection well either.”

  The bartender was a brunette, Casey noted. “Was he short, tall, young, old?”

  “In his twenties. Skinny little runt with a Rolex and a couple of gold chains around his neck.” The bartender rolled her eyes. “Like that’s still in fashion.”

  The description fit Bashir Kumar. What would he want with Danielle, or had he come to see Mancuso? Now that she thought about it, all of the hit and runs involved women. The only male victim was Jason Charlie, although he’d been walking with the female social worker when he was struck.

  Mancuso arrived and took the stool next to Casey. The reek of the sweet, fruity aftershave he must have thrown on nearly knocked her over.

  “Hey, Dom,” the bartender said coyly. “Your usual, sweetie?”

  “You bet, and she’s buying.” As he nodded toward Casey, the bartender’s face dimmed. “You’re lucky you caught me today, sweetheart,” Mancuso said to Casey. “It was supposed to be my day off.”

  “Please don’t call me sweetheart.” She didn’t appreciate the lame attempt at honey and charm.

  “Here ya go, Dom,” the bartender said.

  He raised the glass to Casey, who hauled out her wallet once again. “Cheers, darlin’.”

  “The same goes for
darlin’.” She sipped her beer. “What did you and Danielle talk about the other night?”

  “Sex, love, and rock ’n’ roll.” He chugged his beer.

  “Then she told you she’s gay?”

  Mancuso sputtered beer all over the counter and onto his lap. Casey covered her mouth to hide her grin.

  The bartender was there in a flash with a cloth. “You okay, Dom?”

  He was too busy coughing to answer, but he did manage to raise his hand and nod. Casey tapped her foot to a Garth Brooks tune and ignored the bartender’s what-did-you-do-to-him? stare.

  “What did you really talk about, Dom?” Casey asked.

  He wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve. “Cars. I’m restoring an old Chev, which is partly why I got this second job at a garage.”

  Danielle wouldn’t have let him talk about fixing cars all night. Casey leaned forward until she was inches from his face. “Did Danielle mention that she knows you’re part of Roadkill, and that someone from your little club ran down a jogger on October twenty-seventh? It’s possible the same person started mowing people down on purpose.”

  His hazel eyes didn’t blink. “I don’t know squat about racing.”

  “Come on, Dom.” Casey tilted her head and smirked. “Didn’t Danielle mention that she and I saw you meet with racers at Winnie’s Donuts the other night?” His jaw tightened as he stared into his beer. “We know you’re called the Dominator—very catchy, by the way—and that you drive a metallic gray Dodge Neon with a whole lot of horsepower.”

  Mancuso drank the beer more slowly this time, apparently in no hurry to respond. “I was having dinner at a friend’s the night that jogger was hit, which the cops verified.”

  “You and your racing buddies must have talked about it.”

  “The whole city’s talking about it.” He paused. “Look, the racers could have been just a couple of guys challenging each other at a stoplight. You can’t stop that shit.”

  “Harvey Haberkorn, also known as Hellhound, was racing in his dad’s Lexus that night, and now Harvey’s dead,” Casey said. Mancuso tapped his glass on the counter and refused to make eye contact. “We also know that Eagle was a passenger in the hit-and-run vehicle.”

  He turned to her, his expression wary. “No way.”

  “Witnesses described him right down to his gold earring and red bandanna.”

  Mancuso stroked his goatee. “Not possible.”

  “Eagle tried to leave on a one-way ticket to Hong Kong but was detained and questioned.”

  His wariness turned to alarm. “I don’t believe it.”

  He could deny all he wanted, but it wouldn’t change the facts. “Do you think Morris Mueller or Bashir Kumar could have been driving the night Beatrice was hit?”

  “Ask them, whoever they are.”

  Really? He was going to play ignorant again? “I’m asking you.”

  “How the hell should I know? I told you I wasn’t there.”

  This guy was about to stomp on her last nerve. “Okay. Hypothetically speaking, do you think it’s possible that one of them abducted Danielle because she knows too much about Roadkill?”

  Mancuso glanced at her chest. “You’re asking the wrong guy, sweetie.”

  She wanted to smack him. “Don’t call me that either.”

  Mancuso chuckled and lifted his glass. “I’m not admitting a damn thing, but I’ve heard that racers like to live on the edge. Most of them aren’t normal. In fact, they might actually be insane or maybe high most of the time. A few have tempers that could get them killed.”

  “Who, specifically?”

  “This is only rumor, understand?”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “I’ve heard stories about that Kumar guy. Seems he’s got a nasty temper.”

  Casey nodded. “What have you heard about Morris Mueller? The truth, please.”

  “Cards on the table and all that?” Mancuso smiled. “He’s a spoiled rich kid who takes crazy risks. Could have a death wish, who knows? Or maybe he really is insane.”

  A Tim McGraw song came on. “Have you ever heard of someone named Leo?”

  He shrugged. “Heard the name, but don’t know anything about him. He’s kind of a mystery.”

  “Does Richie Kim organize races? And don’t deny knowing him. I saw him at your table the other night.”

  “Richie can’t even organize his own life. Used to be a good driver, though.”

  “You knew him back then?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then you must have known Ben Carpenter too?”

  “Mostly by reputation.”

  She had a feeling he was holding back again. “What did you hear about him?”

  “That he knew how to have fun, didn’t have a lot of common sense, and thought he was a better driver than he was.”

  “Did you hear that Ben died because someone tried to run him off the road?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t buy it. Any racer worth shit wouldn’t do that. It’s about skill, baby, not cheating or trying to put one another in the hospital.”

  “Now it seems to be about killing people.”

  “I’m telling you,” he said, his expression serious, “that real racers wouldn’t pull that kind of shit.”

  Casey had her doubts. “Do you know a former racer named Liam MacKenna?”

  Mancuso turned away from the bar and began checking out women. “MacKenna was before my time, but his final crash is legendary. Too bad he chose the dark side and became a cop.” He turned to her. “But you already know that, don’t ya?”

  Casey sipped her beer. “I heard he might be racing again.”

  “Bullshit,” Mancuso replied. “The guy’s worse than a reformed smoker. It’s like he’s on some sort of mission to stop racing, which ain’t going to happen. He’s delusional if he thinks he can stop it.”

  “He and Richie Kim were arguing in the men’s room at the donut shop that night. Any idea what that was about?”

  “No clue.” Mancuso’s cell phone rang. When he heard the caller’s voice he grinned. “I’ll see you after work, gorgeous.”

  He pocketed the phone. “I’d better get back to work, but I’ll take a rain check on the meal.” He stood and drained his beer glass. “If you find Danielle, tell her to back off, okay? She can write all she wants about racing, but it won’t ever stop. And if she keeps pissing people off more bad things could happen.”

  “When I find her—assuming she’s still alive—I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop her.” Casey also stood. “Ben Carpenter was her brother, and she’s on a vendetta to find out who caused his death.”

  “So I heard.” Mancuso stood. “Thanks for the beer, darlin’. If you ever want a real date, give me a call.”

  Fat bloody chance.

  TWENTY-ONE

  THE TWINS JOGGED UP THE bus steps and flashed their passes at an exhausted-looking Greg. Casey had no idea why Greg’s supervisor had kept him on the road all day. He’d been on duty more than eight hours already and wasn’t supposed to work more than nine.

  Paige and Lara, on the other hand, looked like they’d breezed through their seven-and-a-half-hour Saturday shift. They each had a bounce in their step and actually looked happy. This time, they carried four bags of food instead of the usual three. Who knew one extra burger could make them so cheerful? The twins spotted Casey and headed for the seat in front of her, which was weird given all the other available seats. She returned the twins’ brief nod and looked out the window, her senses alert to whatever crap they might pull.

  Once the girls had scarfed down some food, Lara turned around. “Our source said Eagle left the country and the racer called Hellhound got killed.”

  “The authorities stopped Eagle from leaving.” Judging from the twins’ baffled expressions, this was news to them. Maybe their source wasn’t as reliable as they thought.

  “We saw on TV that your reporter friend’s missing,” Lara said. “Word is the racers know something about it.” />
  Why were these two trying to pique her interest? “The police now know the names and addresses of all the racers. They’ll find Danielle.”

  Lara snorted. “Just like that, huh? Listen up. By the time the cops find the right guy, your friend could be dead,” she said. “We know people who could find her faster.”

  “I doubt it.”

  The twins looked at each other. No words were spoken, yet they seemed to be communicating.

  “We can hook you up with our contacts,” Paige told Casey. “They’ll help.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Like we said the other day,” Paige replied. “They’re friends with Eagle’s sisters, who know a lot of inside shit.”

  “Why would they rat out their brother or his racing buddies?”

  “They hate Eagle. Their parents treat him better than them. Now he doesn’t even have to go to school, so the sisters want to get back at him, big time.”

  Casey recalled the sullen young girls manning the Regency’s reception desk. “I still don’t understand why your contacts would give me info.”

  “They owe us, like, this totally big favor,” Lara remarked. “They’ll do whatever we tell them to.”

  “I see.” Casey smiled. “What’s in it for you?”

  “A truce,” Paige replied.

  It was a quick response, as if already planned. “What do you mean by truce ?”

  “Simple,” Lara said. “You stay out of our business, and we’ll follow the rules.”

  Casey tried to ignore the dollop of mayonnaise clinging to the corner of Paige’s mouth. “I see.”

  “Give us your cell number, and we’ll call you when we hear something,” Lara said.

  And risk prank calls? Not bloody likely. Still, why not play along to see what the princesses were really up to? Casey handed the girls her business card. “You can contact me through my office.”