Caribbean Moon (A Manny Williams Thriller, Book One)

by Murcer, Rick

  He steadied his good friend.

  The tall woman peered into his face, “I have, haven’t I?”

  “I would say any more Black Russians would intensify the morning’s headache.”

  “That’s what I like about you detective; you never lie to me. Kind too. Not like other men.”

  “Shhh. You’ll ruin that whole tough-guy rep I’ve worked hard to acquire.”

  They gazed silently in the direction of the moving ocean, and he patted her arm. Manny knew that Lynn and Liz had had a problem or two, but it seemed they wanted to iron things out. He hoped they stuck with it because sometimes the castle in the sky can slip away like a dream at dawn.

  Liz turned her head. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

  “You’re gorgeous. If I weren’t happily married, wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

  Liz giggled. “You’re such a smooth talker.” She gave him another kiss on the cheek.

  “Okay, I’m going to my room. Lynn was right . . . this time.” Liz moved to the door, working hard to keep her balance.

  “Do you want some help?”

  “No, no, no, no. I’m fine. Thanks for asking.” Liz hesitated and then switched her bag to the other hand. “I love you, you know.”

  “I know. I love you too, Liz. Now get your ass up to bed.”

  “Yes sir.” The Lansing DA saluted with the wrong hand and disappeared inside the hotel.

  Laughing out loud, he wondered about how much coffee she was going to need in the morning.

  He finished his drink and stole one last look at the newlyweds standing in the shadowy courtyard.

  Manny froze.

  CHAPTER-4

  Enormous hands extended toward Mike, then snapped back like a recoiling snake.

  “Evening, folks,” slipped from his mouth. “Sure is warm, isn’t it?”

  He watched as Mike and Lexy gasped in perfect accord, whirling to see who had spoken to them, who had interrupted their private kissy-face session, scaring the bejeebies out of them in the process.

  Just your destiny.

  The couple searched for his face. They had started a foot too low, but eventually found it. Their eyes widened in surprise. Jenkins was aware of how he looked, how intimidating. He would use it to his advantage.

  All the better to kill you with.

  Their undivided attention was all his. He smiled at the newlyweds with the disarming grin of a priest.

  “Yes-s-s it is,” Lexy stammered. “You scared the heck out of me, er, us.”

  “You’re pretty light on your feet. We never heard you,” said Mike.

  “Aw, I think you were lost in love. I could have been a herd of runaway elephants, and you wouldn’t have heard me.”

  The couple caught each other’s wide-eyed looks and laughed.

  “You got us there. Wedding night, you know,” said Lexy.

  “Well, I hope you don’t typically wear what you’re wearing on date night.” He bent low and whispered. “People might think you’re strange.”

  Mike smiled. “Got us again.”

  The conversation wound down as he asked the right questions about their special night, about them. They answered with gusto and naive honesty. He was so damn easy to talk to.

  Besides, everyone loves to talk about themselves. Self-absorbed morons.

  He could charm the habit off a nun, and he played it to the hilt. His amiable wit was infectious as his face animated with real warmth. It was easy for him to pretend to be the friendliest man on the island, and Mike and Lexy responded. They never suspected that he longed to tear them apart, to watch them die horribly painful deaths, begging for his mercy in pathetic whimpers. They would see the real him when he was ready, when his will said so.

  The trio enjoyed a few more seconds of light conversation. Then he politely said his good nights and turned back toward the ten-story hotel. As he distanced himself from Mike and Lexy, a confident smirk spread across his sculpted face.

  That’s why I’m the master. Self-control. Discipline. This wasn’t the right time. But soon. Justice is a bitch not to be crossed, especially mine.

  The counterfeit grin disappeared like that of a kid whose candy had been stolen by the school bully. He was fully aware of ways to accomplish revenge. He had learned things in prison . . . ways. He absolutely understood the old adage that there are worse things than death, far worse.

  They would feel what he felt and that would be a special reward for them. It’s always a treat to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes.

  He slowed his pace and raised his head to the sky. Memories of his punishment and seemingly endless sentence flooded his consciousness, threatening to overpower him. The imprisoned lunatics’ oblivious, never-ending screams had attacked his sanity, his very soul. There had been times that he thought he would poke out his eardrums.

  Vomit, week-old urine, and excrement had painted the concrete floors like some cage at the zoo. The mingled stench had been as repulsive as anything he’d ever endured—and that was just the beginning.

  The oppressive guards had treated most of the inmates like garbage, less than caged animals. Except for him.

  It had been his good fortune that much of the circumstances surrounding his captivity had been at least bearable. The guards would say little to him, preferring to keep their distance. The jerk-offs had been terrified of him. They’d been wise to be afraid. Very wise.

  He glanced over his shoulder, targeting the couple one last time.

  Bon voyage, bon voyage, my lovelies.

  CHAPTER-5

  Manny sprinted down the two flights of stairs, adrenaline rushing his heart, feeding like a hungry animal off his fear. That moving tree meant to hurt Mike and Lexy.

  Halfway to the rock wall, he stole another panicked look in their direction, slowed his mad dash, and eventually stopped, staring intently in disbelief.

  The threesome was no longer three, but two: Mike and Lexy. He scanned the yard, but the big man was nowhere to be found. It was like he had evaporated into thin air.

  For the third time, Manny looked at Mike and Lexy and noticed how they stood so very close together, unconsciously swaying in perfect rhythm with the endless, cavorting waves. Not threatened, but in love.

  His eyes dropped to his feet and then back to the animated duo. A full-throated laugh drifted through the Puerto Rican night. Mike had said something clever, something that belonged to just the two of them. He felt like some foolish eavesdropper.

  Add busy-body grandmother to your repertoire.

  Damn it. Would he always struggle with the never-ending process of unwinding? And this time, he came within a hair of looking like a complete idiot.

  There is nothing worse than an overreacting cop.

  But he could have sworn he saw a man behind his friends, arms raised and hands outstretched. Threatening. Menacing. Hadn’t he? Manny threw his hands in the air.

  Shadows can cozen the mind, even that of an experienced cop. But he wasn’t in the habit of seeing things. Maybe it was the drink or the stress of worrying about Louise. Maybe he was rationalizing his slavery to his work, again.

  This always-on-duty thing needed to stop before it killed him, or his marriage. Always on alert, on the watch. He was beginning to loathe that part of himself. The Guardian of the Universe—his daughter’s favorite nickname for him—was on vacation, and he needed to act like it.

  He walked back up the steps and stood over the iron guardrails spiraling from the balcony. He was facing the ocean, but barely saw the moonlit waves as his thoughts turned darker, inward, accommodating another self-evaluation session.

  He was frustrated with his workaholic tendencies, but was almost helpless to change. It was easy to mask his compulsion with noble thoughts—like owing the good people of Lansing an appropriate return on their hard-earned tax dollars, or that he was merely being a good cop. But earning his paycheck wasn’t the real reason, or at least wasn’t the only one. Good cops don’t let partners die,
do they?

  Harsh guilt welled up and attacked like a shark smelling blood. This was about Kyle Chavez, his second partner, his dead second partner. He closed his eyes. If Manny hadn’t played in that damn golf tournament . . .

  He had taken an afternoon off to tee it up, and a few hours later, Kyle had been shot at a domestic. Kyle had been just twenty-seven years old with a wonderful wife and two beautiful kids.

  Manny fought hard to ward off the demons, but they had the key to the door and, for now, they were staying.

  The news of Kyle’s death had brought a suffocating weight to bear on Lucy Chavez, who had buckled helplessly to the hardwood floor of the couple’s home. The memory of her anguish still caused the hair on his arms to stand. No one should have to tell another that the love of their life had just been used for target practice. Not even cops.

  Responsible or not, he felt like he had let Kyle’s family down, that he had donned the black executioner’s hood himself and pulled the lever. The fact that Kyle had broken protocol and gone on the call alone brought no consolation.

  The counseling sessions with the department shrink helped (not as much as the ones with Louise). Ultimately, he knew it wasn’t really his fault. However, there are times when the mind understands, but the heart couldn’t care less. It was a torturous, unforgiving ordeal, and he had sworn that it would never happen on his watch again.

  The lobby door opened behind him, and the loud music brought him back.

  Manny refocused on the view a bit longer before slinking back inside the hotel, grateful Mike and Lex hadn’t seen him.

  The rhythmic sound of the talented Latin band, playing across from the casino on the second floor, dominated the atmosphere inside. The lead singer was a tiny, energetic woman, whose throaty resonance soaked the room.

  “Nothing like good music to soothe the head-case cop,” he rued.

  The escalator ended at the second floor, and he walked past the thriving casino toward the elevator. He stopped for a moment and took in the compelling sounds of electronic bells, bongs, and sirens emanating from the “sin pit.”

  Steely-gray smoke hovered above velvety gaming tables like it owned the place, and the pungent aroma of Cuban cigars and expensive cigarettes filtered to the lobby. Vegas had nothing up on this place.

  Inside the elevator on his way to the fifth floor, he drifted back to the scene in the courtyard. Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t put a finger on it. The sizable man with the deceptive demeanor had sparked a singular thought in his mind. What if . . .?

  Manny bit his lip. Not tonight. Besides, he was tired, far too tired to make character evaluations that mattered.

  Leaving the elevator, he shuffled to his room, stripped off the penguin suit, which stuck to him like a second skin, and crawled between the cool sheets next to his slumbering wife.

  Closing his eyes, he felt his body begin to reject the tension.

  Not tonight. Not this week. You’re on vacation. Remember?

  CHAPTER-6

  Juanita Henkle was having a pisser of a night. She had lost a hundred bucks to those damn slot machines—mechanical, blood-sucking heifers. To add insult to injury, her friend, Sarah Cummings, who had brought her down to spend a week on the island, had disappeared with some local muchacho.

  “He better be the real deal,” she muttered.

  It had only gotten better. Her luggage had arrived late to the hotel from the airport, and it was beat to hell. And some of her clothes were missing— her favorites, of course. Even though the airline promised to reimburse her for the trouble, where was she going to find an affordable clothing store on Sunday morning, particularly on San Juan’s Condado Strip? After all, she was a twenty-eight-year-old working girl, and money didn’t grow on trees, especially in Zanesville, Ohio.

  Juanita lit a cancer stick. She wanted her old clothes back, her comfortable clothes, but she realized she was the only one who really cared.

  The smoke dancing across her eyes caused her to squint. Shit happens, but it seemed like she was always out of toilet paper. Not to mention, she had been hit on by some of the most narcissistic drunks in Puerto Rico: Latin Don Juan wannabes who sought to “charm” her with stale beer breath, unfocused eyes, and dicks practically out of their pants. Soaking one’s self in cologne must be the thing down here; they all wore enough to clear up any serious sinus affliction. She had turned them all down, flat. The big “L” was stamped on each of their foreheads. Maybe on their chests too. She didn’t want to know.

  The institution of marriage was gaining considerable creditability for her. She wanted someone to hold, and to be held. Someone to grow old with. To have babies with. To even fight and make up with. Especially the making up part.

  But not just any man would do, not for Juanita Henkle. The predestined man of her dreams would ride in on his great white steed, or at least a Mercedes, and take her away from this bar- scene masquerade. Then they would live happily ever after.

  She screwed her cigarette into the scarred ashtray and exhaled one last ring of gray haze. Her man didn’t know her yet, but he would.

  Someday my prince will come. Hurry up, boy. These drinks are gettin’ expensive, and I’m not gettin’ any younger.

  Thank God the music was good. It was loud, but that chick could sing, and the band was tight. She had heard worse blaring from her car’s radio.

  Juanita drained the last of her drink, uncrossed her legs, and decided it was time to exit this fruitless revelry. She was sure Sarah wouldn’t make it back to their room tonight, so she would get a little peace and quiet. Mama said a good night’s rest always helped settle things down. Everyone knows that Mamas are always right.

  “At least Sarah’s having a good time,” she breathed to herself.

  As Juanita got up, she caught her reflection in the wall mirror, bordered in Corona insignias. She was hot. Her flowing black hair, full cleavage, and shapely hips were more than a package, more like The Package. The red, low-cut Gucci dress (she had saved hard for it, and at least the airlines hadn’t lost this one) accented her “attributes” just the right way.

  Any woman who looks this good has the prerogative to be picky, right?

  She was about to leave when she noticed the tall, well-built man at the end of the bar, sizing her up.

  Hold the phone! Good God, look at that.

  He was a little older, but wow. He had perfect hair, and he must be six-four or so. A slow grin crept across her face. She knew what tall meant.

  The stranger got up and came straight toward her. “I’m Eli Jenkins. What might your name be, young goddess?”

  Juanita felt electric heat radiate through her. Hot and suave.

  What the hell. No reason to beat around the bush. He just might be the happy ending to the day that she needed.

  “My name is Juanita. Are we going to cut through the bullshit and get to the point here? I don’t need a drink or any more conversation. I’m in room 586, and I’ll be there in about five minutes.”

  The band had begun an old Elvis tune, and she watched Eli flash a smile that would melt an ice witch’s heart. This was going to be good, maybe better than good.

  Without waiting for his response, she spun on two-inch heels and walked across the glass-enclosed bridge that connected the two sides of the hotel.

  *****

  Jenkins leaned back against his bar stool and scrutinized the waning bar crowd. No one seemed to take note of his encounter with Juanita.

  He signaled the flabby bartender and ordered another bottle of water.

  “She shut you down, compadre?” he asked. “Don’t feel bad. She’s sent everyone away from her all night. She is very picky, no?” He drew out “picky” in two long syllables.

  The nosy peckerhead had noticed him and Juanita. Not what he’d hoped for, but fixable. “Shut down, yes, you are right, my friend. I never had a chance. But there is always another senorita, no?”

  The bartender nodded an approving look. “Indeed,
there is, especially for a man such as yourself.”

  “Hey, Miguel, more beer” echoed from the other end of the bar. The bartender raised his eyebrows and was off toward the pleading din.

  Jenkins wondered if the simpleton would remember him. Even after he, and Juanita, shook this rich-prick hotel to the very foundation. It made no real difference. It would be too late anyway.

  He finished his water and picked up his black-leather travel case, flinging it over his shoulder as he crossed the dance floor, happy to leave the sour tang of spilled beer and cheap perfume hanging in the air.

  There wasn’t a soul on the mullioned glass bridge, leading to the south wing of the hotel, as he crossed it with seven long paces.

  Exhilaration ruled his insides.

  Juanita was fine, and she had never recognized him for what he was. Certainly not that twit. But she would be worthy of what he had planned for her, and of course, for him. He had found the perfect warm-up “playmate.”

  A roguish grin settled across his face as he knocked at room 586. He glanced to his left and saw no one in the semi-lit hallway. Perfect.

  Juanita came to the door wearing only a short, red nightie and a mischievous gleam. “Don’t you know that you shouldn’t keep a lady waiting? It’s a good thing my roommate’s gone for the night,” she teased.

  “My apologies. Let me see if I can make it up to you,” he replied in his most charismatic tone.

  “I’m sure you can,” she melted.

  He slipped the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside of the door, dropping his travel case to the floor. The young woman moved close, pressing herself against him. He felt her excitement, her body heat. She kissed him with an eagerness that, for a split second, took him off his game. But only for a moment.

  Juanita tilted back to look at her hot new lover, and he watched the eager smile evaporate from her face like rain on a desert road. She saw death smoldering from his face. Not just any death, but hers. Her one-night stand had become her last-night stand.