Maggie leaned forward, toward Byron. “She has firsthand experience. How about you? Ever faced down a professional hitman? No? What about standing in the crosshairs of a rifle scope?” When he remained quiet, turning slightly pink along the cheekbones, she turned back to me. “What else you got, Kid?”
“I’m done sharing until I get some information in return.” I looked at the suits. “Tell me about the drug ring—the Jameson crew.”
“I’m afraid we can’t share those details,” Wright said, leaning back in his chair.
“Assholes,” Bones grumbled under his breath.
I winked at him as I pulled my phone. I looked through my contact list, finding Phillip Bianchi who was not only Lisa’s brother, but more importantly, he was the second in command of the New Jersey mafia. I pressed the call button before moving the phone to my ear.
“Good Morning, Charlie Harrison. Is everything okay with the family?” Phillip asked.
“I haven’t heard otherwise. But I’m calling about a case I’m working.”
“Why do you and your cousin keep assuming I’m one of the good guys?”
“I’m not asking you to register as an informant. I just need some background information.”
“Ask your question, but I won’t guarantee I’ll answer.”
“Need to know about an organization in your neighborhood. The Jameson crew.”
“New Jersey is a state, not a neighborhood. You make it sound like we all live on the same block.”
“And yet, I’m sure you’ve heard of them.”
Phillip sighed. “I have. What’s your interest?”
“Double homicide. The Feds think my murder cases are linked back to the Jameson crew’s pending legal troubles.”
“Doubtful. They’re dangerous, but not smart enough, powerful enough, or big enough to reach out of state. But whoever they distribute for could’ve agreed to handle it.”
“Who would that be?”
“I don’t know. And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.” There was a break in conversation as I waited for Phillip to say more. “Between us, and only us, I’ll share that the Jameson crew dealt in everything from heroin to grass. Their pipeline was well established. I’ve heard rumors their supplier resides south of the border.”
“Shit. I was told they were hillbilly heroin dealers.”
“What the hell is hillbilly heroin?”
I imagined Phillip wearing an Armani suit and smoking a Cuban as he sat in his Italian leather chair, a confused look scrunching up his perfectly-sculpted facial features. “It’s OxyContin mostly. Prescription highs. Pharmaceutical pill poppers.”
“Then no. Before their arrests, they were the biggest coke dealers around, and from what I hear, the quality of their products was excellent.”
“That’s interesting. What about more difficult to acquire drugs? The kind usually only found in hospitals?”
“From what I heard, if there was a buyer, they could acquire the product.”
“Morphine?”
“Are you shopping for morphine?”
“One of my victims died of a morphine overdose. Liquid morphine.”
“I can’t imagine there’s a big market in liquid morphine, but then again, I have no interest in sticking needles in my arm for recreational purposes. I only know what I’ve been told, which is that the Jameson crew had a solid supply chain.”
“Anything else you’re willing to share?”
“Talk to Mickey. And don’t tell him I said that.” The phone went silent. He’d hung up on me.
I looked down at my phone. The last thing I wanted to do was talk to Mickey McNabe again. The man was… unsettling. Maybe Kelsey would talk to him for me.
“Well?” Maggie asked.
“Their case,” I pointed to the suits, “is centered on the Jameson crew, right?”
“Yes,” Maggie answered before they could stop her.
“Then they can’t help me. The Jameson crew is too small and too stupid to be behind this.” I stood and started for the exit, but before I reached the handle the door flew open.
Bones, startled by the door, reached out and grabbed Ford by the throat.
“Let him go!” I said, grabbing Bones’ arm with both my hands and trying to pull his arm away. “He’s a cop!”
Bones flung his fingers apart, releasing Ford, and stepped back.
I placed my hand over Ford’s wrist, stopping him from pulling his gun. With the other hand, I pushed him on the shoulder until he walked backwards into the main room. “My fault. Bodyguards can be jumpy.”
Ford stopped throwing dagger eyes at Bones and looked at me. “Bodyguard. Shit. Sorry. I forgot. I was in a rush because I knew you’d want this.” He handed me a note with an address as he continued glancing over my shoulder at Bones. “DB just came in over the radio. Homeless woman. Matches the description of the BOLO you put out.”
Lydia, I thought. Damn. “What do we know?”
“Boys on the scene relayed that it looks like an overdose, but since everyone knows a homeless person was murdered in your building and staged as an OD, they sat on the scene. Nothing’s been touched.”
“Ford and I will go with you,” Quille said to me. “Lose your bodyguards.”
“Not your call,” Wild Card told him.
“But it is mine,” I said. “Head back to the mansion. Between Ford, Quille, and Beast, I’m almost confident that I can stay alive for a few hours.”
Bones snorted. Wild Card held out his rental keys.
I took them as I asked, “Why are you giving me these?”
“I wouldn’t want Beast’s claws to tear up the leather in the Mustang. Best to swap vehicles.” He smiled as he held his palm out.
I dug my keys out of my bag. “You get one scratch—”
“I won’t,” he said, cutting me off as he snagged the keys from my hand.
I muttered curses as I jogged to catch up with Quille and Ford. Beast happily barked, running beside me. “Yeah,” I said to Beast. “You better be happy. I just picked you over my Mustang. That’s just wrong.”
Chapter Thirty-One
KELSEY
Tuesday, 11:15 a.m.
We caught up with Trigger three blocks from the interstate exit, sitting curbside, tipping back a bottle of vodka. As we walked toward him, I looked around the neighborhood. The curbs were caked with shards of glass, cigarette butts, and other trash. Rundown cars were scattered down the block, parked in front of decaying buildings. Kids played on the sidewalk down the street, eyeing us with bad intentions. Two prostitutes leaned against a nearby building.
Ryan took the vodka from Trigger, setting the bottle aside.
I caught a whiff of Trigger and backtracked a few steps. “You smell horrid. Did you consider cleaning up before buying a bottle of booze?”
“Owner wouldn’t let me inside. The ladies,” he gestured to the prostitutes, “ran inside to buy the bottle. It was helping to dull my senses, so I didn’t choke on my own stench.”
I entered the dingy, dark bar. Two well-weathered customers sat on barstools at the far end. The bartender, an older man with hard lines etched into his face, was drying glasses behind the bar. A booth off to the side held a pair of shady-looking characters talking in low whispers. Ignoring the customers, I pulled cash from my bag and slapped it on the bar-top in front of the bartender.
“You must be a friend of the sewer rat,” the bartender said, nodding toward the front entrance. “He can’t come inside. I’d never get the smell out.”
“Not asking for you to let him in. But he could use a sidewalk shower. Sell us few buckets of soapy water?”
He used his finger to separate the twenty-dollar bills stacked in front of him. He restacked the cash and slid it into his pocket before nodding for me to follow him. At the other end of the bar, he led me into the kitchen where he grabbed two five-gallon buckets, lifting one to the slop sink and turning on the water. I grabbed a nearby bottle of dish soap, pouring in a third of the bottle.
I shook my head, laughing, as I answered, “I thought you were with Charlie?”
“She made alternate arrangements. She doesn’t need us for a few hours. You have anything for us?”
“Nope. Maybe later tonight.”
“You still at the dentist office?”
“Nope. We’re at a bar.” I watched a cockroach the size of my hand scurry across the floor.
Wild Card chuckled. “Babe. It’s not even noon yet. Are things really that bad?”
“It’s been an interesting morning, but, no, things aren’t that bad. The only one drinking already is Trigger.” I turned off the water, but couldn’t lift the bucket with one hand. “I’ll explain later. We’ll be at the mansion in about an hour.”
I pushed the phone into my back pocket before using both hands to lift the bucket from the sink. After starting the next bucket, I grabbed a handful of trash bags and the dish soap, tucking them under my arm. I lifted the full bucket and shuffled mini steps toward the door with it between my feet. Before I reached the other side of the room, Ryan walked inside, rolled his eyes, took the bucket in one hand, and carried it out.
“Show off,” I muttered as I followed him. Passing the bar, I hollered over my shoulder. “Bring the other bucket out when it’s done filling.”
“You paid for water. Not all the rest of that stuff,” he said, waving a hand to the trash bags and soap.
“I paid you plenty. And I’ll pay another twenty if you find us some clean towels.”
“Forty.”
“Fine,” I said as I stepped outside into the bright sun. I took the bottle of vodka from Trigger again before handing him a garbage bag. “Strip. Put your clothes in a garbage bag.”
“Out here? On the sidewalk?” Trigger asked, looking around.
Ryan crossed his arms over his chest. “Now. Or we’ll leave your ass here.”
Trigger’s shoulders deflated. He stood and took off his shoes.
A light breeze floated by and Ryan and I stepped back as the smell of rotting food and sewage assaulted us. Trigger used his thumb and index finger to pull two wallets from his back pockets, tossing them both on the sidewalk. I retrieved sandwich baggies from my shoulder bag, securing a wallet in each.
When Trigger had stripped down to his tighty whities, I raised my hand up to stop him. “Really, Trigger?” I asked, motioning to his underwear.
“What?” A sly grin slid onto his face. “They’re comfortable.”
I rolled my eyes as I took a step away. Ryan, standing behind Trigger, dumped the bucket of soapy water over Trigger’s head. The underwear, now wet, forced me to see more of him than I’d ever wanted. I walked away, joining the prostitutes who were still leaning against the building.
Physically, the women were opposites. One was tall, bony, with big blonde hair, and wearing a shredded black t-shirt with a missing sleeve, and a short black jean skirt. The other prostitute was short, plump but not fat, had darker features, short clipped hair, and dressed flashier in a sequin green tank top and a yellow spandex skirt.
“The only men who wear dos ugly-ass drawers is either old, or ex-cons,” the tall prostitute told me.
The short prostitute giggled before calling over to Trigger, “Hey, little boy! Did yer momma buy you those big-boy undies?”
Trigger glanced over but continued smearing the dish soap over his body.
“That water cold?” the shorter prostitute called out again. “Or are you one of those turtle types?”
Ryan chuckled as he took the second bucket and poured it over Trigger’s head. Blackish-green water raced toward the curb. The white underwear—not so white anymore.
The tall prostitute flashed angry eyes at me. She was a foot taller and, based on the track marks, a whole lot higher than me. “Your man is stinking up our block.”
“Sorry about that. But while we’re all here, have either of you heard anything about prostitutes disappearing?”
“What kind of ho?” the shorter prostitute asked.
“Not sure, actually,” I answered.
“Well, you gotta narrow it down, honey,” she scoffed as she tugged at her skirt, tugging it up, not down. “You got your hotel girls, your motel girls, your drunk bar girls, your sober bar girls, your corner girls, your alley girls, your delivery girls—”
“If’n you ask me,” the tall prostitute interrupted. “Those delivery girls got it bad.”
The shorter one bounced her head up and down in agreement. “I like me a little street action, but those delivery girls never know what the hell they be walking into.”
“Or if’n they be walking out.”
“Damn straight.” They bumped fists before the shorter one continued, “But I could be one of those hotel girls if’n I had the clothes and shoes and stuff.”
“Bitch,” the taller prostitute said, placing a hand on her hip as she looked down at her coworker, “ya don’t speak or look anything like those girls. New clothes ain’t gonna to hide da fact you got no business being in one a those hotels.”
“Based on the information I have,” I said, cutting off their brewing argument, “I believe I’m referring to street or motel girls.”
“The morgue, baby. This life is hard,” the taller prostitute said. “And some johns are meaner than others.”
I shook my head. “No bodies ever turn up. Here today, gone tomorrow, disappearances.”
“You a cop?” the shorter prostitute asked.
“Nope. Used to be.” I pulled a business card for Silver Aces from my bag, handing it to her. “I was hired to find out what’s happening to the girls.”
“Who da hell gonna front money to track down a couple of missing hos?”
“I took the case pro-bono,” I answered honestly. “But it was a cop who asked me to look into it.”
The taller prostitute squinted at me. “What kind a cop?”
“The kind who’d buy you a lemonade on a hot day and never look lower than your face.”
“Not many of those around anymore,” she said as she looked around the block. After taking a beat, she sighed, answering some internal question. “I might’ve heard of a few girls taking off, but don’t know no details.”
“Ferrari?” the shorter prostitute asked her.
“I thought she moved?”
“Nah. Remember that gash of a roommate swiped all her shit? Said Ferrari didn’t come home, so she figured her stuff was fair game.”
“Yeah-yeah… You knocked that skank on her ass, then took the purse,” she said, laughing. “Shit. Forgot bout dat.”
“Ferrari’s purse?” I asked, trying to pull a few details.
“Not her regular everyday purse,” the shorter prostitute said. “Her ho purse.” She swung her oversized hot-pink purse out for me to see. “Flashy. But big. And got some weight to it. That’s a ho purse. Best weapon a girl can have on the street.”
The tall prostitute held her purse out. “I got a ten-foot chain in mine. Used to have a can of pepper spray. But you use them once, and they’re done. A chain lasts forever. It’s hell on your shoulder, but worth it when you get in the back seat with the wrong john. You just slam the purse upside his head a few times—” she held the purse up and demonstrated “—then get the hell out a there before his eyes come back inta focus.”
It took me half a minute to shake off the image of half-naked bodies swinging purses, but finally I was able to return my focus to the issue at hand. “Was there anything inside Ferrari’s purse?”
“Nah. Just the usual. Gum. Booze. A few business cards. Not even any change. But that skank roommate might’ve already taken any money.”
“Was Ferrari a friend?”
The women laughed. The tall one scanned
the street, but no customers had appeared while we chatted. “Street girls either get along—or they don’t. Ain’t nobody friends, though.”
“Not even the two of you?”
“Let’s just say we have common business habits, kay?” the shorter one said. “Like how neither of us work for pimps. And how we both like working this block cuz it’s slower. Less cops. And da johns round here are into normal shit. Not the jam a bottle up your ass or cut off your titties shit.”
I looked around the neighborhood again. It was a low-traffic, poverty-stricken neighborhood. They likely made ten bucks per blowjob at best, but they were safer here than the busier locations. And teaming up, whether they liked each other or not, kept them safer yet.
“By any chance, did you keep the business cards from Ferrari’s purse?” I asked the shorter one.
“She keeps everything,” the taller one scoffed. “She’s a packrat.”
The shorter one dug around in the neon pink bag and pulled out three business cards. I took them, flipping through them. The first was for a strip club. I’d have one of the guys check it out. The second one was for the dental clinic. My shoulders dropped. I barely glanced at the third—a hair salon offering a discount for new customers.
“When did Ferrari disappear?” I asked.
Both women were watching me, eyes narrowed.
“Bout three weeks back,” the tall one said, dragging the shoulder of her ripped t-shirt back onto her shoulder. “She’s gone for good, ain’t she?”
I sighed, not wanting to tell them, but knowing they needed to be warned. “Looks that way. Just stick together, and you both should be fine. Don’t go anywhere alone. Especially when you’re not working.” I glanced over my shoulder at Trigger and Ryan.
Trigger was using a hand towel to dry off as Ryan tore the corners out of a trash bag. Next thing I knew, Trigger took the bag, turned his back to Ryan which meant he was facing us, and dropped his underwear to the sidewalk.
I closed my eyes as I turned away, but it was too late. The image was burned into my brain.
“Guess he ain’t one of those turtle types after all,” the short one said, laughing.
“Where was he hiding dat thing?” the taller one said, chuckling. “We got ourselves a winner, folks!”
Hunt and Prey (Kelsey's Burden Series Book 8) Page 19
