by D P Lyle
First stop, a liquor store. She and Eddie picked up two six-packs of beer and a pint of Jack Daniel’s. In the well-lit store, she saw Eddie clearly for the first time. He was even more handsome than he had seemed in the dark club. Dirty blond hair, blue eyes, and a pleasant smile. She’d screwed worse. A lot worse. For a lot less. Best of all, he was naïve, and if she worked it right, she could double the two hundred he had promised.
Back in the truck, Carmelita swigged her beer and giggled as Eddie ran his hand up her thigh, squeezing firmly. “How far is it?” she asked.
“Just a few miles to my place.” He dropped an empty beer bottle in the bag and pulled out a fresh one, twisting off the cap.
“Your place? What about the bodies?” She pushed his hand away. “You promised.”
Eddie smiled. “We’re going. After Alejandro drops us off, we’ll take my truck.”
She stared at Alejandro. His dark eyes and set jaw made her uncomfortable. He gripped the steering wheel. “You’re not coming with us?”
“No.” He gulped a shot from the whiskey bottle.
Eddie laughed. “Alejandro’s seen enough bodies, haven’t you?”
Alejandro didn’t respond. He pulled a Marlboro from the pack in his shirt pocket and lit it with a Zippo. He clicked the lighter closed and tossed it on the dash as he turned off University on to Jeff Road and headed north. They quickly left civilization behind and were now on a country road, passing only an occasional farmhouse.
She looked at Alejandro. “You a hit man, too?”
Alejandro’s eyes narrowed, but his gaze never left the road. “You ask too many questions.”
Carmelita inched toward Eddie, breaking the contact of her leg with Alejandro’s. “I’m sorry. I was just trying to be friendly.”
“Don’t worry about him,” Eddie said. “Alejandro don’t talk much.”
Alejandro offered a faint grunt and took another swig of whiskey. He wedged the open pint between his legs and flicked ashes out the window. They swirled like fireflies before fading into the darkness.
She glanced out the window and then over her shoulder. Nothing. Not a single car light. No sign of anyone.
They turned onto a rutted road, the truck’s headlamps gyrating wildly as they bounced along. They passed a faded sign that read Sunnyvale Trailer Park and wound through a collection of thirty to forty weather-beaten mobile homes that were arrayed along the dusty, serpentine loop. She saw that most had been permanently embedded in the soil while others balanced on dry-rotted tires.
Televisions flickered through the windows of a couple of the trailers near the entrance, but near the rear of the park everything was dark and quiet. As if no one lived back here. Beyond the park? Nothing.
Carmelita had been so busy drinking beer and talking with Eddie that she hadn’t noticed just how far into the country they had driven. Or what roads they had taken. She began to feel alone and vulnerable. Her heart thumped harder, and her palms moistened.
“Doesn’t look like anyone lives here,” she said.
“I do,” Eddie said. “Just ahead.”
What have I gotten myself into? These men were killers. Eddie told her so. What was to stop them from raping her, killing her, dumping her out where no one would ever find her? Her throat felt dry. She tried to swallow, couldn’t, and took a drink of beer. It seemed bitter now. “I should go back.”
“What are you talking about?” Eddie asked.
“I’m tired. I don’t feel well.”
She noticed Alejandro cock his head toward her before she looked into Eddie’s face. He smiled. Seemed so innocent. Was he?
“Relax. We’ll have some fun, you’ll see the bodies, and then I’ll take you back.” Eddie squeezed her thigh. “You’ll see.”
CHAPTER 6
WEDNESDAY 11:48 P.M.
THIS WAS A BIG NIGHT FOR TOMMY AUSTIN. HE AND HIS MENTOR, Sal “Lefty” Bruno, were mechanics. They fixed things. Things that Rocco Scarcella needed fixed. Lefty, ten years older and a hundred years more experienced, had been teaching him the art for a year now. Ever since Rocco brought Lefty in from Jersey. Tonight, Austin, a local boy from Decatur, just across the river, would call the shots.
Half an hour earlier Rocco had summoned them to High Rollers. Said he had a job for them. Austin knew it was something important if the big man wanted to see them on such short notice. They came in the back way as always and went straight up to Rocco’s office, got the details, and in ten minutes, tops, were back in the SUV.
Now they sat in the vehicle on a low rise, sheltered by two hickory trees. The position offered a view of the decaying trailer park where Eddie lived. They settled in and waited. Wouldn’t be long.
Dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt that stretched tightly over his muscular chest and shoulders, Austin aimed the night-vision binoculars at the scattering of mobile homes. They looked like black rectangles, only two punctuated by the green glow from an interior light. He focused on the last and most remote trailer, maybe two hundred feet from where he sat. Dark.
Lefty nudged him. “Here they come.”
The truck stopped, nose aimed at the front door of Eddie’s stubby, round-top trailer. Eddie climbed out.
Carmelita hesitated. In the circle of light created by the truck’s headlamps she could see that the trailer was old, probably white at one time but now a sickly yellow, and listed to one side. A screen door hung askew as if losing its grip. What the hell was she doing?
“Come on,” Eddie said. He reached for her.
What choice did she have? Stay with Alejandro? Not a chance. Her only option was to go with Eddie. The lesser of two evils. She hoped that Eddie was as benign as he appeared. She slid out of the truck. The warm night air seemed cooler.
Eddie told Alejandro he’d see him tomorrow. Alejandro didn’t respond but simply sat, staring ahead.
Carmelita noticed a rusted-out Chevy pickup parked to the side of the trailer. She thought it might be dark blue. “Yours?”
“Yeah.” Eddie opened the door and motioned her inside.
She looked back. Alejandro hadn’t moved. Relax, she told herself. Everything was going to work out.
Austin watched Eddie lead the girl inside the shit box he called home.
Alejandro killed the truck’s engine and flicked off the headlamps, everything now dark and quiet. Austin lifted the night-vision binocs.
Alejandro sat behind the wheel, unmoving, his cigarette flaring bright green as he sucked down another drag. For a second Austin couldn’t figure out why Alejandro hadn’t gone in with them, and then he said to Lefty, “Looks like he’s going to let them get comfy before he does them.”
“That’s what I’d do.”
“We take Alejandro out here, and it’ll make going in easier.”
Lefty nodded. “I hate walking into a situation where I don’t know who’s a shooter and who isn’t.”
“I’d bet only Alejandro’s carrying,” Austin said. “Once he’s down, the rest should be a piece of cake.”
Lefty screwed a fresh CO2 cartridge into the air pistol and settled the dart into the chamber. He handed the weapon to Austin.
Alejandro saw the lights in the trailer click on. The shadows cast by Eddie and Carmelita fell against the curtains. He heard Eddie’s muffled voice and Carmelita’s occasional giggle. The silhouettes came together, moved apart, came back together, and finally went through the motions of undressing. More giggles. Then he heard the hiss of the shower springing to life. Perfect. Good cover for his entry. He’d give them a few minutes. Let them get busy. He lit another cigarette.
Using the sleeping trailers for cover, Austin and Lefty eased up behind Alejandro’s truck and crouched by the tailgate.
Alejandro took another drag from his cig. Its glow pushed against the cab’s rear window.
Come on, asshole. Get out of the truck.
Alejandro didn’t move. Took his own sweet time, casually working on the cig. Like he had all night. Austin glanced at L
efty.
Lefty raised a palm, telling Austin to stay calm. Be patient.
Sure enough, Alejandro climbed from the truck. He took a final long pull from the cig, flicked the butt to the ground, and crushed it with his boot.
Austin stepped from behind the truck. Alejandro turned, surprise in his eyes. Austin leveled the air gun and fired. The fentanyl-soaked dart struck Alejandro’s chest.
Alejandro froze, looked down, then back up. He wavered, grabbed at the truck door for balance, and spiraled to the ground.
To keep from falling, Carmelita grasped the showerhead. With one foot braced against the corner of the claustrophobic stall, she wrapped her other leg around Eddie. Her back bounced against the wall, the stained plastic creaking, as Eddie increased the intensity of his movements. His frantic probing caused more than a little discomfort. Not much longer, she thought. He’s nearly there. She could tolerate it, especially since she had talked him into an extra hundred if she did him in the shower.
She whispered in his ear, “God, you are so good. You make me crazy.”
He moaned and continued his hammering.
“That’s it. Come on. You’re going to make me—”
The shower curtain flew open.
She recoiled, but Eddie didn’t seem to notice, his motions unchecked.
A hand and a long metallic gun barrel extended toward them.
A soft spitting sound and a misty puff from the muzzle. A dart appeared in Eddie’s neck. He jerked around, then wobbled, released his grip on her, and collapsed.
The man who had fired the dart was muscular inside a black T-shirt. He smiled as he settled another dart into the gun and snapped it closed.
Carmelita pressed her back against the far wall of the shower. Another spit from the gun. A sharp pain in her shoulder. Her body sagged, and her legs, suddenly heavy, gave way. She felt as if she were floating. Then nothing.
Using a latex-gloved hand, Lefty twisted off the spray of water. Austin pulled Carmelita from the shower. Lefty handed him his 9 mm, sound suppressor attached. Austin snapped a round into the back of Eddie’s head and returned the weapon to Lefty.
Lefty gathered the girl’s clothes and purse, scattered several bags of crystal meth on the kitchen table, and dug the ring from the pocket of Eddie’s jeans. They loaded Carmelita and Alejandro into the back of the SUV. Austin climbed into Alejandro’s truck and followed Lefty from the trailer park.
CHAPTER 7
THURSDAY 8:24 A.M.
I PARKED IN THE OAK-SHADED CIRCULAR DRIVE OF PATRICE NOMBERG’S antebellum mansion. It belonged in Architectural Digest. Two stories, white with black shutters and trim, and six large Corinthian columns that stretched across the front and supported a pedimented portico.
I had known Patrice since we sat next to each other in sixth grade. She had worn many hats in the years that followed: high school wild child, coed madam, real madam, criminal defendant, probationer, businesswoman, quasi-social worker, to name a few. She got tapped by the Huntsville PD a couple of times and with real prison time, not just a day or two here and there, on the horizon, she went legit. Two very successful boutiques, one downtown, one at the Parkway Place Mall. Bought this mansion on Echols Hill, an old money, tree-shaded bump just east of downtown.
Patrice used her home as a sort of halfway house for stray girls. Girls who had followed Patrice’s path and needed help. She wouldn’t take in anyone who wasn’t drug free and committed to work or school. None under eighteen or over twenty-five. After that, according to Patrice, they were too set in their ways for her to really help. She funded their education, got them jobs, some at her boutiques, gave them room and board, and set up personal savings accounts for them. Everything they needed to get out of the life.
Too bad Noel hadn’t found her way here.
Why was I here? If anyone understood the world of strippers and prostitutes, it was Patrice. Even though she was no longer in the business, just dealing with the aftermath, she knew the players.
A young woman with sleep-tousled, blonde hair opened the door and invited me inside. She wore jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, feet bare. She led me to the kitchen.
Patrice greeted me with a hug and introduced me to Nicolette and then to Lola, another young blonde with penetrating green eyes who was placing plates on the table. She wore a lime T-shirt over faded jeans, her feet bare, too.
“Breakfast is almost ready,” Lola said. “You joining us?”
“The girls take turns cooking,” Patrice said. “You got lucky. Lola’s the best cook in the bunch.”
Lola gave a mock curtsey. “Bacon, eggs, and biscuits. Homemade. My mom’s recipe.”
I declined but took a cup of coffee and sat at the counter.
Patrice sat across from me. “I just read your last book. The one about serial killers. Dark stuff.”
“Goes with the territory,” I said.
“I followed the Brian Kurtz case. You and T-Tommy did a good job there.”
“Mostly him.”
“Right.”
“What have you got for me?” I had called her last night after Miranda left, asking what she knew about Sin-Dee Parker and Noel Edwards.
She cradled her coffee cup in both hands and spoke over it. “Sin-Dee Parker turns tricks for Rosalee Kennedy. An old competitor. I talked with her last night. Sin-Dee’s been with her awhile and brought her Noel. Rosalee sent Noel and a girl named Crystal Robinson out for a twofer a week or so ago, and they never came back. Says that’s not unusual for Crystal and that she’ll turn up soon. Always does.”
“Rosalee call the police?”
Patrice frowned. “She’s not running the Girl Scouts.”
Stupid question. “Who’s the guy? The one they went to see?”
She took a sip of coffee and set the cup on the counter. “Attorney named Ben Weiss. Lives near here on Adams. Has an office down on the square across from the Schiffman Building.”
The Schiffman Building, a city landmark, was the 1902 birthplace of the legendary Tallulah Bankhead.
“I called him, too,” Patrice continued. “Says he’s never heard of Noel and has never hired a hooker.”
“You believe him?”
She smiled. “I never trust guys. Particularly the lawyer ones. You think something’s happened to this girl?”
“Possible. Her mom’s an old friend. Says Noel has problems, but calling home isn’t one of them. Hasn’t heard from her for nearly two weeks.”
“That’s unusual?”
“Recently, anyway.”
“But she’s disappeared before?”
I nodded.
“Then she’ll probably turn up.”
“Let’s hope.”
The new Noel, the back-to-school Noel, might’ve turned up by now. At least she would have called. But had the old Noel taken over? The one that ran off to New Orleans with an older guy? I’d seen that all too often. People who had beat their demons, seemed to be getting back on the right track, only to fall in a ditch along the way. Why? Old habits, lack of character, fear, and self-loathing. Clichés I wasn’t sure I believed. People do what people do. Sometimes rational explanations didn’t fit. That was why AA was forever, no cure, one day at a time.
“You got this guy’s info?” I asked.
“Right here.” Patrice slid a piece of paper across the counter toward me. “I added addresses for Rosalee and Sin-Dee. I told Rosalee you might drop by.”
“Thanks. I owe you.”
“I’ll remember that.” Her smile faded. “There’s more. Sin-Dee and Crystal dance at a strip club called High Rollers. Out off University. Owned by the ever-charming Rocco Scarcella.”
I had heard the name but couldn’t quite grab why out of my memory bank.
“What you need to know is that he’s got his hand in every dirty deal in the state. Drugs, girls, you name it. Remember that health insurance scandal a year or so ago? Took down a couple of the docs over at Memorial Medical Center?”
That
was where I had heard the name. The story had painted the above-the-fold front page of the Huntsville Times for months. “Who doesn’t?”
“Rocco walked, but he was in it.” Patrice caught my gaze. “A word of advice. Rocco’s dangerous. If any of this leads his way, give him a wide berth.”
CHAPTER 8
THURSDAY 8:43 A.M.
ALEJANDRO AWOKE WITH A QUICK INTAKE OF AIR, RELIEF FROM THE smothering sensation that gripped him. As if he had forgotten to breathe or had been holding his breath to avoid . . . what? Something or someone? An image began to form in his mind but then slipped away.
His head throbbed. Mouth dry and sticky. Complete darkness except for a faint glow that slid beneath what appeared to be a door. He lay in a fetal curl on a cold, hard floor, back against an equally cold wall. His breathing the only sound. As his eyes adjusted, the darkness softened. The vague image of a square, high-ceilinged room formed. It appeared empty until his gaze settled on someone huddled in a corner. He could make out no details.
“You awake?” The voice was female, Hispanic. Carmelita.
“Yeah.” He began a mental inventory of his body. Everything hurt. The stiffness in his neck, shoulders, and legs resisted movement, but he pushed himself to a sitting position. His back now rested against the wall. His bare feet flattened against the floor. He patted his pockets, empty, wallet gone. He felt for his watch, also missing. Where was he? How did he get here? He remembered standing outside Eddie’s trailer and then . . . Austin. Shit.
Alejandro touched his chest, locating an area of tenderness, things now coming together. They had darted him. When? How long had he been here? Why did Rocco sic his dogs on him?
He knew the answer to that one. He had fucked up. Or Eddie had, and he was being taken down with that boca ruidosa. The real question was: why was he still alive? Rocco didn’t take prisoners, which meant that Alejandro and Carmelita were alive because Rocco needed something.
“What’s going—?” she began.
