by David Putnam
“Sorry, that’s a no-go. We didn’t have anything recent. The Feds wanted all of our info. We gave them all our old intel, mostly associates, and Field Interrogation cards.”
“What did they have? What did the Feds tell you?”
“They’re the Feds; they want the world, but wouldn’t share anything they had. You know the routine. It was need to know, and, of course, according to them, we didn’t need to know.”
“So we’re talking about the FBI then?”
“Yep.”
“But I know you, Mike, you did a workup on this guy anyway, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I did, but I didn’t know he was linked to Borkow until now when you made the connection. Cortez is off parole. When I went to check on his last known, he’d moved months ago. He’s off the radar. No one’s had a line on a good address for the last three years.”
“Okay, listen, I need a deep background on this guy tonight. Wake people up if you have to. I can have Lieutenant Wicks call you. He has the full authority of the deputy chief to order this and approve any overtime.”
“You got it, I’ll take care of it. But, Bruno, I wanna be in on the takedown. I want a piece of Borkow.”
“You dig this Phillip Cortez out of his hole and you’re in. Page me as soon as you get something. I mean it, the second you have something.”
“I’m on it. Give me three hours.”
“You can have two. Page me.”
CHAPTER SIXTY
BORKOW PUT HIS hand over Olivia’s mouth, his face close to hers as they sat side by side in the dinette in the motor home. “Ssssh. Don’t make a sound or I’ll fix it so you can never make a sound again.” He moved in even closer. His lips touched her ear. “I’ll cut out your squeaker box, you understand?” He kissed her ear. Her body shivered and caused a scintillating effect that made him shiver with arousal, almost as if that shiver had transferred from her to him.
Her sun-kissed skin accented her green eyes, which, though scared, also carried a hint of challenge. She smelled of … of what was it? Cherry blossom. Must’ve been her shampoo; little girls didn’t naturally smell of cherries.
She nodded. He leaned past her and peeked out the curtains of the RV that was now parked amongst cars in the strip center in between Muscle Max and the Grand Orchid massage parlor.
Borkow told Payaso to park in the strip center because he could no longer take the shimmy and shake of the RV moving in and out of the never-changing landscape, the same streets, the same shabby, broken-down houses, over and over again. He couldn’t take any more of it. He also thought there might be a muffler leak venting to the inside of the RV. Why else would his headache be so severe?
They had only been parked a couple of minutes—his body still vibrated from the constant movement of the drive—when Payaso said, “Nobody move. Nobody make a sound.” He came from behind the driver’s wheel and into the living compartment by the dinette. He reached, took the sledgehammer from the table, and stepped quietly to the back door. He eased the curtain aside. In his other hand he held the hammer cocked back at the ready.
Borkow slid out of the dinette and peeked out the curtain over the sink next to it. In a harsh whisper, he said, “I don’t see anything. What’s wrong? What do you see?”
Payaso said nothing.
“Tell me, what did you see?” You little shitweasel.
“It’s that big mayate from the jail, the one that is angry with you.” Stanky Frank? “What? Where?”
“He’s at the corner of the building by the street. He’s looking around.”
The street was behind them, which meant Payaso had seen Frank in the side mirror skulking about. “Just what we need right now.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know, let me think. Just gimme a second to think.”
“There are cops out on the street, a block down, watching the driveway to this place—you saw them when we drove in. I pointed them out to you. They see Frank and recognize him, they’re going to swoop him. That’ll bring the whole world down on our heads.”
“I know that.”
Frank left the corner of the building and lumbered along in front of the other offices, his attention focused on the Grand Orchid, or so it seemed. He moved in and out of the halos from the parking lot lights.
“He’s mad. He’s looking for you, boss.”
“I know that.”
The bailiff’s kid asked, “What did you do to him?”
Borkow quick-stepped over and grabbed her face in one hand, pinching both sides of her cheeks. “I told you once, I’m not going to tell you again—shut your piehole. You say one more word, you’ll not live to regret it, you understand?”
She nodded, but her eyes remained defiant. He’d fix that later, when he had the time, when he wasn’t so vulnerable. He’d make her understand exactly whom she was dealing with. He didn’t care if she was just a teenybopper, either. He wasn’t ever going back to prison, so he didn’t have to worry about a kiddy raper tag.
No one gave him that look and got away with it, especially not a woman, a girl.
Payaso said, “He’s coming this way.” He closed the curtains and stood to the side, cocking the hammer back even farther, ready to bash in Frank’s head if he chose to stick it someplace where it didn’t belong.
Borkow stuck a finger in the girl’s face. “Remember, not a peep. Now lie down on that couch and curl up your legs.” She did as he asked. Borkow leaned over the kitchenette’s sink and peeked out the curtains of the small window, trying to see.
Frank cut across the parking lot, making a beeline right for the RV. He came up to the back-door, put his hands to each side of his face, and tried to peer in through the back-door window. He moved around to the driver’s door to do the same. Borkow stood in the deep shadow. It was darker inside the RV than outside, and if nobody moved, it would be difficult to see objects, let alone the occupants.
Frank didn’t look good under the sodium vapor light. He had dark half-moons under his eyes, his complexion was pale for a black man, and sweat beaded all over his face. His baby-blue shirt was soaked in a wide band down the center of his chest and back. A darker splotch on his huge girth stained the shirt. He’d not received proper medical attention for his gut injury. The one he got when they shoved him through the jail’s Visiting window. It must be infected and hurt like hell.
Borkow tried to push away the image he’d conjured up of what it must look like; pus-filled, swollen, and bloated with purples and reds, a giant boil about to burst. Ol’ Stanky Frank wouldn’t be walking around much longer.
Frank moved off, headed toward the glass doors of Muscle Max.
Payaso whispered, “You want me to take care of him?”
“Of course not. Not if we don’t have to. What kind of freak do you think I am? He was an integral part of the escape. He shoved that window out, or I wouldn’t be standing here right now. I owe him. Doesn’t matter anyway; he’s going to collapse all on his own. It’s not going to be long now. I just hope it’s far away from here.”
Frank shook the door to Muscle Max, tried to peer in, and then moved on. How had he known to look in Muscle Max? He shouldn’t have known anything about the place. Why didn’t he try to get into the Grand Orchid instead? Or any of the other offices for that matter? Only three people knew about Muscle Max: Lizzette, Harold, and Payaso. Somebody had ratted.
Frank finally moved off down the front of the buildings and disappeared around the corner out by the street.
“Stay here. I need to go in and talk with Harold.”
“What about the girl?” Payaso asked.
“Put her in the bathroom.”
He shook his head. “I don’t mess with children.”
“Then what good are you? What exactly? Tell me.”
Borkow grabbed the girl, yanked her up and out of the dinette couch. She let out a little yelp, caught herself, and cut it off, a lot like that puppy had at that place on Bronson.
He tugged her along to the bathroom door. He ripped off a piece of duct tape from the roll and put it across her mouth. He spun her around and taped her hands together behind her back. Maybe a little too tight, but she was a smart-mouth and deserved it. He opened the accordion door, leaned close to her ear, and whispered, “Now I don’t want you two girls gossiping and telling secrets about me, you hear?” He chuckled at his little joke. When he peeked in, he saw that Lizzette sat on the floor with one shoulder to the wall and the other to the toilet bowl. Her eyes were frozen wide and had a milky film over them. Her mouth sagged open and her tongue was purple and dried out. He shoved the girl in on top of Lizzette and closed the accordion door.
From inside came an attempt at a scream muffled by the tape. He said to Payaso, “If that goes on too long, you’re going to have to shut it down. You understand? I’m going inside to talk with Harold. I’ll be right back.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
WICKS PULLED UP and parked on Atlantic Boulevard with a full moon high in the night sky. I got out of his car and headed for the back of the Mexican market, a carniceria. I kept my flashlight off for fear of giving away the tactical advantage, or worse, ruining my night vision.
“Hey, wait up,” he said sorting his keys to unlock the trunk. “Let me get the shotgun out.”
“Come on, we don’t need it for this.”
He hurried to catch up. “What are we doing here, then? You haven’t said two words since we left your dad’s place. I need to know what’s going down.”
“We need to lay our hands on Twyla to trade for Olivia.”
“Borkow wants this Twyla and is willing to trade for Olivia? That’s a new twist you don’t see too often. That’s the name of the broad we were going to tickle the wire with, right?”
“That’s right. Did you get the wiretap up?”
“No, the place doesn’t have a phone, just like you thought. Why does Borkow want this Twyla?”
“He didn’t say.”
I came to the chain link in back of the small strip center. Someone had cut a downward slash through to the adjoining big backyard, which was overgrown with weeds and shrubs and trees that made it jungle-like. Wicks followed along without having a full explanation of what we were doing. We both knew the odds for a favorable outcome were not good, especially with a freak like Borkow involved.
We walked along the side of the house and popped out on Atlantic Drive.
“Hey,” Wicks said, “I didn’t know you could get to this street from Atlantic Boulevard, not like this. Slow down, or we’re going to trip and break an ankle.” He hadn’t turned on his flashlight either.
I kept going, hurrying now to 16357. I followed the long driveway to the house, keeping my shoulder close to the overgrown oleanders. Something wasn’t right about the house. It felt empty. Or maybe it was something else.
At the back wooden porch, I hesitated long enough to pull the Smith 9mm. Wicks pulled his Colt .45 and took up a backing position on my right flank covering the back door. “What’s the matter?”
I shook my head and took the steps. “The place doesn’t feel right.” I turned on my flashlight and peered inside.
The house was in shambles, trashed, overturned and broken furniture, curtains shredded, dishes broken; anything that could be damaged was ruined. Borkow had released a lot of rage; it must have taken him at least twenty minutes.
And he had Olivia while under the influence of that anger.
We checked the whole house.
Wicks came down from upstairs. “It’s clear up there, no sign of anyone. It’s tore up, but not as bad. He’s looking for something and he’s one angry dude. Is this where Twyla was hiding out?”
“That’s right. Come on, let’s check the garage.”
We followed the broken concrete walk to the side door of the garage. We entered following our guns in.
I froze.
Beside me, Wicks held his flashlight illuminating the garage interior. He said, “Son of a bitch. Those are mock-up windows from MCJ Visiting. This is where they practiced for the caper, isn’t it?” He pointed. “Who’s that?”
He’d noticed and commented on the windows first before saying anything about the dead woman.
In the eerie light, a thin, deflated woman sat on the round stainless-steel seat under the Visiting window. Her shoulders were slumped and her hands hung down close to the floor. Her eyes were tented and her lips purple. Her bottle-blond hair looked straw-like and too yellow, as if it came from a doll’s wig. The top of her forehead above her eyes was caved in the same way we found Gloria Bleeker. Done with the same-sized blunt object.
“I don’t know,” I said. “She wasn’t here before.”
“You were here before and you didn’t report this? You didn’t drop a dime and at least tell me about these Visiting windows? That was a mistake, buddy boy, a big mistake. I don’t know if we’re going to be able to cover you on this.”
“I’m not concerned about covering this up.”
“The problem is, the bosses are going to think that if we knew about this place, we might’ve prevented this killing. We could’ve set up on it. If we had, we’d have Borkow right now.”
“I don’t think so. Not the way this whole thing went down. And right now, I really don’t care what the bosses think.”
“What do you mean you don’t think so? What? I … Wait. Wait. Twyla was the one who gave you Little Genie, wasn’t she? She was your unnamed confidential informant who told you where to look on Slauson, wasn’t she?”
Twyla had fled before the cops arrived, and no one—not Nicky or the judge—gave up Twyla’s name or that she’d even been present.
I ignored him and moved closer to the victim. “You recognize her?” I asked.
“You going to answer me?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“You’re right. Maybe I don’t. Yeah, it’s better if I don’t.”
“You recognize her or not?”
“I think so,” Wicks said. “We have photos of the women involved in the breakout at MCJ. She looks like one of them. Yeah, I’m almost sure.”
“She wasn’t killed here,” I said. “She was moved and posed for a reason. Borkow wanted Twyla to see her like this. He must have a good reason. It has to be to intimidate Twyla.”
I got down on one knee and took a closer look. People looked different in death. For some, their personality makes up so much of who they are, how they appear, that when they die, they leave behind someone entirely different, an unrecognizable shell, an abandoned husk.
I sat back on my heels. “Oh man,” I said. “I think I know her. This is that girl I was telling you about with the nice shoes from the Willow Tree massage parlor in Hawthorne. This is Lizzette.”
“Huh. Too bad. This is going to slow us down some. We can’t leave. We have to secure this crime scene. We have to call Homicide and stand by until they get here. That’s protocol. That’s policy, buddy boy.”
“You can. Not me. I’m going after my daughter.”
“Bruno—”
I glared at him.
“All right.” He held up his hand. “All right, then, let’s get moving. What’s next? You got some other lead to chase down? Do you know someplace else we can look for this Twyla broad that you haven’t told me about?”
I turned and headed out.
“Hey, did you hear me? Don’t walk away like that. Tell me what you’re thinking. I’m in it now, up to my nose.”
That was the problem, I didn’t have anything else to chase, not unless Mike Moore from OSS came up with something. That was a long shot if the FBI was also looking for Cortez/Payaso. I had no idea where to look for Twyla, which made the rising anxiety to get Olivia back all the more difficult to suppress. I wanted to break something. I wanted to destroy something. I didn’t need Wicks picking at me with his questions.
Wicks caught up out on the long driveway. He grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. “Come on, we’re partner
s, talk to me. Where are we going to look for this Twyla broad? Right now, she seems to be the only path to Borkow.” He waved his hand behind him. “It looks like Borkow’s looking for her as well. So if we can get on her trail, we might even run into him.”
“She’s gone.”
“What are you talking about? Gone? How do you know?”
“She said she was afraid of Borkow. She said she was going to run to San Francisco as soon as she fingered Genie. She’s gone.”
“Wait. She’s living in a derelict house without power, no water, and no phone? Where the hell is she going to get enough money to get across town let alone all the way up to Frisco?”
I stopped and turned to him. “I gave her ten grand.”
“You what? Where did you … Oh, the judge. It was the judge, wasn’t it? That’s why he was out there with you. That’s why he was rollin’ with you.”
“I didn’t say that, you did.”
“The judge gave her money? That’s a huge conflict of interest.”
“We got Little Genie, didn’t we?”
“He shot and killed someone savin’ your ass and you two got there with money paid to an informant involved up to her tits in this thing. Twyla’s probably one of the other women in the escape. Worse than that, some crazy media outlet is going to claim the judge paid ten grand for a hunting tag.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“To you and me, but not to those blood mongers in the media.”
“Just take it easy; it’s not as bad as you’re making it sound.”
“Ah, man,” Wicks said, “you can’t give a coke whore ten thousand dollars. That’s the same as handing her a hemp rope with the hangman’s noose already tied in it. She’ll buy a big hunk of rock and smoke herself to death. Come on, no more secrets, tell me what we’re doing right now or I’m shutting you down. I’ll cuff you to the bumper of the car for your own good. You know I’ll do it.”
I recognized that look. He was serious. I needed something to feed him, something to keep his mind busy. I grasped at anything that came to mind. “I think I recognized the guy on the tape.”
“What tape?”
