I read through the reports again, skipping over the pictures. There wasn’t much to go on, but it was worth a try. I needed a reason to get to Houston.
I asked Carol to check the FBI databases to see if anything matched the Mason case. It didn’t take long. Houston had a victim after Mason and there were too many similarities for it to be coincidence. The only question was why hadn’t Houston called Brooklyn. “Carol, can you please find out who I need to talk to about this?”
She got back to me in half an hour with the number and a name—Lieutenant John Renkin.
Chapter 11
Mr. Perfect
Houston, Texas
Mr. Perfect finished his squats—twice his body weight, to build his legs and back and also tighten his ass—then he moved to the power bench for chest work. On Wednesday he did chest and legs, and he had another great workout today. His arms and thighs ached, the lactic acid burning, and a glance to the mirror confirmed what a specimen he was. Every week he managed to improve an already perfect body.
While he worked, he watched her. Patti was her name and she was nearly perfect. Not as perfect as him, but nearly. Tight ass. Good legs and arms. Great abs. He wouldn’t call her pretty. Not pretty like him, but…what…sexy. Yes, sexy is what she was, and she had a body to excite a man.
She was doing pull-ups and watching herself in the mirror. She liked to watch. Liked to be watched, too. Mr. Perfect could tell. Occasionally she saw him looking at her and she smiled. Not a cutesy smile, like, “oh gee you caught me looking at you”—no, this was more of a keep-watching-me smile. As he walked past her she smiled at him again. Third time this week. He checked his watch. She would be done soon, so he hurried and finished.
Mr. Perfect always left before she did. Got in the car, cooled off, waited, then followed her home. It wasn’t far. She could have even jogged to the gym, and that thought made him wonder why she didn’t because she liked to run. After three weeks of watching he knew her routine. She worked out four days a week: Monday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday. She came home afterwards and took a long shower. He couldn’t see her take the shower, but with his binoculars he saw her prepare. She went to the kitchen, toweled off, got a drink, then went to the bedroom. As soon as the door closed, he pictured the process she went through. Kicking off her shoes, peeling off her top and bra. What next? He tried to imagine it. Perhaps she’d lean in, turn on the shower, then pull up each leg and take off her socks. After that, she would pull her pants down. He gasped. As soon as the shorts hit the floor, the panties followed.
He unzipped and rubbed himself. He pictured her in the shower, standing with her eyes closed, scrubbing. Rubbing soap all over her body. Lingering at the right places. Oh God, she looked good. He focused on that image for a moment then proceeded. She turned off the shower and began the drying process with a soft fluffy towel. He wanted to be that towel, caressing her, massaging her, crawling into her cracks and tasting her. His eyes popped open and he had to pinch himself. Couldn’t let it go that far. He cleared his head of all thoughts of her, thought of working out. Doing push-ups and sit-ups. Heavy squats. Soon he settled down, lost the urge. Ten to fifteen minutes later, she came out fresh and clean, dressed in a tight T-shirt and panties. He could tell her hair was still wet, so he lifted his head and sniffed the air, pretending he could smell the freshness.
As he drove away, he recalled the way she smiled at him. It was a hungry smile. A needy smile. He stroked himself while driving. Let it build until he could feel the initial stages of ecstasy, then quit. It wasn’t time yet. Maybe next week or the week after. Yes, the week after would do fine. Mr. Perfect would let her have him then.
Chapter 12
Across the Border
Monterrey, Mexico
Juanita and Rosalie finished their walk down the dusty gravel road to the warehouse. They passed by the guards with the guns and waved to the drivers, killing time as they waited for their shipments. For the past six months every day began the same for them. Six days a week, ten hours a day.
“More new drivers,” Juanita said.
“Stupid boys is what they are,” Rosalie added, then tossed her coffee cup into the trash as she walked through the door. In the next room, an eight by ten rectangle with no furniture and bare walls, they stripped their clothes, placing them into a bin with their names written in marker. Rosalie pressed a button on the opposite wall, and a metal door opened. They walked through naked.
Rosalie closed her eyes as she entered, focusing on the job and the money. Where else could she earn this kind of money without prostituting herself. True, she had to work naked all day, absorbing the lecherous glares of the men who watched them, but the bosses made sure all they did was watch. And even though at times it felt as if their eyes were touching her, she learned to put up with that. It wouldn’t be long before she had enough to get her daughter into a house.
She took her station next to Maria, who always got there before them, then went to work without a word spoken. Dialogue was forbidden during the work hours. They got two ten-minute breaks a day and a thirty-minute break at noon—aside from that, no talking. Clothes were forbidden for fear that the women would hide drugs in them. Talking forbidden for fear of plotting. The worst part of the job was leaving at night, when one of the men—and they each took turns—would inspect their asses and vaginas, supposedly to check for drugs. But the rules had been explained up front and packaging cocaine was a serious business. Any breach of the rules meant a swift death.
The women wrapped the cocaine into seemingly endless “bricks” about the size of paperback books, and then the bricks were covered in white paper imprinted with a picture of a wild boar, the symbol of El Jabato. The women listened to the banter among the men about what they would do with the money they earned, and about what they would do with gringo women. Luis talked about having three gringo women in his bed at once, bragging about how he could satisfy them. Rosalie sneered, but replaced it with a quick smile when his gaze shifted to her.
Luis paced, eyes finding each one of them. He must have suspected the animosity. “Anything goes wrong with this shipment and the only thing you need to worry about is the money to pay for your funerals.” He glared. “One day I will see you buried, or laid under me while I enjoy myself.” He brushed up close against each of them as he passed.
When he finally left, Rosalie whispered to Juanita. “Two more months and I’ll have enough money saved to quit.”
“Then what?”
“Back to Yucatan. I have a daughter there. An old mother, too.” She sighed. “It would be nice to be back home again. I left dreaming of the big city, but it’s not—”
“Keep it quiet,” Luis said. “He walked behind them and smacked Rosalie’s ass. “Don’t make me teach you a lesson.”
“Sorry, Luis. My mother is sick. I was just telling Juanita.”
“No need for more talking now that she knows.” He walked around another minute or so then went outside, probably to smoke.
Maria waited for the door to shut. It was one of the few times when none of the men were watching so the women could talk. Tears formed in her eyes. “My brother is sick. He needs me but I need a lot more money. Maybe six or seven more months. After that, though…” She smiled. “After that, I go home.”
Juanita frowned. “You are both crazy. I’m not doing this just to have a pig farm in the Yucatan. I want a real house, even a car and I’m not stopping until I get it all.”
“Sh. Here comes Luis again.”
Berto watched Luis go back in the building then he climbed into the truck, ready for his first run.
Fernando waved at him from halfway across the gravel lot. “Berto. ¿Adonde vas?”
Berto leaned out the window. “Laredo, then San Antonio.”
A frown crossed Fernando’s face. Worry, too. “Since when do you drive shipments, manito?”
“I’m not your little brother anymore. I’m twenty. Mamma had two babies before she was twenty.”
“Then maybe you should have babies instead of delivering drugs. You are less likely to die.”
“And less likely to get rich.” Berto smiled. “Besides, Carlos takes care of us. Nothing will happen.”
Fernando made his way to the truck, stood below the window shaking his head. Worry took a firm grip on him. He looked around to make sure no one was listening then turned back to his brother. “No one can guaranty that. Not even Carlos.”
Berto climbed down from the truck and hugged his brother. “Don’t worry. After four, maybe five, more runs, I will have enough for us. And not just the little farm you think of, but a real farm, with a real house.” He laughed. “That’s when Issa will marry me.”
Fernando looked at him. “She knows what you do?”
Panic set in and Berto wagged a threatening finger at Fernando. “She thinks I am working in Texas. Don’t tell her different, no matter what.”
“I wish I were young enough to have your confidence,” Fernando said, then patted his brother’s back. “Cuidado, manito. Cuidado.”
“You just take care of the girls when you go home. Pretty soon I’ll have more money than both of us need.”
Laughter came again. “That would be nice, manito. Vaya con Dios.”
As Berto drove toward the border, he dreamt of cattle and horses, sheep and pigs, but most of all he dreamt of making love to Issa. Every thought of Issa sent shivers down his body. A smile came to Berto’s face as he let his mind drift more. It was a three-hour drive to the border, and he was eager to get there, but he was careful to keep to the speed limit. The road was heavily traveled, making for a few bumpy spots, but nothing too bad. The worst thing was the music, fading in and out with the terrain. Right now it was in, though, and he was enjoying an old Tito Puente song. He still remembered his father and mother dancing to a scratchy record they had, twirling around their tiny living room, bumping into furniture as they did. Music made them happy.
A straight stretch of road had Berto once again drifting off into a dream world for a while, planning what he’d do with all the money, and how he’d ask Issa to marry him.
Soon the sign for Nuevo Laredo loomed ahead, only forty more kilometers. Already the road grew more crowded, and Berto’s chest tightened and felt heavy. Traffic was always bad in Nuevo Laredo, and at the border it grew worse. An hour later, he inched through the streets, hugging the bumper of the truck in front of him. Horns blared and people dodged in and out of traffic while the gringos from Laredo waited on corners for lights to change, not knowing that some of them never would. The smartest thing for a pedestrian to do in Nuevo Laredo was to follow the street dogs; they knew how to get around safely.
As he approached the bridge, sweat beaded on his forehead. His chest tightened. Gut ached. He grabbed a bottle of water and gulped half of it down, wiped the sweat with a cloth. “Dios mio.” Only three more times, he told himself. Then I’ll be done.
Another half an hour had him within a stone’s throw of the border, sitting on the bridge spanning the Rio Grande. One hundred meters ahead lay Laredo, and the freedom of the United States. Behind him, Nuevo Laredo, and the stifling heat of Mexico. Berto wiped more sweat from his brow and took another sip of water. He needed to get a grip on himself.
Soon he was at the front of the line. Two border patrol guards greeted him, clipboard in hand.
“Buenos días, señor,” the first one said.
“Buenos días. ¿Cómo estás?”
The guard bent down, looking under the trailer. “I’m good. It is the end of another hot day but soon I will be home.”
“Si, señor. Muy caliente.” Carlos had told them to stick to speaking Spanish at the border. No English unless they had to.
The second guard walked around the truck. Tugged on the back doors, then approached the cab. “What are you carrying?”
Berto looked at him with a confused expression and shrugged. “No entiendo.” Sweat beaded on his forehead. His voice cracked.
The guard stared at him for a long time. “Why are you sweating so much, señor? It is hot, but not that hot.” When Berto didn’t answer, the guard pointed to his clipboard and the declaration papers on it. “Where are your papers?”
Berto smiled and nodded. “Si, señor.” He handed the papers to him. Waited.
The guard flipped through the pages but mostly he watched Berto. After about thirty seconds he handed the papers back. “Open the back of the truck.”
Berto panicked. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Carlos said they would be let through. He held his hands in the air and shrugged.
The guard drew a gun. “Get out of the cab. Keep your hands up.”
Berto slammed the truck in gear and hit the gas, ducking in case they fired. They did. Four shots entered the window and one shattered the windshield. Berto risked a peek outside and saw that they were moving to block the road into Laredo. Soon men with shotguns would arrive. He pressed as hard as he could on the gas then opened the door and leapt out. He fell to the ground when he hit, rolling over several times, but then he managed to find his feet. Berto half-stumbled, half-ran toward the Rio Grande. If he could get there, he’d be safe.
The first bullet hit his back near the right shoulder. He lurched, but was able to keep balanced and continued running. The pain raced through his body, pushing fear ahead of it. He had never been shot. Would he die?
He dared a look behind him, but didn’t sacrifice his pace to do it. Three of the border patrol were chasing him, but they would quit once he got to the river. Only about twenty paces to go. Berto pushed harder, feet and legs pumping furiously—then the next shot hit.
“Hijo de puta,” he screamed, and his hand reached for his right kidney. Berto’s legs collapsed and he fell, rolling over twice before slamming against a piece of old sign. He tried getting up but couldn’t, so he crawled. Before he got ten meters they were on him.
“Don’t move.”
He heard the command then felt the cold steel against the back of his head. I wish I said goodbye to Issa.
Chapter 13
Changing Times
Houston, Texas
Tip Denton had finally found it—the perfect ass. The one he’d been looking for all of his life. Smooth as silk and perched atop long, toned, tanned legs. He didn’t yet know who owned these legs, or that ass, but he intended to find out. What good was it being the best damned detective in Texas—hell, the whole world—if you couldn’t do things like that. He rolled over, flipped his pillow to a cool side, smiled.
A long sigh carried him back to his dream, then the phone rang. He kept trying to get back to that ass, but the phone wouldn’t let him. He threw the sheets off and lunged for it. “Tip Denton.”
“We got a live one…”
“Where?”
“Over off FM 2920, south of Huffmeister. You know—”
“Don’t tell me it’s Mollie.”
“You know her?”
“Yeah, I know her. See you there.”
“No hurry.”
Tip made his way to the bathroom, flipped on the light, then threw on pants, socks, and a shirt. Shoes were at the back door—if the dogs hadn’t eaten them.
He got to the kitchen and breathed a sigh of relief. Either the dogs weren’t hungry last night, or just felt sorry for him. He poured a glass of milk, then reached down to acknowledge the dogs.
“Good girls,” he said, and patted them on the head. Tip didn’t know how it had gotten to this, where he felt he had to tell the dogs they were good for not chewing his shoes. Or his chair. Or anything else in the house, but that’s where he was in his life. Living alone with three dogs and dreaming of asses every night.
When the toaster popped, he grabbed the bagel then nodded to the picture of his mother hanging above the mantel in the living room. He did it to remind himself that he had to put every scum-sucking son-of-a-bitch he could behind bars. One day it might even be the one who killed her. Tip took the last sip of milk, rinsed the glas
s, and headed out the door. As he walked down the sidewalk he vowed one more time to find the other guy he was after, the one who made him grow up without a mama, the one who left her pregnant, the one who he carried half the genes of.
He jumped in the car, finding the main road in less than a minute, then hit the gas. Anger built in him as he drove to Mollie’s. If there was anything he hated more than a guy hitting a woman he hadn’t found it yet. Five minutes later he got to FM 2920. FM was the designation of a farm-to-market road in Texas, back when farmers used the old one-lane roads to take their goods to market. Now, 2920 was a five-lane road with traffic lights every half a mile or so. Tip kicked it in, passing a few late-nighters as he made his way to Mollie’s. A few minutes later he pulled to the side of narrow street, got out and pushed his way through half a dozen reporters to get to the front door of a double-wide. Two uniforms guarded the entrance. They moved aside as he approached.
“Who’s that?” the younger cop asked.
“Tip Denton. His real name is George, but I heard he shot the last guy to call him that.”
Tip was almost up to them. He flashed a mean look to the young guy. “Don’t let him scare you. I only shot his leg.”
“Hey, Tip,” the older cop said.
“What have we got?” Tip asked.
He nodded to a skinny, mean-looking woman sitting in a chair at the kitchen table. “She shot him five times, and she’s not denying it.”
“Gun must have jammed.”
The second cop looked at him funny. “What, sir?”
“The gun must have jammed; otherwise, she’d have shot him six times.” Tip laughed. “Don’t ya’ll blame her, though. That fucker’s been beating her for years.”
Tip walked through the small living room into the kitchen. He leaned down until his face was level with the woman. Both eyes were swollen, one shut all the way, and he felt certain her nose was broken. For a second or two, Tip wished Mollie hadn’t shot her husband—and that he’d gotten to the scene first. A man like that shouldn’t die too quickly.
A Bullet for Carlos Page 8
