A Bullet for Carlos

by Giacomo Giammatteo

  As I left the hotel for the parking garage across the street, a man approached, walking with a limp and slightly hunched. His limp made me think about my own leg, which still hurt if I stayed on it for too long.

  He nodded in my direction. “Morning, ma’am. Fine day.”

  “It is a fine day,” I said.

  As I turned to leave, he said. “Rushing off, Detective?”

  Recognition came immediately, that hint of a Mexican accent mixed with Texas drawl. I reached my hand out. “You must be Tony.”

  He straightened and the smile on his face made him look younger. “How about we get some coffee and you can tell me what you want.” Tony pointed down the street. “See that coffee shop about half a block down. Meet me in ten minutes. I have to make a few calls first.”

  As I started down the street, he hollered to me. “Get me a coffee with cream, no sugar. I’ll see you in ten.”

  About halfway to the coffee shop I realized I was sweating. What kind of place was this—sweating early in the morning? Then I walked into the cafe and damn near froze. I half expected to see sides of beef hanging from the ceiling.

  I downed my espresso and got a second one when I ordered Tony’s drink. He had sharp, angular features and a beautiful skin tone that made for a striking appearance. Quite a package for some lucky woman. “You want anything to eat?”

  “Already had breakfast with my wife,” he said.

  I liked his answer, the way he started out by mentioning his wife. A lot of guys liked to be flirted with, and others didn’t. Maybe they didn’t trust their own ability to resist temptation, so they mentioned their wife as a shield against it. As I handed Tony the coffee, I wondered if Tip Denton was married. God pity the woman if he was. I leaned across the table and almost whispered to Tony. “Just so you know, I’m not supposed to be anywhere near this case.”

  “Why, what’s up? The last I heard you were a hero.”

  “Yeah, well…there were complications. The hero part saved me, but we had problems.”

  Tony sipped on his coffee, examining me with suspicious eyes. “You want to fill me in on the complications. I’m not risking my ass for you unless I know what’s going on.”

  I hesitated.

  “Think about it. I’m getting a scone.”

  While Tony waited in line, I thought about how to tell him. I couldn’t afford to not have this guy trust me. About two minutes later, he returned, putting an end to my deliberations.

  Tony had a casual, easy way about him. The way he moved, talked, smiled. “Why don’t you first tell me how you managed to get to Houston, then tell me what story you made up about the complications you mentioned.”

  I laughed. If I had decided on a story, that statement would have taken me off guard. “Coincidence, kind of, on the Houston. I got relegated to cold cases and there was a murder that tied to Houston. I jumped on it to get here. As far as the story, I decided on the truth. For better or worse.”

  His hands went up in defense. “I’m already married. Don’t go mentioning that better or worse stuff.”

  “Why, has it been mostly worse?”

  “Not for me. Lots of guys say that, but I got lucky. I have a sweetheart wife and a couple of great kids. I just hope they stay that way.” He munched on his scone, then took a big sip of coffee. “One of the reasons I’m in narcotics is because of them.”

  “How so?”

  “I had a brother who died from drugs and I saw what that did to my parents. I know I can’t get all the drugs off the street, but I like to think I can make a difference.”

  A shiver ran up my spine. A nice, warm shiver. I had a good bullshit meter, and I could tell that the cop sitting across from me was a good man. “I’m sure you make a lot of difference.”

  He sat in silence, waiting for me to continue.

  I drained the second cup of espresso then moved it to the side of the table. “We…my partner, Sean and I…we put a lot of hurt on the drug people in Brooklyn. Best team the borough ever had. We busted Mafia drugs, Russian drugs, Jamaican, Colombian…you name it. But we never seemed able to get this one Mexican drug guy, and he was moving big shipments.” I stopped, felt nerves eating at me. “Then I got a tip on one of the main contacts for him in Brooklyn and I set up a deal. My partner, Sean, got pissed at first, me being the junior on the team, but then he got excited about the prospect of maybe busting this guy. We did a few small deals, making sure to get them comfortable, then we set up a bigger buy, the one to put us in tight. We used another guy on the team, real experienced undercover guy.”

  As I told the story I stared at Tony.

  “The night of the deal, there was Sean, me, and Jerry…” I shifted my gaze to the table, then back to Tony. “I don’t know what happened, but they knew it was a bust. They killed Jerry first, then came after Sean and me. Killed him, and shot me in the leg. Would’ve killed me, too, if not for luck.”

  “What happened to backup?”

  “We went in without it.” I shook my head again. Every time I spoke about this it made me sick. I knew it looked bad. Hell, if someone told me this sorry-ass story I’d tell them they were full of shit. Worst of all was the sickening feeling I got in my gut about Sean. “Sean suggested it.”

  I looked back at Tony, realizing he had been patiently waiting. I took a deep breath.

  “So IA is saying that your partner was dirty.”

  “IA thinks we were all dirty.”

  “So how did you go from being under suspicion to being a hero?”

  “Funny story, but a long one. Bottom line is I got lucky.”

  “Second time you said that. But why don’t you tell me the funny story. I like to laugh.”

  “Someone got the bright idea to plant a story in the paper about this hero, woman cop. As the paper said ‘…a pretty little undercover agent, who happened to kill an army of drug dealers, and all of this with a bullet in her leg.’ Some nonsense like that is what started it, then all the papers made it front page.” I laughed. “If there’s one thing that will get your ass off the hook with the boss, it’s headlines. At least in Brooklyn.”

  Tony finished his scone and coffee, wiped his mouth with a napkin and folded it next to his cup. “I guess that’s the same everywhere.”

  I leaned forward. “You’re the only connection I have with this case…and I have got to get my name cleared. Right now it’s okay, but they’re looking for a chance to bury me. The captain already suggested I take ‘early retirement’ due to my injury.”

  “So take it.”

  I cocked my head and raised my eyebrows. “You know how you said you wanted to make a difference.” I waited for his nod before continuing. “I have some things I want to make a difference with, too.” My face tightened. “They’re not chasing me off the force.”

  Tony grinned, and his dark eyes sparkled. “You got a pen?”

  I reached into my pocket and handed him one.

  He grabbed a napkin, wrote a telephone number on it and handed it back. “This is my home number. If you need me for something important, call me or leave a message with my wife. Belinda is her name. If I don’t hear from you we’ll meet on Wednesday morning at 7:30. That work for you?”

  I reached out my hand to shake. “Tony, I can’t thank you enough. I…”

  He stood, cleaned off the table. “Don’t worry. Us cops got to stick together.”

  As we walked down the block we made small talk. “So who did they partner you up with?”

  “Guy named Tip Denton.”

  “Better watch your ass.”

  “So I’ve heard. You know him?”

  “I know Tip. I used to be with the Sheriff’s department.” Tony shot me a raised-eyebrow glance. “Anybody fill you in on him?”

  “Why don’t you start.”

  He looked around, as if he didn’t want to be caught saying something. “Tip can get a little rough with people. Some suspects have had accidents while Tip is investigating them.”

 
“That’s all I need is a psycho partner.”

  “Don’t misunderstand. Tip is one of the best cops I’ve ever seen. He’s a throwback to the old days, knows everyone on the streets, has more informants than the FBI has agents, and he usually has tips on whatever is happening in the city. When he first started it cost him a fortune to get it set up, but he did it.”

  The noise from the morning traffic made it difficult to hear. I had to raise my voice. “Where’d he get the money?”

  “I don’t know. Some people said he was crooked, others that he held out from a major drug bust when he was in narcotics, and there was a persistent rumor that he was a gigolo by night, but knowing Tip, chances are he spread that himself.”

  “So what’s your opinion. On where he gets the money, I mean.”

  Tony shook his head and frowned. “He’s not on the take, and I know he wouldn’t take drug money. All I’m saying is that he might be a little harsh with suspects.”

  “A little harsh?”

  “At times,” Tony said.

  “Anything else I need to know?”

  “Yeah. If you get in a jam, he’s the best guy on the force to have with you.”

  “He doesn’t look that tough.”

  Tony scoffed. “Shit. He’s not the biggest guy, but his body is rock hard. I know he was in the marines and he boxed in college—not good enough to make it a career, but good enough to kick most people’s ass. And he did plenty of street fighting. If somebody gets into it with Tip Denton, they’ll get hurt. Probably bad.”

  This gave me some comfort, especially after what I went through in that alley in Brooklyn, but then again, “tough” didn’t stop bullets.

  “So what’s he like?” I asked. “Can I trust him?”

  “Tip has a tendency to get in trouble, but he’s a damn good cop.”

  We had stopped walking, time to go separate ways. “I appreciate all that you’ve done.”

  “See you on Wednesday,” he said.

  I watched him walk away, chiding myself for not telling him about the missing drugs. If he found out on his own, he’d surely suspect me, but… “Hell with it.” I headed to the station, eager to get started on the case.

  Within half an hour after arriving, I had my desk organized and had the files on top ready for review. The Mason file lay open and, despite how it revolted me, I stared at the pictures until they were ingrained in my head. Afterwards, I opened the file on the Lisa Gardner case, the one from Houston, and studied it. The women couldn’t have looked more different—one blonde, one brunette; one tall, one short; one pale-skinned, the other dark. But the one obvious similarity was enough to overcome all the differences: both were missing their lips.

  I looked at my watch—9:00, and wondered where Tip was, and if he was always this late. I got more coffee, then returned the files. One from New York, with obvious ties to Houston, and the other a local girl, with no ties to New York. One of them—Mason—was filthy rich. Gardner was an administrator at a local company, with no family money. They were both in their late twenties. I looked closely at the pictures, trying to avoid the facial shots. These women were in good physical shape, great figures, and attractive. I jotted the notes down next to the other observations.

  From over my shoulder a voice interrupted me. “What you’ve got to do is figure out how he knew them.”

  I turned and looked up at Tip. “Late night?”

  “All my nights are late, but today was a late morning, too.” He sat in a chair next to me. “We need to get someone to check with the FBI and see if there are any other cases like this. If we find them in other states it might mean we have a traveling killer.” He paused, staring at the files and shaking his head. “If not, we’ve probably got a killer either in New York or Houston.”

  “Why didn’t you check with VICAP originally. The Mason case would have come up if you did.”

  Tip sighed. “This case was handled by Bud Shepherd. He not only wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, he was downright old-dog lazy. I know you got the link to us from the Feds, but that might have been put in after Bud left. Somebody finally got smart and forced retirement on him.”

  “So why do you think this nut takes their lips?”

  Tip didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know, and I can’t figure out why he would, other than to say he’s a sick bastard, but we already know that.”

  Tip moved closer, studying the pictures. “Can’t stand someone to hurt a woman.”

  I scrunched up my eyebrows and looked at Tip. He said that with such conviction, as if he believed it deep in his soul. It was the second warm feeling I’d had about a man today.

  We studied the files for the rest of the day, buried in details and cross-examining everything in each report. The next day we tried contacting anyone connected to the Gardner case, and we traded theories about what the killer was doing and why he did what he did, including removing the victims’ lips. The FBI check came up blank—no other victims with the same M.O.. That left us with absolutely nothing. A dead-end investigation seemed inevitable if we didn’t get a break.

  Tip’s heart didn’t seem to be in this case, but I had my head glued to the files. “We’ll find something,” I told him.

  “That’s a good attitude, an admirable one, but it doesn’t mean much in the real world. We need evidence.” Tip waited but I said nothing. “I’m going to get coffee. Want any?”

  “No thanks.”

  “By the way,” Tip said, “that limp of yours is getting better. That’s a shame because it was kinda cute on you.” With that, he walked toward the coffee room.

  I waited for the smart-ass remark I felt sure was coming, but it never came, and that made me shake my head again. Crazy damn Texan. I was working on a list of questions to ask Tip, when an older woman with tree-trunk legs and a round face walked up. I didn’t remember meeting her, and I felt sure I would have remembered such a somber face.

  “Where’s Tip?” Her voice was as sturdy as her legs and it resonated with authority.

  “I’m right here, Betty.” He walked up behind her, a cup of coffee in both hands.

  “I don’t know what you two had planned, but the lieutenant said to tell you we got another body.”

  Tip sat down and handed me a coffee. “Remind John that he put me on garbage duty with our guest from New York.”

  Betty shuffled, leaned in and set a piece of paper down in front of him. “He knows. He said to tell you the body’s got no lips.”

  “Goddamn.” Tip looked at the address on the paper, tossed the coffee into the trash, jumped up, grabbed me, and planted a kiss on my cheek. “Here we go, Yankee girl. Get your shit ready.”

  Crazy damn Texan.

  Chapter 19

  Distribution

  Monterrey, Mexico

  Technically it was still spring, but the heat had already descended on Monterrey. Not noon yet, the temperature was ninety-two degrees, according to how Americans measured it. Carlos continued to educate himself in American ways, and he insisted on it with his men. If they were to establish strong bases in the States, he needed his men to be comfortable with American ways, including their odd means of measurement. A cool glass of lemon water sat next to his hand and a pack of Marlboro cigarettes lay on the table beside it. He preferred Fortuna, a brand of Spanish cigarettes he had smoked for years, but since he insisted on his men taking up the American ways, he did it as well.

  When his advisors arrived, Carlos outlined his plan for distribution of drugs in the markets they had targeted: New York, Atlanta and Houston first, followed by Wilmington, Delaware in the East. To someone not familiar with the area, Wilmington might seem like an odd choice, but it was perfectly situated: thirty miles from Philadelphia, sixty from Baltimore, and one hundred from Washington, D.C.. Even better, the city was undermanned in terms of drug task forces. A perfect combination. As for the rest of Carlos’ plan—Dallas, St. Louis and Chicago would round out the Southwest and Midwest.

  “
I still don’t like it,” Tico said. “We have problems already. If we spread too thin, it all breaks apart—like a piñata.”

  “Why not let the Italians handle distribution?” Tomás said. “They have the connections, a pipeline, and they pay the right people. With the Colombians and Russians giving them trouble, they need a new ally.”

  “But that all comes with a price,” Carlos said. “If the Italians take the distribution they also take sixty percent of the profits. That buys a lot of tortillas in Monterrey.”

  Tico shook his head. “That still leaves a lot of money, with a lot less risk.”

  Carlos stood, lit a cigarette, his eyes riveting each of them. “Have we grown so fat we cannot wash our feet now? Or wipe our asses?” Smoke whistled from the corner of his mouth. “Risk. Danger. Next you will want Colombians to get it into the US for us, then Cubans to package the drugs. Pretty soon we’ll be paying money to have our drugs sold on the streets. After that we’ll be broke. And dead.” Carlos sucked long and hard on the cigarette, straining the ash. “This is how we stay strong. Fear keeps us on edge. If we grow soft we invite people to take it from us.” He looked at each of them. “Let me tell you something, amigos. No one is going to take this from me. I will kill whoever I have to, and as many as I have to. Remember that the next time you want to give distribution to the Italians.”

  Tico threw his hands in the air. “Then we need to improve security. And we need better protection.”

  Carlos nodded. “And someone to clean the money, and more people to drive the trucks, and many other things. I know this. All in good time.” Carlos took his seat and resumed sipping his drink.

  A man entered and whispered in Tomás’ ear. Tomás questioned him and then the man departed.