Tip looked at me as if I were a wacko, but then he smiled. “Well all right, partner. That’s what I like to hear.”
We spent the first few hours at the station, and the next six hours at the jogging trails again, trying to find someone—anyone—who might recognize the photo of Patti Green. After talking to almost every person who entered the park, we exhausted our sources and our voices. It was well past dinner time when we quit and headed to Tip’s house.
Within minutes we were driving down the road to his house. I stared out the window at the trees as Tip pulled up his driveway, slowing to a crawl as he maneuvered the potholes in the gravel road. He leaned forward, straining to identify a car parked near his house. “Whose car is that?”
As we drew near, he recognized it. “What is she doing here?”
“Who, Elena?”
“Elena wouldn’t be caught dead in a car like that. That’s Mollie’s car, but she’s not supposed to be here today.” Tip looked at the clock in the car. “It’s past nine.”
The dogs barked and howled as we walked toward the house and when we went in they ignored Tip and greeted me. “Damn worthless dogs,” Tip said as he headed into the kitchen.
Mollie was mopping the floor on the other side of the room. “What are you doing here?”
She quit mopping, hand resting on the handle as she stared at Tip. “What am I doing here? Cleaning up after that girl.”
“Why, she mess up?”
Mollie’s chuckle sounded more like a cackle, and the way she looked it was fortunate she wasn’t born in old Salem or she would have surely been burnt at the stake. She was a scrawny, wiry thing with hair that might have been red once, but gray had taken over long ago. And her beady eyes turned into balls of fire when she got angry. Mollie leaned toward Tip, cocking her head—which reminded me of a rooster—and let him have it.
“I made her breakfast after you left. Good one, too. Eggs, sausage, potatoes, toast.” Mollie stopped long enough to shoo Flash out of the kitchen then continued. “And what did she do when she was done—left it all on the table. I mean everything: the coffee cup, plate, silverware, even her damn dirty napkin, which she wiped her mouth with a dozen times.” Mollie shook her head. “If that wasn’t bad enough, she then gets dressed and leaves without so much as a thank you or a go to hell.”
Tip struggled with an answer. “Well that sure ain’t right, but I doubt that her breakfast dishes kept you here all day, and—” before he got the rest of the words out, Mollie went on talking. She turned to me and started up again.
“Don’t mind me, girl. And by the way, I call everybody girl so it’s nothing personal, but that Elena just plain ticked me off. Not that I would have let her clean anything, mind you. Damn girl probably don’t know how to clean a dish, but she should have offered. That’s the point.” Mollie looked at me as if realizing for the first time that I was there. She leaned the mop against the refrigerator and walked over to me, hand extended. “I guess you know I’m Mollie. What’s your name?”
It was Tip’s turn to get embarrassed. “Sorry, Mollie, this is my partner, Connie Gianelli. She’s from New York.”
Mollie shook hands and smiled. “I won’t hold that against you—being from New York, I mean. I’ve even known one or two people from there that I liked.”
A genuine laugh rose from my gut. “Thanks, there aren’t more than a few New Yorkers I like, and I live there.”
Mollie stared at me for what seemed like half a minute, then she nodded. “Yep, I guess I like you. Seem like a real person to me.” She turned to face Tip. “I don’t see where her nose is bad. A little bump is all, but it’s all right.” Mollie shook her head. “If I were you, Tip, I’d get rid of that other one…what’s her name…Lanie or something.”
Tip’s face underwent a chameleon transformation from pale white to red in one shot. “Her name is Elena. Anyway, we’ve got work to do, so…”
“Yeah, I know, shut-up. You want old Mollie to stay out of your affairs. All right. No need to say more.” She grabbed the mop and started back to work. “Give me fifteen minutes before you walk over here.” Hunched over, she worked that mop with a fury, mumbling the whole time. “Don’t need no damn footprints on a clean floor.”
Tip grabbed me by the arm, leading me into the former dining room, turned office. “We’ll be in here, Mollie. We got work to do.”
One of Mollie’s short cackles bounced off the walls. “You’re damn right about havin’ work to do. I was lookin’ at those charts of yours. You need to find that crazy son-of-a-bitch before he gets another poor girl. Damn sin what he does to them.”
Tip hit his fist on the table. “Goddamnit, you know you’re not supposed to be looking at these charts. This is police business.”
“Now there you go with that cursing. I know I curse, but I don’t take the Lord’s name like that.” She glared at Tip. “Besides, you know I’m not saying anything. Elena’s the one you need to worry about, and don’t tell me she doesn’t peek at those charts when you’re not here.” Mollie backed from the kitchen into the family room. “Aside from all that, you could use some help. I watch all them cop shows: Criminal Minds, CSI, Cold Case, Forensics. I could teach you a thing or two about police work.”
“Mollie—”
She held up her hand to stop him. “I know. I know. Don’t worry, I’m leaving.” She looked at me. “Could you hand me my purse please, sitting right there on the table.”
Tip had already started on the chart, scribbling ‘Carlos Cortes’ across the top in bold black marker, with a thick line underneath. He was writing ‘#1’ when I came in.
“I still don’t think we should be doing this, Tip. Maybe we should give what we’ve got to the lieutenant and let HPD run with it.”
Next to #1 he wrote, ‘go to the streets’ and he had some names that I couldn’t read. “Already told you, the guys they got on the case can’t find their dicks in the dark. I’m not letting Tony’s killer go free.”
“What if they rule it a suicide?”
“That’s another reason why I’m doing this. No way I’m letting his wife and kids think he took his own life.” Tip stopped midway through #2 and turned to face me. “If you want out of this, say so. I got no problem doing it myself.”
“No way. I’m in, just…”
“Just what?”
“Nothing. I’m in, but I think we need to get more aggressive on Patti’s case.”
“We got the story airing tonight on the news, and again tomorrow. Maybe somebody will see it.”
“If Houston’s anything like New York, what we’ll get is a million calls that are all dead ends.”
“Yeah, I know. But one of them might be the one that breaks it. Where’s your faith?”
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”
We worked long into the night on strategy, every now and then re-visiting the chart on the “lips killer,” as the papers were calling him, but coming up dry. After about the fifth yawn from me, Tip tried to stifle his own but couldn’t. “Guess it’s time to take you home or you won’t be worth shit in the morning.”
“You’re right about that,” I said, and headed for the door. “Good night girls.” I petted each of the dogs before leaving.
As Tip drove, I thought about the day, and about Tony, which made me think of Sean and Jerry. Three people dead because of me. Before I knew it we were at my place.
“See you at 8:00,” Tip said.
I got out, then I trudged up the steps to the apartment and plopped on the sofa. After resting for a few minutes I ran water for a bath, piping hot, then turned on the Jacuzzi and climbed in. As the water rose up over my folded knees, I lay my head against a towel and closed my eyes. There was no better way to end the day than this.
When I tucked myself in I made sure to say a few prayers. I blessed myself then closed my eyes. I always talked out loud when I said prayers, unless it was in public. “God, I don’t know if you even listen to prayers. I think you do, beca
use some miracle got me out of that alley. But either way, I got a few special requests. You know how much I have to be sorry for, and you know I really am sorry. But there’s some son-of-a-bitch somewhere, God, who got Sean and Jerry killed. And if it’s this guy Carlos, the one who got Tony killed…well…I’m going to get his ass. First I’m gonna find the nut who killed Patti, but then, I swear, I’ll get Carlos. So don’t get pissed at me when I do, okay?”
In the morning, I was outside at 7:55. Tip pulled up a minute before 8:00.
I got in his car. “Where are we starting?”
“The streets. I used to work narcotics. Been a while but I still have connections, and we’re going to put some pressure on our friend, Carlos.”
“I’m still nervous about this. The other case—”
“Is being taken care of. I already called the lieutenant. He’s going to have a couple of uniforms out on the jogging trails today and tomorrow. And we’ve got people manning the calls from the news last night.”
After half an hour of traffic, Tip turned into a parking lot off of Westheimer, not far from El Paradiso.
“What’s here?”
“A guy I know. If anybody can tell us where to find what we want, it’ll be Tiny.”
“What makes you think he’s still here? You said it’s been a while since you’ve been in narcotics.”
“Tiny’s been here forever. I think he was born here. Anyway, there he is now.”
I looked toward a small donut shop in a strip shopping center and there was a very small, better described as tiny man, standing outside. “I expected him to be big.”
“With a name like Tiny?”
“Usually it’s…never mind.”
Tip parked and got out. I joined him. “Tiny, what’s up, man?”
He hunched over, squinting. A big smile broke out on his face. “Tipster. If it ain’t the Tipster. Been a long time. You must have done something bad for them to demote you like this.”
“Not demoted, Tiny, just slumming. I’ve got a special case I’m working on and I need help.”
Tiny cocked his head, looking around as if someone might be watching. “How’s this gonna work, Tipster? I mean, if you ain’t back in it, how you gonna help me?”
“I see you still got those rotten teeth and filthy clothes.” Tip nodded to a stack of cardboard boxes in the corner of a fenced in area close to the dumpsters. “And still no home.”
Tiny tried to bring himself up straight, but his hunched back looked as if it had been molded into shape. Defiance found a spot in his tone though. “And I see you still got that ugly fuckin’ scar on your face.” He smiled, bobbing his head as if he’d done good.
Tip laughed and placed his hand on Tiny’s shoulder. “You’re funny. A funny man, but I guess you’re not going to help.” Tip looked to me. “Darlin’, you got any matches?”
I didn’t know what he wanted, but I played along. “Sure, Tip. In the car.” I walked in that direction, until Tiny’s protestations stopped me.
“Whoa. Wait up. Wait up. What’s going on, Tipster?”
“Just going to burn those boxes…and whatever’s in them.”
Tiny grabbed his sleeve. “No, man. Wait.”
“Find yourself another home,” Tip said, shaking him off. “This one is gone. And I’ll be back here every two days to see it’s gone for good.”
Tiny’s laugh was a garbled squawk, ranging from gravelly to a high-pitched squeak. “This is my home, man. You can’t do this shit. I been here twenty years.” He looked at Tip with pleading eyes. “How people gonna find me if I’m not here?”
“Guess you’ll have to leave a sign,” Tip said, then, “Connie, give me those matches will ya’, darlin’.”
I ran over, but Tiny had heard enough. His hands went up in surrender. “Okay, okay, Tipster. What you need?”
“You know about El Paradiso?”
“Shit, man, everybody knows Paradise.”
“Tell me.”
“Outta my league. Way, way outta my league. Big-time deals and rich-boy deals go down there.” Tiny smiled, showing three of the few teeth he had left. “I hear it all. You know that. I always had good ears. Still do.”
“So tell me what you hear.”
Tiny did his “look around” to make sure they had privacy, though nobody was in sight for a hundred yards, then he spoke in a low voice, which added gravel to an already raspy caw. “Mexican guy name of Carlos. They call him El Jabato.”
“El Jabato?” I asked.
“That’s right. Say he got the name because he’s as crazy as a wild boar, and as fearless.”
“Go on,” Tip said.
“Anyway, he’s got the streets covered. Got runners everywhere and word is, the stuff he gets is good. Real good.”
“Where can I hit him the hardest?” Tip asked.
“Club. Hit him at the club.”
Hit him at the club. That got me excited. Maybe we’d get something on Carlos after all.
Tip patted him on the back. “You did all right, Tiny. I appreciate it.” He pulled a fifty from his pocket and handed it to him.
Tiny’s face lit and his eyes sparkled. He seemed to stand a little straighter, too. He grabbed the bill by both ends and snapped it, smiling. “You’re still the man, Tipster.” He looked at me after he said it. “They don’t call him the Tipster for nothing.”
Tip waited for his elation to wane, then, “I’ll tell you what, Tiny. Every time you get me a name of one of Carlos’ dealers that pans out, you’ll get another one of these.”
Tiny did a dance right there in the parking lot. “If you’re not blowin’ shit, Tiny’s gonna be crashin’ in a hotel. No more parking lots for me.” He grabbed hold of Tip’s sleeve. “I’ll be soundin’ the bell on your phone, Tipster. Real soon.”
“Thanks,” Tip said, and we headed for the car.
“You better go to the bank,” Tiny yelled. “Get plenty of them Grants, and have ‘em with you when you come back. Maybe bring a few Franklins, too.” He was still babbling when we pulled out of the parking lot.
“What now?” I asked.
“Now we get with the guys in narcotics, at least the ones I think we can trust, and put the pressure on Carlos.” Tip looked up a number on his phone and dialed it. I heard a guy answer.
“Murdock.”
“Bobby, it’s Tip Denton.”
“Well, son-of-a-bitch. What the hell are you up to?”
“I’m with my partner so I’m putting you on speaker.”
“Okay. What’s the occasion?”
“Got some information on Tony’s murder, and we need to apply pressure.”
Silence, then. “Murder? I thought they ruled it a suicide?”
“You know damn well Tony didn’t kill himself. Some drug dealer named Carlos Cortes did it.”
“Carlos? He’s a mean one.”
“They say he goes by El Jabato, and—”
“Don’t need to go any further. I know Carlos. I’ve wanted that son-of-a-bitch for a long time. A real long time. He’s got good connections, but if we can tie him to Tony, ain’t nobody protecting him.”
“I’ll have you names to work on before the day’s out unless I miss my guess.”
“I got plenty of names already. Don’t worry, between me and my partner, we’ll put some hurt on this guy.”
“That’s what I like to hear, Bobby. But one thing, none of this came from me, hear?”
“I didn’t hear shit.”
“That’s what I’m talking about. Call me when you get something.”
Tip hung up the phone, looked up another number and dialed. “Hey, Julie. I need a secret favor. Remember that guy you looked up for me—Cortes? I need more information. Lots more.”
“Carlos isn’t going to like this,” I said.
Tip smiled as he pulled the car onto the freeway. “Not one damn bit.”
I rolled the window down and stared at the scenery as Tip drove. After a few minutes I had an idea. “I
know you don’t like her, but maybe we should get Samantha Roberts to do a piece on the club, raise citizens’ ire, get the community to put the pressure on. That kind of thing. I don’t care what connections Carlos has, if enough citizens get up in arms somebody’s got to react.”
“I think some of that’s been done and nothing came of it. Anyway, why would I give it to her?”
“She’s got balls, that’s why; besides, it wouldn’t hurt to offer an olive branch.”
He drove in silence for a while then, as we were passing through a toll booth, “You call her. I’m not talking to that bitch.”
“She won’t like me calling her anymore than you, but I’ll do it, and I’ll make sure we get what we need. Between the pressure from your guys and pressure from her we ought to stir something up.” I scribbled a reminder in my notepad. “Now let’s talk about the murders? We’ve got to find this guy.”
“I know we do, but right now we’ve got nothing to go on, so we’ll focus on Carlos.” Tip turned to me, and there was a hard look in his eyes. “Don’t worry, we’ll get whoever killed Patti. I promise.”
“I’ll tell you what, Tip, drop me off at my place. I need to catch up on my workouts. I might even go to Cypresswood to run. I’ll meet you at your house later.”
“You got it, girl.”
Chapter 37
Mr. Perfect Goes Hunting
Mr. Perfect wanted to wait. He knew he should let the furor from the last one settle down. Let the files gather dust in the back room of the station…but he couldn’t. No matter how hard he tried, the women wouldn’t let him quit. Everyplace he went they were there, staring at him, smiling at him, lying to him with their innocent faces and toned bodies.
He forced himself to go to lunch with someone, a male, so he wouldn’t be tempted. After a few fajitas, a few margaritas and some chips, he felt better. Maybe it was the food, or maybe the drinks. Either way, he did feel better. He worked a couple of hours, then took off at four to jog. A five-mile run would fix him for the night.
By the time he hit the second mile marker sweat stained his shirt and his endorphins kicked in, providing that natural high that felt so good. As he relaxed, a sound snuck up on him from behind, another runner. He didn’t like being passed—not when he drove, and certainly not when he jogged. A frown replaced the smile as a fine-looking woman rushed by him, her dark-tanned body barely hidden by the shorts and halter top she wore. A light whiff of perfume trailed behind her and assaulted his senses. It might have been soap or body lotion, but it didn’t matter, he hated all of the smells. Mr. Perfect brushed his skin, trying to wipe it away, but it clung to him as if he had doused himself with it.
A Bullet for Carlos Page 23
