Ray Tate and Djuna Brown Mysteries 3-Book Bundle

by Lee Lamothe

  She said, nodding thoughtfully, “That might work. You get one man with a working dick on the jury, Peter, maybe you got a shot.”

  Peter van Meister rattled at his manacles energetically and shouted at the camera. “I didn’t do no dark. Those Chinese, they deserve what we gave them. Burn them rats out. Sink the boats, stop the plague. But I don’t fuck black chicks. I’m committed to my heritage.”

  “Okay, Peter, okay.” Martinique Frost patted her hands above the desk. “Calm down, man. We just go where it leads us, you know? They’re racial rapes, no question. So, if it wasn’t you, who among the committed might have betrayed the cause, the honest cause? You got an idea? One of the other guys we brought in with you? Likes the sisters, can’t help himself?”

  Peter van Meister was calmed that he wasn’t on the spot for racial rape. “No. Those guys? No. We don’t cross. We’d never cross.”

  She said, “We’re going public tomorrow morning, Peter. We’re going to put it on the Volunteers, all of it on all of you. Chinatown, the race rapes. And believe me, it’ll be the rapes that you guys get famous for. You can head this off, if you’ve got a clue, an avenue we can pursue, so we can stop the press conference that’ll make you guys look like perverts hiding behind the cause of true white America.”

  It didn’t work. Proudly, he recited, “I know my rights. I-want-a-lawyer.” He looked up at the camera. “Law Yer Now.”

  Ray Tate started laughing. “Get two, Peter. You’re gonna need ’em both.”

  They waited in the corridor until they finished laughing like dazed fools.

  Ray Tate shook his head in disbelief. “We’re putting it down. More than a dozen homicides and we did it by begging him not to confess.”

  “But not our ladies, Ray. That’s our mission.”

  “I know. But, you think about it, it’s pretty cool. We could gag these loons and they’d blink out confessions with their eyelids for the camera, Morse code.” He made his face straight, said, “Here goes,” and opened the door to Interview B.

  A muscular, shaven-headed man in a ripped T-shirt with blurry race and jailhouse tattoos on his arms and neck sprawled back in his chair and looked up at the camera with his arms folded and yawned. “Lawyer.”

  Clearly outclassed by a criminal genius, Ray Tate picked up the bio data sheet, and said, “Have a nice day,” and stepped out.

  “He shut me down.” Ray Tate looked over the biodata. “Name, Ansel Partridge.” He laughed. “Address: fuck you.”

  Martinique Frost said, “Been there, done that.”

  Chapter 13

  In Interview C a bare-chested blond man with the fresh WPP tattoo on his chest looked up when they entered. He had long muscles and a workingman’s tan up to his mid-bicep and down to the bottom of his throat. He clamped his mouth under a faint Hitler moustache.

  He didn’t say the magic words, so Ray Tate and Martinique Frost sat down facing each other at the far end of the long table, ignoring him for a few minutes. As if she had nothing better to do, she picked the sheet of bio data off the table and started reading. Ray Tate immediately got up and paced around as if his bones were stiff and stopped behind the man manacled to the table. He was afraid he was going to laugh from goofiness and exhaustion. They’d just solved a dozen homicides, but they weren’t the ones they wanted.

  When Martinique Frost looked at him, he shrugged and held his hands out, at a loss what to do.

  “This gentleman is Joseph Carr, Ray. Forty-two, married, no kids, former car wash, former meat cutter, former video store operator, currently a dent-puller down at Bravo’s.”

  “Who gives a shit?” Ray Tate yawned loudly. “I get my car fixed after-hours at the department impound. Twenty bucks and a bottle of Canadian Club at Christmas.”

  “You want to talk to him? None of us is leaving anytime soon. One of us should. I mean, he’s here, we’re here.”

  “Fuck no. That Peter, in the other room? Just yak-yak-yak. He’ll be writing all day. We got all we need. Two for the needle, one for life.” He moved out of Joseph Carr’s eye-line on the left and came out on his right. “We’re just going to hang out in here for a while, Joe. We’re hiding out. There’s bosses out there, looking for scalps because of what Peter said you guys did. He said you’re the ringleader, but me? I doubt it. I like old Ansel there, next door for this. Your pal, Peter in the other room, there, he drove us nuts. He’s got some serious issues, identity stuff. Too deep for me. Did you know his mother was raped by a black guy? Well, he said she was raped. Me, I’m not sure. And it turns out he’s banging his own daughters. What’s that all about? Anyway, he’s got that dark skin and crinkly hair thing going on. Racial confusion, maybe. He’s a watered down black guy, no question in my mind. What do you think?”

  The man opened his mouth.

  “Hang on, Joe.” Martinique Frost held up her hand to silence him. “Nothing, Joe. Not a fucking word. Don’t talk to us, man. You oughta get a lawyer, you’re going to need a lawyer. These are murders with a hate add-on and you’re in needle-land and we don’t want to fuck this up. Just sit there. We’ll sit here and do up our notes, okay? When the coast is clear, and the white shirts have fucked off back to the Jank, we’ll be out of your hair.” She put her notebook on the table and took a pen from her purse and looked at Ray Tate. “They should all be this easy. I’d be fucking inspector by now, get transferred out of sex crime.”

  “Sex? What?” Joe Carr rattled his manacles to get their attention. “I —”

  “Joe? Stop, okay?” Ray Tate said. “There’s a procedure. If I want to ask you a question, if I want to ask you if you were beaten during arrest, if you want to take a piss or if you want to eat a sandwich, those are questions and before I can ask you any questions I have to read this to you first.” He took the card from his pocket. “Okay, here goes.” He read the Miranda poem. “So, you want a sandwich, take a leak? Been beaten?”

  The man shook his head. “What’s he saying? Peter? What’s he saying?”

  “You’re going to bite it, for those women you raped and killed. Peter is going into a cell for life, when he finishes testifying, but you and your buddy there, Partridge with the Craddock tattoos? The strap-down and long needle. Rape-homicide. As bad as it gets.”

  “With the hate add-on,” Martinique Frost added. “Those black women you raped, Joe? The mess you left of them? You know they were pulverized, right? Half the bones in their bodies looked like they’d been hit by a car. You guys were out on the water that night, so, so long, Charlie.”

  Joseph Carr went, “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I didn’t bang no black broads. Didn’t kill no one. No one black, anyway. Chinks don’t count. What the fuck’s Peter been saying? He’s a fucking mental. I’ll go for the dead Chinks for the cause, but no way am I wearing banging some jig whore.” A strange chivalry came up, suddenly. “Sorry, Miss, but you know what I mean?”

  “Sure, I hear it all the time. Nothing personal.” Martinique Frost shrugged and put aside his chivalry for later. “If you want to talk, get out from under the black chicks, tell the camera up there you want to talk to us, or not.”

  Joseph Carr stood as well as he could and said precisely, as if swearing an allegiance, “As an American patriot, I understand my rights. I want to straighten out this bullshit rape thing.” He sat. “What’d Peter say?”

  Ray Tate took out his notebook, flapped the pages loudly, and winged it, pretending to be reading. “He said, ah, here we go, he said, he didn’t want to do the chicks, but it was, what he called, an action, proof of loyalty to the Volunteers? That you and your buddy, Partridge, there, next door, demanded it. Like an initiation. Peter said, ‘We’re gonna wreak havoc on all the lesser races, make a stand for the white nation. Tear down the walls, motherfucker.’ The usual. He’s in there now, writing up the details. How you beat them and beat them until their ribs powdered and their hearts were mush. How him and Ansel tried to stop you. I got to tell you, Joe, he’s convincing. Especially after what happened t
o his mom.”

  Joseph Carr shook his head. “No, that ain’t right.”

  “Well,” Martinique Frost said, “you want to write it down and sign it? That you didn’t do it? Get your position on the record? If you want, you can put in the stuff about Chinatown, how that was righteous action, but raping and killing women isn’t what you’re about.” She flipped over the page of bio data and gave him her pen. “You do a man’s work, now you get to defend it. I respect that, anyone would.”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s fucked, that stuff on women.” Joseph Carr nodded. “I was raised Christian, you don’t violate a woman. Even a jig. Never.” He ducked his head. “Sorry, Miss.”

  Martinique Frost said, “Thank you for that, Joe. That’s refreshing for me to hear.”

  Ray Tate managed to contain his laughter. Two out of three down. The third one was going to wear his ass for a hat for East Chinatown. There were at least three others who dumped the red caps at the arson scene, but they weren’t his concern. He waited a couple of minutes until Joseph Carr had reached the bottom of the page, not wanting to put him off before he autographed it. Joseph Carr slowed down at the bottom of the page as if he might be receiving a clue that he might be stupid. Ray Tate leaned forward over his shoulder and diverted him. “You’ve got a neat penmanship, Joe. Look at this, Marty.”

  “Sign it and pass it over, Joe. Let’s see.” He signed and proudly presented her with the paper and pen. “Nice, nice cursive hand. You’ve been educated, Joe. Not a dummy like those other two. Where’d you go to school? You got high school, I can tell.”

  “And one year of state apprenticeship.” He looked proud but a little sad. “I was going to be a master mechanic like my dad.”

  “It shows, you’ve got schooling. That’ll look good, you go before the jury. Those other two? White trash. Losers. Trying to put you in. Don’t let them, man, you’ve got some potential. Your life doesn’t have to be over.”

  Ray Tate, with the money in the bank, picked up the statement and folded it and put it into his pocket. He could push a little. “If it wasn’t you, Joe, any ideas who in the group went for the dark? Someone who might be a race traitor? Whoever gives the guy up, he can cut a deal with the State’s Attorney. You got any idea? Someone with a thing for black chicks, on the down-low? Beats them to mush after?”

  “Dunno nobody like that.” He looked at Marty Frost and said earnestly, “If I did, Miss, I’d tell you.”

  Marty Frost said, “Because, Joe, if you did, you’d get first dibs on life with a chance instead of a needle with none. I’d like to see you get that chance, man. Turn your life around, get out from under that rape stuff. Anybody?”

  He shook his head.

  “Well, think about it, okay. If something comes to you, tell someone to contact me. Marty Frost. We can get together, chat. Make the best of this bad situation. Okay? Will you do that for me?”

  Ray Tate stood up. He could push a little more for the team. “Look, Joe, there’s some guys, Intelligence guys, they might want to talk to you. They got some stuff from Peter, but they think he might be making the whole thing up, that you’re the boss in this. You want to have a sandwich and coffee with them? Get all this stuff behind you, come clean, not make your wife ashamed when it hits the papers?”

  “My wife’s gonna know about this? You got to tell her it wasn’t us, did the nig —” He looked Martinique Frost. “I mean the black women.”

  She nodded. “We can try to keep all this between us, Joe. If you talk to the Intelligence guys, okay?”

  He nodded. “Okay.” He looked at her and then hung his head. “I’m sorry about the … those women you talked about.” He awkwardly put out his left, unshackled hand. “We just wanted to stop the Chinese plague. Protect the community.”

  “Well,” Martinique Frost said, taking his hand in hers and solemnly shaking it. “You guys made a good start.”

  Hambone Hogarth came into the coffee room with DVDs in evidence bags under his arm. He wore a vacant smile but his eyes were sparkling. “Fuck. This is down. Shut-the-Fuck-Up Paquin just arrived and he’s some pissed they didn’t invoke, wait for him to show up, earn his retainer. You guys. That was fucking beautiful. Can I take you home with me? You want to come for dinner next Christmas? Eighteen homicides in Chinatown now, they upped the count after the canvass of the stairways, eighteen homicides. They haven’t even started the autopsies and we’re going to lay charges.”

  Ray Tate rubbed his eyes. “You want to get some of those smart guys from Intelligence in there, clean Joe out before he gets too-late smart.”

  “Yeah, we’ve already heard from Sally Greaves’ spooks at Strategic Planning Analysis. The SPA wants to be copied on everything.”

  “But don’t forget us, Bob. Our needs, right? We need a workup on the hierarchy, who in the gang might be a race killer, masking it behind that white power shit. I don’t think it was the two mutts we talked to. They couldn’t bang their hand. Third guy, Ansel Partridge, he’s a strong viable. We gave you, now you have to give us.”

  “Done. We’ll tee up at the task force office. Grab a couple hours’ sleep, we’re back at it at seven tonight.” Bob Hogarth stood and turned to Martinique Frost. “I got to ask you, Marty, if I’m not outta line? All that nigger-this and jig-broad-that. That’s got to wear. Didn’t you just want to take him out?”

  She gave him an even stare. “I’ve been called worse,” she said, “by cops I’ve worked with, guys who didn’t shake my hand after.”

  Djuna Brown and Brian Comartin spent the rest of the morning interviewing residents and witnesses. Because of the heat, she’d dumped the raid jacket in the restaurant and worked in bare arms, baggy trousers, and slippers. They were assigned a dour, young Chinese officer to translate. He gave them a lecture about there being no Chinese language, that there were several and the one they wanted was Mandarin. He was, he said, from a Fujian household, so he could help with the illegal immigrants in their own dialect.

  In the middle of the fourth interview with a man who seemed to speak evasively in mutters and shrugs as if he didn’t understand the question, the translator began shouting and pushing at him. “You fucking people,” he said. “Send ’em back. Go home, go home.”

  Djuna Brown calmed him down and saw he had tears in his eyes. “It’s okay, man. No hurry. Take a break. Get a coffee. Get a tea. Get me one.”

  He nodded. He left the immigrant with them and walked up the street and didn’t return.

  The immigrant man was looking across the street, trying to screen himself from view behind Brian Comartin, peeping over his shoulder.

  Djuna Brown turned and saw a stocky, immaculate Chinese man in a dark suit and tie and a stickpin smoking a cigarette near the doorway to a vegetable shop, gazing at them pleasantly. Four men in open-neck white shirts and black suits stood a half-dozen yards away, doing nothing but idling. “Brian, I think those guys over there are making our witness shaky. You know Mr. Stickpin?”

  Brian Comartin looked. “Willard Wong. Big man in Chinatown. The mayor. He’s on the news sometimes. They say he’s into the rackets.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” she said. “He was in a case I worked, last time I was down here last year with Ray. I’m going to go make his acquaintance.” She crossed the street, careful of broken glass and puddles in her slippers. It appeared she was dancing a complex step, or was a graceful child playing hopscotch. When she reached the other side of the street, she put her right hand on the butt of the silver automatic under her batik top and pointed her left forefinger directly at Willard Wong’s face. “You, stand still.”

  Willard Wong watched her approach. Her dainty slippers seemed to amuse him. When she was close enough he examined the badge hanging around her neck. “Ah, State Police. Willard Wong at your service, Officer. I like the State Police very much.”

  She’d never seen him but remembered his name from a year earlier when she and Ray Tate had worked on the ecstasy and methamphetamine case. A warehou
se tied to Willy Wong had been shot up, someone killed, and barrels of his precursor chemicals were hijacked. White badlands traffickers had wreaked havoc in his precious Chinatown, shooting and torturing his thugs. Willy Wong had almost lost his face because he didn’t react strongly by leaving bodies in the streets, but after the two ringleaders were shot by Djuna Brown and a State Police sniper, things returned to normal. She’d heard he put the word out that he’d used his police connections to get them assassinated.

  “I’m Sergeant Brown. I’ll need to see some identification.”

  “As I said, my name is Willard Wong. W-O-N-G.”

  “Identification, bud. This is a crime stage and you’re standing in it.” She casually tapped on the pistol on her hip. “Or I can drag you through the filthy water and broken glass, take you for a drive in the trunk of my car.”

  This amused him hugely. Running his hands over his pockets, he looked up the block at the four men and smiled. He called something in Mandarin. They all laughed, and one man approached with a slim wallet in his hand.

  “Mr. Wong’s identification.”

  “Give it to him.”

  Willard Wong took the wallet and unfolded it. “My tailor said I must carry a … man’s purse? Unseemly. Or make arrangements so my suits don’t dis-align. He’s in Hong Kong, what does he know of our American way? Fortunately, I have friends to assist.” He gave her his state health card and watched her study it. “But I don’t drive, either. I have friends for that. I have many friends for many things.”

  “You have a reason to be here, Willy?”