by M. Z. Kelly
“I am Sophia’s godfather. Before her father pass away, he make me promise I would always look out for her. I have no doubt that her husband took her. I will find him and kill him.”
“Wait...no...” Amy looked at Max and me, then back at him. “It’s more complicated than that. Alex’s manager is a man named Bobo Calderon. He has a criminal record and is a bad influence on Alex. Bobo’s very powerful and dangerous. If he knows you’re coming for Alex, it wouldn’t be healthy for you.”
Armando stood and began pacing. After traipsing across the room, he turned back to Amy. “This man, Bobo, do you know where he lives?”
“He has a penthouse apartment where we think Alex spends a lot of time when he’s not at his gym.”
Armando shook his head. “You have no idea who or what you are dealing with.”
Amy’s brow tightened. “Then tell us, what’s going on?”
Sophia Puig’s godfather came back over and took a seat. He drew in a heavy breath, then said, “Bobo Calderon is the head of the Manizales drug cartel.”
TWENTY-SIX
“I feel like I was just punched in the gut,” Amy said when we got home. “Not only has my client been kidnapped, she’s being held hostage by her abusive husband and the head of one of the most dangerous drug cartels in the world.”
“I wonder why the department doesn’t have any background on Calderon,” I said. “If he’s a drug kingpin, the authorities should have him flagged in the system.”
“I get the feeling, from what Armando told us, that Bobo’s very good at covering his tracks. It sounds like he’s flying under everyone’s radar.”
“Do you want Madison and me to report what’s happening to our lieutenant?” Max asked her.
Amy shook her head. “That would be the quickest way to get Sophia killed.”
I agreed with her. “What we need to come up with is another plan, a way to get the goods on Calderon without him or Puig knowing what we’re up to.”
Amy looked at Max and me, nodding. “We need to go undercover, find a way to get inside Calderon’s penthouse.”
Max smiled. “Just in case you haven’t noticed, I’m probably not your typical pole dancer type.”
“Me neither,” I said. “And I doubt any of us want to dance around in G-strings.”
Amy agreed with us, then said, “There’s got to be another way. Let me give it some thought.”
An hour later, I was getting ready for bed when I heard someone moaning. I went back out into the living room, where I found Max sitting on the sofa, clutching her sides. I knew, from her body posture, that she was getting one of her psychic vibrations.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, as Amy came out of her bedroom.
“I got me a real bad feeling just now,” Max said. “I think that guy they call the Angel of Death is back and he’s taken another girl.”
“You mean you think he’s in the cemetery?” I asked.
Max shook her head. “I don’t think so. I got the feeling that he’s at work someplace else.”
My phone rang, and I went over to the kitchen table, seeing that the call was from a number I didn’t recognize. I hesitated, thinking about not answering because of what Max had said. I then decided to answer anyway.
“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news,” a deep, unfamiliar voice said.
“What...? Who is this?”
“For now, you can just call me Holmes. I’ll be helping you out.”
“Helping me out with what?”
“The Angel of Death. He’s killed again.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
“I’m here to say goodbye.”
Mary saw the image of her mother coming out of the darkness. She was just as she had remembered her as a little girl. “I’ve missed you,” she said. “Why...why did you go away?”
Her mother sat on the edge of her bed. She had long blonde hair, and blue eyes that were filled with tears. “Your father. He...he hit me.” She took Mary’s hand. “I’m sorry about your life...the ways things have gone for you.”
“You know what’s going to happen to me, don’t you?”
Her mother nodded, brushed her tears. “I’m afraid you don’t have much longer.”
Mary’s eyes filled. “I’m scared.”
“I know sweetheart.” She took her hand. “I wish...”
“Mary, wakeup.”
Mary sat up in bed and saw that it was Colleen, the dream about her mother drifting away. “What’s happening?”
“We have to go now,” Colleen said in a whisper as she pulled her up. “Get dressed.”
Mary quickly slipped into her clothing, buttoning her jeans and pulling her sweater over her head. “What’s going to happen?”
“We’re leaving, but we must be very quiet. Everyone is asleep.”
Mary followed her friend as they slowly crept up the stairway. When they got to the living room, she saw there was someone asleep on the sofa. She guessed that the other disciples were in the bedrooms. They made their way to the front door, but when Colleen opened it, there was a creaking sound.
A voice called out behind them. “Stop! You need to stay...!”
Colleen grabbed her arm, pulling her through the door, even as the man continued to call out. In seconds they were on the icy street, running from the house.
“We must hurry,” Colleen said. “They’ll be coming for us.”
They stumbled down the frozen street, Mary losing her footing several times. They finally found their way to a park, but even as they moved through the darkness, Mary heard the voices behind them. She knew it was the disciples, coming for them.
“Hurry,” Colleen urged. “We’ve got to find help.”
They managed to find their way to the edge of the park and to the next street over when a car pulled up. Mary stopped as she saw Adam and another man get out. They were carrying guns.
“Get in,” Adam demanded after coming over to them. “NOW!”
As Mary and Colleen were pushed into the car, she knew her fate was sealed. Her death was now assured, along with that of the woman who had tried to save her.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The next day, Max and I planned to meet with her friend Rosie after work about the possibility that the Angel of Death had struck again. According to the man who had called himself Holmes, there had been a killing, this time somewhere in upstate New York, that was similar to the murder of Remy Powell. We had no idea if what he’d said was true, or how the man, who told me he was a shadow detective, whatever that meant, knew that we were secretly investigating Remy’s murder.
After listening to Lieutenant Dennert, aka the human drone, spend the morning talking about the history of the police department, Max and I walked up the street to get sandwiches. Along the way, we found Frank Woodson in an argument with Carmine O’Brien and Penny Kurtz.
“I’m telling you for the last time, I had nothing to do with your mother losing her life savings,” Carmine said, pointing a finger at Woody. “She made a bad investment, against the advice of my father.”
“Yeah,” Penny said, adjusting her bra and giant breasts. “Why can’t you leave it alone?”
“Karma sets its own course in this life,” Woody said. “Don’t try and blame me for what the universe has in store for you.”
“What’s going on?” Max asked the two men, who were standing less than a foot apart.
“This is what’s going on,” Penny said. “Carmine’s Facebook page has been hacked.” She showed us her cell phone, scrolling through several screens that showed Carmine in compromising positions, including one with a farm animal. The screens had obviously been photoshopped, but the results were hilarious.
“All my friends have seen what you did,” Carmine said, moving closer to Woody.
Woody held his hands out in a dismissive gesture. “I’m afraid your attempts to blame me for what the universe has set in place are misguided.”
“I’ll show you misguided,” Carmine said, throwing a
punch at Woody.
Woody stepped back, and Carmine’s punch missed. He went down, slipping on the ice. Penny went over and cradled the fallen cop in her arms, allowing him to find some comfort between her enormous breasts. I had an idle thought that maybe he’d staged the whole thing for his own benefit.
“Would you care to join me for lunch?” Woody asked us as we all moved down the street to a litany of curses from Carmine and Penny, who were still on the sidewalk. “Seeing someone humiliate himself always tends to work up my appetite.”
We went to Harry’s diner, where we ordered burgers. As we waited for our food, Max mentioned Holmes to Woody. “He told Madison there’s been another murder, somewhere upstate. The guy called himself a ‘shadow detective’. You ever heard of that term?”
“It’s sometimes used to describe private investigators,” Woody said, “but in your case, it sounds like someone has taken a personal interest in the death of Remy Powell.”
“Holmes,” I said. “Does that name ring a bell with you?”
Woody shook his head, his stoic features frozen in place. “No, but maybe this fellow thinks of himself as Sherlock Holmes. It could even be that he’s heard about you taking a personal interest in certain cases and wants to help out.”
Max and I exchanged glances. She said, “What are you talking about?”
Our food was delivered. Woody waited until the server was gone before answering. “Let’s be frank. It’s obvious to me that you have taken a special interest in certain cases. Since we’re in Precinct Blue, probably the dullest assignment in the known universe, I can’t say that I blame you.”
Max and I didn’t say anything right away, trying to decide whether or not to confirm what he’d said. Max finally lowered her voice and said, “Let’s just say, off the record, that Madison and me do got us some interest in finding the truth about certain situations.” Her dark eyes darted in my direction for an instant. She then looked back at Woody. “And we appreciate you keeping this matter just between us.”
Woody munched on a fry and took a line from the shadow detective’s namesake. “Rest assured that my discretion in this matter is both elementary and assured, my dear Watsons.”
We continued to chat about the Powell case and the shadow detective over lunch. While Woody wasn’t much help in providing any information about our case, we at least knew that he supported our efforts and would keep any knowledge about our activities private. Max and I got the impression that he would be a valuable ally, someone who would have our backs in an assignment that sometimes felt like being in a drunk tank full of angry guys named Bubba.
After work, Max and I met with Rosie Conn, who worked in the department’s Records division. Over drinks, Max told her friend what the shadow detective had told me. “The guy said his name is Holmes, and there’s been another murder somewhere upstate that’s similar to what happened to Remy Powell.”
“He didn’t go into details before ending the call,” I said, “but I got the impression he might have been talking about another murder in a cemetery.”
Rosie, who was a large African-American woman in her late forties, with a pleasant round face, sipped her beer. She had dark eyes that seemed to constantly shift, appearing wary of those who might be watching her.
“There was a murder upstate last night, Rosie said. “The victim was a woman named Gracie Thomas, age twenty-one. She was a working girl in Binghamton. She was dressed as a mime and posed on a grave in John’s Creek Cemetery.”
“A mime,” Max said. “That doesn’t sound like our case.”
“From what I’ve been able to pull up on the murder files, the costume and makeup was elaborate, along with the staging process. The girl’s eyes were plucked out and a message was written on a headstone where the body was found.”
“What kind of message?” I asked.
Rosie retrieved a piece of paper from her pocket. “I wrote it down, to be sure I got it right.” She read what she’d written. “The shadow of darkness shall be cast from the earth.”
Max looked at me. “That’s some seriously crazy shit.” She looked back at Rosie. “What was the girl’s COD?”
“Along with her eyes being cut out, her throat was slashed, just like Remy’s. No DNA at the crime scene, like in our case.”
“Are the investigators assigned to Remy’s murder looking at the parallels between the two cases?” I asked.
Rosie shook her head. “From what I heard, they’re still asking the DA to charge that homeless guy with Remy’s killing. I doubt that the Binghamton killing is even on their radar.”
***
After Max and I got home that night, we filled Amy in on what Rosie had told us about Gracie Thomas, including her eyes having been removed and the message written on the headstone near the body. “She was a working girl from a suburb of Binghamton,” I said. “The costume was obviously different, but the MOs are similar.”
“Why dress her up as a mime?” Amy asked. “Don’t tell me it was like one of those creepy clown things you sometimes see at Halloween.”
“Don’t know,” Max said, “but if it is the same guy, he’s got some serious hang-ups.”
Amy had brought over wine, which she poured for us. “Speaking of hang-ups, any word on the whereabouts of Remy Powell’s mama?”
“Nothing,” I said. “It might be that she moved out of the area.”
“What about that weirdo shadow detective who called himself Holmes? Any thoughts on who you’re dealing with?”
I shook my head. “We asked Woody, one of the officers in our precinct, about him at work today. He worked the streets for several years in this area, but he’s never heard of him.”
“Maybe he’s just a do-gooder like the rest of us,” Max suggested.
“Or somebody who has a personal interest in Remy’s murder,” Amy suggested.
We went on for a few minutes, throwing out possible motives for our shadow detective’s involvement and sorting through what we knew about both murders before Amy changed the subject. “I think I’ve come up with a way for us to get into Bobo Calderon’s place that doesn’t require taking off our clothes.”
“Damn,” Max said. “And I just ordered a pole on eBay.”
“What’s your plan?” I asked Amy.
“There’s a catering joint called Uptown Parties that works most of Calderon’s get-togethers. I mentioned it to Mojo, and, as it turns out, he’s got a friend who works there. He called him and made arrangements for us all to work a party at Bobo’s place tomorrow night.”
“If this guy’s a friend of Mojo’s, I’m already worried,” I said.
Amy shrugged. “The way I see it, we don’t got a lot of other options, and Sophia’s still missing.”
“How’s her baby?” Max asked.
“Armando’s wife is taking good care of her. By the way, he’s going with us tomorrow night.”
I yawned. “That could also be a problem. He knows Puig, and if he’s recognized, all hell will break lose.”
“I explained that, and Armando said he would come in disguise.”
“Maybe we should all think about wearing disguises,” Max said. “From what we’ve heard, Bobo’s a badass.”
Amy stood and went over to the sofa, where she reached into a bag. “Disguises won’t be necessary. We’ll all be wearing the official outfits for Uptown Catering.”
Max and I went over as Amy handed us maid uniforms. I held mine up, realizing that the skimpy outfit hit me well north of mid-thigh.
Max summed up both our thoughts as she also held her own outfit up to her large body. “I’m not sure Bobo or the free world is ready for what I’m gonna look like as an Uptown Girl.”
After spending another half hour talking about our plans for tomorrow night, I went to my bedroom, where I lay in bed and read for a while. I’d just dozed off when my phone rang. I immediately recognized the man’s voice as last night’s caller.
“Did you look into the other case?” the shadow
detective said.
I sat up in bed. “Who are you?”
“I’ve already told you that. You can call me Holmes.”
“As in Sherlock. I get it. Very clever. How did you know about my interest in Remy Powell’s murder?”
There was a pause before he said, “Let’s just say that I know about a lot of things, Detective Knox. I also know that you care about doing the right thing, just as I do.”
I went on for a couple minutes, again asking about his identity and background, but he refused to say anything more. I finally said, “Unless I know who I’m dealing with, I’m not going to say another word.”
“That, I’m afraid, would be a very big mistake.” Several seconds passed before he spoke again. “I’m willing to share some basic information, providing you do the same.”
“I’m listening.”
“I spent a number of years in law enforcement and still have lots of contacts. I believe our relationship can be one of mutual interest. Please do the right thing, Madison. May I call you Madison?”
I took some time, mulling over what he’d said. If I ended the call, there was a chance that I’d never hear from him again and lose whatever help he might offer. There was also the possibility that he had another motive, an interest in learning that Max and I were working cases without departmental approval. If that was his intention, there was the possibility that he could use whatever I told him against us.
“Are you still there?”
I sighed, deciding that telling him what I knew about the Binghamton case was worth the risk. I told him that, yes, he could use my first name, and then filled him in on what Max’s friend had told us about Gracie Thomas. I then added, “The victim was a prostitute in the city of Binghamton. She was dressed in as a mime and posed against a grave. Her eyes were also removed.”
