He stepped onto street level and stopped to stretch, as he always did, taking a long look around the square, as he always did. There was no sign of Oscar, but given that it was late afternoon and the unbearable heat was at its worst, that was no surprise. If he was watching the agency, he’d do it from an inside vantage point. That meant he’d be in The Coffee Shop because besides the courthouse lawn, there was no better view of the building housing Lost and Found.
Steve set off on the walk he took around the square two to three times a day. In part for exercise, in part to get coffee or lunch, and in part to pick up the latest gossip. He waved to the gals in the flower shop beneath the offices (it reeked of cigarettes, so he never went in); stopped to finger a pair of biking shorts at the new store selling upscale sporting goods (it would never survive in a town the size of Arcadia); stepped into the jewelry store to see if his watch repair was done (it wasn’t) and talk about Blue’s arrest; bought a pack of gum at the drugstore and confirmed Blue was being represented by that ball-buster Yvette Hardcastle; narrowly missed flattening Mrs. Springer as she left the men’s haberdashery with a new suit for her husband; said hello to the receptionist at the investment firm who wanted to know if it was true Maxine had caught a murderer; said good-afternoon to the snooty woman who ran the pawn shop (who’d never so much as nodded in reply, but one has to try); helped the waiter at the Italian restaurant adjust a sun umbrella; and finally stepped into The Coffee Shop and breathed a sigh of relief.
The air was crisp and smelled of coffee and the roast beef that was always on Tuesday’s dinner menu. Early diners were at a few of the tables, but only one booth near the windows was occupied, by the man in the orange shoes Steve now knew was Oscar Matalan. A skinny blond man sat at a nearby table, pulling on his nose. Steve nodded at Oscar and walked to the counter like he always did, and ordered two skinny lattes to go, like he always did.
As the espresso machine hissed to life, he caught Oscar watching him. Steve offered a half smile and Oscar smiled back. The owner wanted the poop on last night’s festivities and Steve filled him in while he paid, confirming that while Maxine was a mess, he’d heard the fellow who attacked her still wasn’t sitting right. He doctored their lattes like he always did - one sugar for Steve, two of the pink packets for Arty - and finally turned to leave.
Oscar motioned to Steve. “I saw you come out of that building,” he said. “Is that your office with the broken window?”
“No, it’s our neighbors, a detective agency.”
“What happened?”
You crafty bugger, Steve thought. “Someone threw a brick through it last night. One of the girls caught the guy who did it.”
“A girl?”
Steve nodded and sipped his latte. The blond man opened a copy of the Forney Cater and pretended he wasn’t listening.
“Why did he do it?”
“Something about stealing old tapes.” Steve leaned close. “Turns out the girls found them and are picking them up today.” He checked his watch. “They might already have them. It’s all very cloak and dagger.”
“Mmmm,” Oscar said.
Steve put the coffees down and pulled out his phone. “What are you up to?”
“Looking for a job.” Oscar tapped the Help Wanted section of the Forney Cater.
“What kind of work do you do?”
“A little of this, a little of that. I’ve worked in a kitchen and did maintenance at a hospital.”
“Maintenance? Really?”
Oscar nodded.
“Any plumbing?”
“Of course.”
“This is kind of sudden, but we’ve got a leaky sink in our office and I think the ladies at the agency have the same problem. Would you take a look at it?” Steve typed in his phone’s password and his thumbs flew over the screen as he texted Arty: Remember the game we played last week? I’m bringing a new friend. Get the toys ready.
Oscar eyed him. “When?”
“Sorry, it’s rude to text and talk, but that one had to go. Would now work for you? We can pay cash.”
“Absolutely.” Oscar’s gaze darted to the blond so fast Steve almost didn’t catch it.
Oscar scooted out of the booth as Steve picked up his coffees and smiled. “You have no idea how much help you’ll be.”
BONDAGE
WE WERE WORKING OUR way through Bret’s paperwork when Cindy’s phone buzzed. A wide smile crossed her face but quickly faded. She leveled a laser beam gaze at me. “Arty wants you and Cass to come to his office. Now.”
We left quizzical glances in our wake but I wasn’t inclined to explain unless Steve had news. We hurried down the hall and pushed open the door to see the man we knew as Oscar Matalan bound to a chair and struggling furiously. Steve sat behind his desk looking like the cat who’d found the source of the cream. Arty had a hip up on the desk and was swinging a leg, looking amused.
Cass and I circled their prisoner, who was red-faced and sweating. His legs were bound with black silk scarves, his hands were locked behind him with a pair of fur-lined wrist-cuffs, and he was biting on a ball gag strapped to his head. His nostrils flared as he sucked in air, but the glint in his eyes told me he was more angry than distressed. The orange shoes were still on his feet.
“I feel like I’ve walked into a bondage flick,” Cass said. “Do I want to know about the handcuffs?”
“Nope,” Arty answered. “But if you want to keep him, you’ll have to trade mine for yours.”
“How did you manage this?” I asked Steve.
“I asked him if he wanted a job fixing our plumbing.”
“I didn’t know you had a problem with it.”
“We don’t.” He looked at his hostage. “But he didn’t know that. I told him your office had a drip, too, and that’s probably why he came so willingly. I think he wanted a peek at all the investigating you’ve been doing.”
I couldn’t help it, I giggled. The thought that a major crime lord’s son got caught over a leaky faucet was too funny. He stilled then and stared at my face, and his eyes crinkled. Just a bit. I knew he was working through the realization that I was the one who had captured Garcia and was enjoying my black eye. And then it hit me: we had the second oldest son of one of Mexico’s nastiest drug czars in our offices. If Sugar Murphy had been on the square and watching us too, he’d wonder where his buddy Oscar had gone. That could be bad.
I chewed my lip. “What now?”
Cass looked thoughtful. “I should probably read him his rights and take him to jail. But I’d rather talk to him first.” She studied Oscar. “We know you’re Santiago Arellano’s son.”
His eyes widened.
“Where’s Sugar Murphy?”
It was just a flash, but his gaze flicked to the windows overlooking the square and returned to her face, trying for defiant but revealing only fear. He jiggled in the chair and it thumped against the floor. Tears shone in his eyes and I realized he’d probably never been in custody before. That might work to our benefit.
“I can’t guarantee anything with regards to your status, Mr. Arellano,” Cass said. “Or do you prefer Matalan?”
He scowled and a strangled reply squeezed around the ball gag.
“How rude of me.” She looked at Arty. “Do you want to take it off, or should I?”
Arty unbuckled the gag and Oscar worked his jaw. “Puta,” he spat at Cass.
“There’s no need to be ugly,” Steve scolded.
“Cabrón,” Oscar replied with a reproachful glare, then wiped his nose against his shoulder.
“I need information, Mr. Arellano. If you cooperate, I’ll let the District Attorney and the DEA know. They may view you more favorably.”
“No English,” Oscar said, his jaw jutting forward.
“Liar liar,” Steve sang.
“Seriously?” Cass asked. “You’re playing the language card?”
“No English,” he repeated, and his lower lip quivered.
“It’s your funeral.�
�� Cass pulled out her cell phone and dialed. “Martinez? Can you come to Arty Henderson’s office? He and Steve have a surprise for you… Yes, a good surprise… Come now. You’ll be glad you did.”
NO ENGLISH
WHILE WE WAITED, CASS continued to chastise Oscar for not talking to her. He kept protesting that he didn’t understand English. While Steve held his hands, Arty uncuffed Oscar and Cass replaced hers for his. Since we weren’t sure how desperate he was, the scarves stayed on his legs.
The door opened. Cindy poked her head in and gasped at the prisoner. “Is that…?”
“It is,” I confirmed. “And Steve and Arty caught him.”
“Holy cow,” Cindy gushed. She’s quite pretty when she glows. “A major player in the drug business. You two are something else.” She landed big kisses on each of their cheeks, Arty’s perilously close to his mouth.
Both men beamed.
“What are you waiting for?” Cindy asked.
“Mr. Arellano claims he can’t speak English, so I’ve asked Detective Martinez to join us,” Cass said.
“Oooh, bad choice,” she said to Oscar. “Cass is much nicer.”
She was leaving as Martinez opened the door. He took in the situation and rubbed both hands over his face. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope,” Cass answered. “Steve lured him in and he and Arty tied him up.”
Martinez high-fived the men. “Nice work. So?”
“No English,” Cass said.
“A common problem with our visitors from the south when they encounter representatives of the establishment.” Martinez launched into bad cop mode, got in Oscar’s face, and drilled him in rapid-fire Spanish.
“What’s he saying?” I whispered to Cass.
“He told Oscar he’s a suspect in three murders. That’s as far as my Spanish gets me.”
Oscar stayed silent, so Martinez kept talking. I heard the word padre and familia. Martinez was going down the shame route. Oscar kept his gaze down but couldn’t stop the tears. Martinez squatted and looked up at him and talked more. And some more. At last, Oscar shifted and spoke.
Martinez pulled out his radio and asked for a patrol car to pick them up behind the building. No lights, no siren. He looked at Steve and Arty. “Did you frisk him?”
“Tempting,” said Steve.
“But no,” Arty said. “We decided to leave that to the professionals.”
Martinez surveyed the silk scarves. “Nice knots.”
“Lots of practice,” said Steve as he knelt to untie them.
“Do I want to know?” Martinez asked.
“No,” answered Steve and Arty together.
Martinez hauled Oscar to his feet and emptied his pockets. Fifteen hundred dollars and change in cash, a set of keys, a switchblade, a pack of Juicy Fruit, and a Mexican passport. “Fake, no doubt,” said Martinez as he tossed it all on Steve’s desk.
Cass opened the passport as Martinez sat Oscar down again. “Oscar Matalan from Chihuahua.”
“Let’s take Mr. Matalan downstairs. His chariot awaits.”
“What about the murders?” I asked.
“He says he’s got something to trade, but he wants to talk to someone with bigger cojones than me.”
“Good idea, sending the car around back. Murphy’s still out there,” Cass said. “But I know how to catch him.”
Oscar’s head jerked up and Cass smiled. “No English, huh?”
MAYBE WE COULD DO SOMETHING S&M
CINDY WAS ALMOST DANCING with excitement when we got back to the agency. She’d filled the wives in and they were congratulating each other on having identified and stopped a high-ranking member of a Mexican cartel. I was a little put-out that nobody remembered it was me who made the initial connection, but I decided to be gracious and joined in the general hoopla.
Cass studied the photos of Bret’s wives for a moment, and then raised her voice over the din. “Does anybody smoke?”
Shaver and Nicole raised their hands.
“I need you to go downstairs and light up.”
“I just had one,” Nicole protested. “And I’m trying to quit.”
“One more won’t kill you. Probably. We need a diversion. Martinez is taking Matalan down the back stairs. We need people on the street to keep Sugar Murphy focused on the front of the building.”
“He’s here?” Blue asked.
“I think so.”
Nicole picked up her bag and she and Shaver hustled out of the agency.
“Now,” Cass said. “I think I know how we can catch Murphy and find the Dismembered Bunnies’ tapes. But I need some inside information from Babby.”
__________
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Cass and I hurried down to street level talking while trying to look excited. In truth, it wasn’t hard. I was hopping into Cass’s old truck when I caught a flash as sunlight bounced off The Coffee Shop’s door, and I hoped Arty had been right. As we were leaving his office, he’d whispered to Cass that he thought Sugar Murphy was waiting on Oscar there. He also told her Sugar had heard him mention that we knew where the tapes were.
Rush hour in Arcadia lasts from about four fifty-five to ten past five. Five-fifteen if the chickens who live on the square toddle into the street. We eased into traffic. We’d both slipped on our shades and were busy checking the people rushing around the square, trying to get out of the heat. Cass lifted her chin at a dark pickup. “I think that’s him.”
“Should we wait?”
“No. If he’s out here, he’ll follow us.”
We made our way slowly around the square, watching. At last we hit Highway 79 headed east to Shreveport. Cass drove the speed limit and we kept a close eye on the mirrors. The dark truck followed and I felt really good about her plan. It was simple: Blue suspected Bret liked big bottoms and given the average cheek size of his various wives, she was correct. We’d originally spotted Bret leaving The Bicycle Club, and Babby confirmed that if you were into big rumps, that was the place to be. Cass thought it possible Bret had a girlfriend at the club, and if so, he might’ve left the tapes with her. It was a long shot, but we suspected Sugar Murphy would follow us, especially if we looked excited to be going somewhere. Even if we didn’t find the tapes, we had a good shot at catching Sugar.
Traffic thinned the further east we drove, but the dark truck stayed with us, between a quarter of a mile to half a mile back. A comfortable distance to ensure he didn’t lose us.
The Bicycle Club’s parking lot was almost empty when we arrived, but the neon wheel was still spinning and the words “Crystal Tonight!” were on the marquee below it. We went ahead and entered the building, trusting Sugar to follow us in or wait for us to come back out. I supposed his choice would tell us how big his balls were.
A middle-aged man was wiping down the bar, his shirt sleeves rolled back to reveal surprisingly delicate wrists. His eyes were bright as he took us in. “We’re not taking applications. But I’ll put you on the list if you want a call when a spot opens up. That black eye’s a good twist,” he said. “Maybe we could do something S&M.”
“We’re not applying,” Cass said, and showed him her badge.
“Easy mistake, as hot as you two look.” He studied her credentials. “This is Louisiana, sweetheart. That badge is no good over here.”
“Consider this part of your greater civic duty,” Cass said. She slid a photo of Bret onto the bar. “Do you know this man?”
“Sure. He’s here all the time.” He kept polishing and we followed him down the bar as he worked. “What do you want him for?”
“Do you know his name?”
“Goes by Baxter.”
“Does he come in here regularly?”
He nodded. “Few times a week. He’s dating one of the dancers.”
Score one for Cass. “Is she in?”
“What’s this about?” he asked. We reached the end of the bar and he faced us fully.
“He’s dead.”
The bartender’s eyebrows
shot up. “A natural death?”
“Nope.”
He looked at a set of beads hanging over an exit from the stage. “You think Crystal did it?”
“She the type?”
He dried his hands. “She’s one of the more balanced dancers we’ve had, but with chicks, you never know.”
“Is she in?”
He sighed and ran both hands over his slicked-back hair. “Any chance you’re going to arrest her?”
“If she needs arresting,” Cass said.
“Let me know as soon as you know, all right? She’s the best dancer we’ve got. If she’s not here tonight, I need to change the marquee and call the twins. Which isn’t a bad thing. Those girls pack ’em in, too.”
A SANDPILE OF A GRAVE
SUGAR MURPHY PULLED INTO the strip club’s lot, parked between two cars under a shade tree, and checked his phone. No calls, no texts. He wasn’t sure what happened to Oscar after he disappeared inside the building, but he’d been gone long enough that whatever had happened, it couldn’t be good.
Heat inside the truck quickly grew unbearable and he cranked down the window, wondering what to do. There was no doubt the girls were on to the tapes. The guy at The Coffee Shop said so. If Sonny was so desperate to get those tapes back that he’d disown his son, it was a matter of time before Billy and Sugar ended up in a sandpile in some desert.
So here Sugar sat in an oven of a beat-up pickup truck, the last hope to keep himself, Billy, and Oscar alive. He wasn’t optimistic about his chances.
Sugar pulled at his nose and took a look around the parking lot, wondering how long the girls would be inside and why he and Billy hadn’t figured out BB would hide the tapes with some skanky stripper. Given BB’s love of the fairer sex, they should’ve known. The only positive thing to come out of today, from Sugar’s point of view, was seeing the shiner on that black-headed girl, Maxine. She might’ve caught Billy, but he’d whopped her a good one in return.
He was twisting in the seat, looking for a comfortable position, when his bladder spoke up. Sugar crossed his legs and willed the women to hurry.
A Case of Sour Grapes Page 31
