by Karl Tutt
DIABLA
MEETS
ABADDON
by
Karl Tutt
Copyright Karl Tutt 2014
All rights reserved without limiting the copyright reserved above. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, brands, characters, places, media and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which might have been used without permission. The publication use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Thanks to Carolyn and Rosalee, my patient readers, and Sue, an editor who is generous with her time and attention.
DIABLA MEETS ABADDON
by
KARL TUTT
Chapter 1
“I am God’s agent. My mission is clear. It comes from Him. I will rid the world of the liars, the thieves, the whores who despoil God’s green earth and defy his will. They lay down before me as the Philistine, Goliath, lay at David’s feet. Their heads will roll as they hang from the sacred tree like rotten fruit, ready to have eyes plucked from their skulls by the savage vultures of hell. God’s will is mine. The sword is mine. The rope is mine.
Beware and behold the eternal agony of God’s vengeance.”
Abaddon
What the hell? It came in an unmarked manila envelope. No return address, no note of explanation. Who the hell or what was Abaddon? It sounded like the ravings of some demented soul from an institution. It was obviously a photocopy. Maybe a bad joke . . . maybe a warning of some sort. I’ve done a lot of things, been a lot of things I shouldn’t have been in my time. Now I was just trying to make a decent living as a private investigator, minding my own business when it suited me.
I showed it to Ricky, my partner.
“This guy needs to be in one of those lovely jackets that laces up from behind.” His comment was one I couldn’t disagree with.
I stuffed it in a drawer. Some kook, I thought, nothing to get bent out of shape about. Not the first time I’ve been wrong, but almost the last. I went back to the files. There were damned few of them. Most of the cases we’d had since we opened the office were small and petty. Most people paid, but we were barely making the rent. Not like when we were Fort Lauderdale cops working homicide. A lot of deadening routine, but spiced with plenty of excitement and a regular paycheck. The thrill of going out on your own? Better be careful what you wish for. That’s what Dad always said. The good news is I hadn’t been shot at recently. But that was also about to end.
I’ve been pretty good at a lot of things in the past. I was a damned good stripper. Had the ass, the tits and all of the moves. I knew how to get that sexy trill my voice, bat my eyelashes and twirl my long blond curls with the best of them. When I graduated to call girl, my date book was always full and I was rolling in cash. I’m not making apologies -- although I definitely own one to my Dad. Then I became a cop. It took me a while to learn the ropes and get the attitude I needed to work homicide. But I got pretty good at that, too. Now my partner, Ricky and I had gone private and I can’t scare up a solid case to save my life. The landlord quietly knocks on the office door, offers a sad smile and whispers, “Late again.” If someone else didn’t knock on our door soon with a case and a check, we’d be doing business out of a tent on Ocean Drive. Believe me. Fort Lauderdale is way too hot for that.
I picked up the SUN-SENTINEL hoping to find some solace or at least a lead we could work. Sometimes there was bit of local news that got my professional chops drooling. We had a few things on the calendar, but not enough to keep the wolf from the door. Of course, there’s always some divorce work. I hate it, but it comes with the territory. The shit is often ugly and personal in a way that made my guts churn. How people who had done the ‘till death do us part’ two-step could long for their ex-partners to get terminal cancer was beyond me. The pay was usually crappy, when they paid at all. I had even turned down a couple of potential paydays when the exes resembled denizens from the bowels of Dante’s Inferno.
Nothing too interesting until I got to the society page. And there he is -- above the fold -- holding the most beautiful Brazilian woman I’ve ever seen. They were formally engaged. His arm is around her shoulder and she’s looking up at him like he’s the Messiah returned to earth. I read the first couple of paragraphs.
She’s from a prominent South American family, apparently quite wealthy and well-connected, a practicing attorney with one of best law firms in South Florida. He is the handsome, up-and-coming assistant DA rumored to be running for the Senate in November. He is also an ex-bedmate of mine. Quite competent in that area also. Dear old Hot Rod, looking eminently respectable and totally enamored with the striking Estrella. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt some. But what the hell? Let ‘em be happy. It’s all too rare these days. I had no right to any axe to grind and he wouldn’t be the first senator I had screwed, or maybe I should say screwed me.
There wasn’t much else in the paper. The shoot-em-up in the mid-east was far from over. Unfortunately the civilians were still the victims. Dead women and children in a market bombing in Bagdad covered the front page. Al Quaeda at its best. But now ISIS was going them one better. Beheading an American journalist and posting it on YOUTUBE. Allah be praised. Our old pal, Assad in Syria, had conveniently found some chemical weapons that had mysteriously escaped detection during the searches by NATO inspectors. The Israelis and Hamas were lobbing rockets at each other in the Gaza Strip. Reminded me of that old rock song that was covered by James Taylor, “Wonderful World.” But pardon me . . . I guess that was a love song.
Chapter Two
The rest of the day was quiet. Ricky and I discussed the few cases we had and set off on respective errands. By 5 P.M. I was back at Cooley’s Landing in the New River enjoying a glass of Cabernet on GREAT GESTURE.
The good news is that I had a place to live after Ms. Medford, my kindly landlady, suggested not-to-politely that I vacate my last apartment. The bad news is that the leukemia had come back. When he found out, he asked me if I would stay on the boat while he was undergoing treatment. It was his last. When the attorney called, I had no idea Uncle Teddy had left it to me in his will.
I gotta say I grieved. He was one of the last of Dad’s old friends from the Lake Norman days. It sounds corny, but he really was like an uncle to me. Knew me when I was bad and loved me and accepted me when that was what I needed the most. Despite the sorrow, the timing couldn’t have been better for me. Ms. Medford had found the bullet hole in the wall. I thought I had done an adequate job of patching it after Triple D tried to off me with his favorite appliance, a garrote. That was the proverbial last straw. I had to leave the building with no notice and no ceremony. At least I got my deposit back. Of course, the furniture stayed. Luckily I didn’t need it anymore. Uncle Teddy had called me the day before to give me the dreary tidings. He couldn’t leave his beloved Pearson 365 without someone to look after it. If I would just pay the slip rental, it was mine as long as he was in treatment.
In six months, he was dead and with no other family, he had left the old yacht to me. She’s a Bill Shaw design, no speed demon, but graceful lines, nice spaces below, full galley with oven, and a separate shower stall. Air conditioned, thank God. The Perkins 4-108 is well maintained and dependable. The slip rent is reasonable and she’s all mine.
In Uncle Teddy’s memory, I was keeping her up to his standards. I hoped somehow he knew. Dad damned near raised me on a sailboat and I know my way around the water. So she’s home.
I took a hot shower and tried to figure out what to do with the rest of the evening. TV makes me crazy. The damned commercials insult my intelligence and break up my train of thought. I had become a regular at Bugsy’s Last Resort up off of Las Olas and visions of alcoholism were starting to dance in my head. So that was out. No knights in shining armor had ridden up on their white chargers recently and I wasn’t going to meet any if I hid out inside my boat. My lady stuff was longing for some hot contact. I really needed to get laid, but I am somewhat particular about who I crawl in the sack with. In my line of work, most of the guys you meet are creeps and crooks. No recent exceptions. It seemed like everything was turning to pure shit.
That’s when the cell rang. I looked at the screen. Hot Rod. What the hell? He gets engaged to a knockout Brazilian number and he’s calling me the same day? I gotta admit I had missed him. Still, I hesitated. It rang a few times, and finally I couldn’t resist. I pressed the button.
“Hello, Dee. I know you didn’t expect to hear from me.”
Just the voice gave me chills. Hot Rod had rocked my female nation and was involved in saving my life. I couldn’t help it. I felt a little wet. He had disappeared when he realized that an ex-pole dancer and call girl wouldn’t do much for the image of an honest Assistant DA and purportedly honorable politician running for the senate.
“I’m sorry, Dee. You’re the only one I can trust. I sent you a copy of a message I received a few days ago. Did you get it? I didn’t send the photos that were with it.”
“I did, Rod. You need to watch who you’re keeping company with.”
“I don’t know who that company is, but I’m being blackmailed. The next day I received a call. I was to leave $10,000 in a brown bag and deposit it in the trash at the beach across from the Elbow Room.”
“So you called the cops?”
“Are you kidding me? That’s just the kind of publicity I don’t need right now. I left the money as instructed. Hoped the SOB would disappear. It didn’t happen. Another call a couple of days ago. More money or he’ll release the photos to the media. If he does, I’m screwed. No Senate, no DA’s office. I’ll be lucky to be selling pencils on the sidewalk on A1A.”
“Does your fiancé know about this?”
“Hell, no. She can’t. Too much to lose for both of us.”
“So you call me?”
“I need you, Dee. It’s a case. You could use one. I’ll pay whatever you rate is. I’ll promise you more work later with some well-heeled clients. Help me find this bastard and shut him up. Get the photos, but this has got to be confidential. I know you. Only you can do it.”
“I guess I have to take that as a compliment, Rod. Let me sleep on it. Give me a number. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Chapter Three
I poured another glass of the Cab into a jelly glass, swirled the ruby liquid and took a generous sip. So Hot Rod needed me. ‘I was the only one he could trust. He knew I could do it.’
Nice line, but the sucker in me slammed that door long ago. I wanted to believe he still had a soft spot for me. Maybe he did, but the bottom line . . . he had to be desperate. His entire career, his ambitions, a convenient marriage, possibly a woman he loved . . . all on the line. Maybe I owed him. I guess it is a woman thing. I wanted to understand. But not so much after he had abandoned me. Then had he really? Sometimes I really do work at the ‘Lady Thing’ and I can look and play the part. I don’t like to admit it, but I’ve got my soft and fluffy side. Sometimes it shows up at the wrong time. Truth is – a girl like me -- lucky I didn’t end up in prison or a shallow grave. I should be glad to be breathing and free of any intimate reminders of my life before I ‘reformed.’
I thought I ought to talk to Ricky. I’d need him, and we both knew how bad we could use the cash. I also knew that Rod had contacts in places that could be very advantageous to a couple of struggling private dicks. Hell, Ricky could buy some snakeskin boots.
I called the number Rod gave me.
“Okay. I need a $5000 retainer and I’ve got to have copies of the photos.”
He paused for a moment. I could hear the wheels turning even over the phone.
“Forget the pause, Buddy. You told me I was the only one you could trust. And Ricky is in. I can’t do this without him.”
“Okay, Dee. No contracts, nothing on paper. You’ll have to take my word and this has got to be strictly graveyard talk. If Ricky’s in, he’s in, but I’m trusting you to watch him. I’ll send a certified check and photocopies to your office by special courier with instructions to leave the parcel with no one but you. You’ll have it by 2 P.M. today. You can use this number any time day or night. I expect regular updates.”
“Done,” I said, but I hoped that didn’t turn out to be wishful thinking.
Ricky and I were sitting in the office doing next to nothing when there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” I said. A man in cut-off jeans, a plaid shirt and a bright green bicycle helmet cracked the door.
I guess he knew who I was. Gave me a long look, didn’t ask for any ID, and handed me a manila envelope. He said nothing, nodded and then closed the door behind him.
I split the envelope with a sterling silver letter opener that had belonged to my grandmother. Grandma would have been proud. It was all there. I handed it to Ricky. I hadn’t told him anything. I wanted to make sure the parcel arrived before I opened what is my sometimes too big a mouth.
He fingered the check -- looked long at it -- I guess to confirm it was real. Then he shuffled through the photos. A short wolf whistle escaped his lips. The he smiled.
“Holy shit, Dee. You didn’t tell me about this one.”
Now I did. He opened a small notebook and jotted down a few key phrases
“You don’t have to tell me. Strictly confidential, client privilege and all that shit.”
He picked up the photo on top again and bit his upper lip, nodding.
“I got a flash for you, Dee. I know this girl. She used to be just a street hustler, but moved on to bigger and better things. Actually she is even more beautiful in person than this damned photo gives her credit for . . . and she knows how to please and how to keep her mouth shut. Not only good looking, but smart. Good combination. She’s no junkie and that helps. I imagine her clientele would read like the rosters of the best country clubs in South Florida.”
He handed the photos back across the desk. She was a pure-t knockout. Long silky blond hair, boobs that didn’t come from any cosmetic factory, and legs like a young Lauren Bacall. Rod was sitting on the bed in his underwear smoking what looked like one giant doobie. She was sitting next to him in all of her naked glory, smiling like a cat about to eat the canary. I couldn’t tell where they were. Looked like a cheap hotel, but it really didn’t matter. If these nasty particulars got out, our golden boy was definitely screwed. Nobody would even buy his pencils.
“Eleisha Pierpoint, that’s her street name. Don’t know her real name. She’s blond in the photo, but I think she’s originally from somewhere in South America. Probably educated here. Slightest trace of an accent. Beautiful girl, skin like burnished porcelain, probably came to the states hoping for something better, modeling, maybe acting. I guess in some ways she got her wish.”
“Damned, Ricky. You’re a regular fount of information.”
“Went with the territory when I was working vice. The bottom line is she’s probably just a harmless kid trying to make a buck like all of us. I’ll check my sources. I may even be able to talk to her. I think she might trust me.”
“That’s a place to start. Get on it. And buy the shoes.”
He gave me a mock salute and left. I made some notes. Here’s what we had.
1. Letter from the creep.
2. Info on Ms. Pierpoint, the lady of
somewhat questionable virtue.
3. Photos – probably a setup. Obviously some sort of camera hidden in the room. I’d take even money Eleisha was in on it. But who wanted our boy that badly?
To do:
1.Check with Rod for enemies. List, if we could get it.
2.Interview/question Eleisha, if possible. Ricky – point man. He said she might trust him.
3.Get my shit together and use my brain.
It damned sure wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. I got to work.
Chapter Four
“These are the holy words of the Bible. ‘He who calls his brother a fool is in danger of hellfire.’ I will take that chance. It is the fool’s errand to defy me. All is in vain. The Angel of Death sits at his right hand. I do his bidding as the agent of God. The whore is no more. She resides in the very pit of hell. Her painted face will appear no longer to tempt those who refuse to tread the paths of righteousness. Sin no more. Your penance must be paid. Comply with my direction or proceed at your own peril. ‘Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord.”
Abaddon
It came in the mail. No return address, just like last time. It had to be from Rod. I thought for a moment, then grabbed the Lauderdale SUN-SENTINEL. It was on page seven. Short, but not so sweet.
“Murder Victim Beheaded.”
A girl had been found in a small motel just off of the turnpike, west of Fort Lauderdale. She had been stabbed numerous times with some sort of large blade. She had also been sexually assaulted, probably after her death. She had been decapitated and her undergarments had been stuffed in her mouth. Her name was being withheld pending notification of her next of kin. She was identified as a suspected “sex worker,” a nice way for the papers to say prostitute. A man had registered for the room and paid cash. He was alone. No creditable description of him or a vehicle. The desk clerk had not seen the woman prior to the discovery by a maid the next morning. The police were asking any individuals with information to come forward.
Grisly and bizarre, but nothing much shocked me anymore in our neighborhood. I read the ‘love note’ from my new boyfriend again. A damned good cop had told me once never to trust coincidences. There were way too many. I had tried to stay as far from the police as I could for the last few months. The powers that be had decided I was a loose cannon, a ‘liability’. But I needed to find out if the gruesome murder had anything connection with Rod’s extra-curricular activities. I didn’t know the victim, but Ricky probably did. He might be able to identify the body.
