by Kevin Sivils
Another quick inspection of windows and doors followed, making sure everything was locked and secure. Heat's mind was beginning to cloud over again. He had slept perhaps four hours in the last forty-eight. Experience had taught him rest was a weapon. If he didn't sleep soon, he might start hallucinating.
It took him three tries to get the combination right on his gun safe. He thought for a moment and then collected the lone illegal firearm he owned, a fully functioning, WW II vintage German MP-40 machine pistol. Heat removed a .357 revolver along with the military weapon, closed the safe, and spun the lock. With care, he checked to make sure both firearms were loaded. The .357 was laid carefully on his bedside table. The MP-40 was leaned against the wall between his bed and the bedside table.
Heat stretched out on his bed with his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. He could feel the aches and sore muscles he'd ignored. Heat closed his eyes and tried to empty his mind of thoughts. Instead, memories of the good times with his partner and longtime friend came flooding back. Wolf was gone, never to return. Despite the fact Heat made it a point of personal pride to never cry, a rule he'd broken in front of Amy earlier, Heat was unable to stop the outpouring of emotion raging inside his battered soul.
It had to come out, Wolf had to be mourned. There would be no rest for Heat until he vented the wave of emotion he'd tamped down since identifying Wolf's body in the morgue. Heat gave himself permission to cry silently, alone in his home, so he could rest for a few hours. There would be time to publicly mourn later, mourning that would be done in a black suit and few spoken words to others. Perhaps a long talk with Amy, but nothing more.
Wolf was gone. The best way to deal with his death was to find the killer. Then Heat would decide how Wolf would get justice, not before.
Dirt-stained tracks from silent tears formed on Heat’s face as he wept for his friend and partner. Their differences of late no longer mattered. There would be no chance to sort things out, to make amends, and to move forward. Spent in every way, Heat drifted off to sleep.
HE’D LEARNED LITTLE from his cursory examination of Heat’s home that was of use. Wearing gloves and careful not to touch or move a single item in the house, the intruder had learned the private detective had a compulsive fascination with The Rolling Stones, 70s New Wave, and Punk, and must have owned a dog at one time. Except for the man's bedroom, the house was orderly and well kept. Glancing over the bills on the small table in the kitchen where Heat tossed his mail, the intruder had discovered an invoice for a maid's service. That explained the order in the house and the disorder in the bedroom.
The lone item that had registered as important had been the overly large gun safe in the bedroom. There was no doubt Heat possessed a vast arsenal of weaponry. Any attempt to take the man in his home without the element of complete surprise would end in a shootout.
Unless specifically ordered, the intruder had no plans to return to Heat’s home. Doing so carried with it far more risks than any possible reward.
BLONDIE OPENED HER eyes and stretched. The couch in Amy's small living room was comfortable, and the pillows Heat's secretary had provided were even more so. Touching the collar of the extra-large cotton t-shirt Amy had loaned her to sleep in, Blondie sniffed it again, enjoying the smell of the fabric softener.
The apartment was small, two bedrooms, and very neat though sparsely decorated. Two prints of strange-looking fishing boats were the lone decorations on the walls in the living room. The only clutter Blondie had seen in the entire apartment was the stack of books sitting on the round kitchen table in the dining area next to the kitchenette. Evidently, Amy was taking classes at night or online.
A groan escaped from the pipes as the sound of running water stopped. Minutes later, Amy emerged from the bathroom, her petite frame wrapped in a thick, white towel. Another smaller towel was wrapped around her head. Even without makeup, the girl was striking.
"There's plenty of hot water if you want to shower now," Amy said, stopping at her bedroom door. "I set out some towels for you and feel free to use any shampoo or soap you find in the shower." An impish grin spread across the woman's face. "I spend way too much money on hair products."
Blondie smiled in return and sat up on the couch as she ran a hand through her hair. “Thanks, I will. My hair is a mess.” Amy smiled back and turned to enter her room.
"Hey, I want to thank you for giving me a chance to crash."
“No problem.”
“I know Heat asked you, but you could have said no.”
Turning around, Amy looked thoughtfully at her blonde house guest. “No, not really. I was trafficked like you. It was the least I can do.”
Shocked, Blondie stared at her host openmouthed for several seconds. “You?”
Amy nodded, her eyes downcast. She reached down and pulled up the towel wrapped around her body, revealing a tiny brand, less than an inch in diameter just below the crest of her left hip.
"Heat got me out. Cleaned me up and got me off the drugs. For some reason, Heat talked Wolf into agreeing to give me a job." She looked up and stared Blondie directly in the eyes. "I owe Heat my life."
The question Blondie wanted answered died on her lips, and she looked down, breaking eye contact with her host.
“And no, Heat has never touched me that way,” Amy volunteered.
“I didn’t ask you that,” Blondie snapped.
“But you wanted to know,” Amy fired back.
A minute passed in silence, and Amy took the towel from around her head and shook her hair out. "Look, Heat's not gay, trust me, but he's not into the dating scene, not even one-night stands." After a pause, Amy continued. "Wolf, on the other hand, well, let's say the name fit at times."
“Why do you think that is, I mean, Heat not being a player? He’s handsome, and when he wants to be, at least I think so, he can be charming, you know? Fun to be around.”
"He's never said, and I don't dare ask," Amy replied. "My guess? I think there's a woman in his past."
“Broken heart that never healed?”
“That’s what I think. But, uh, it’s more than that,” Amy explained. “He has a real antipathy towards certain women.”
“Antipathy? Speak English, please.”
"Wolf handled all the cases for women looking to get dirt on their husbands. Heat viewed most of them as nothing more than gold diggers. Women who married to divorce the guy and clean him out."
“If they cheat, maybe they should get dumped and cleaned out,” Blondie countered.
"Yeah, but that wasn't the case a lot of the time. Some of these wives hire pros to seduce their husbands, and then they'd tip Wolf off. You know, entrapment. Even if the guy turned the pro down, Wolf would get the pictures, and the pro would make it look like the guy was coming on to her."
“Nobody ever hired me for that sort of thing.”
“That’s how I met Wolf and Heat,” Amy explained. “Wolf never cared so long as he got paid for his time. It was what started to drive a wedge between the two of them. Besides, Heat hated divorce stuff and let Wolf handle the bulk of it. When Heat did do a divorce case, it was always for the husband.”
“Wow. There’s some real history there,” Blondie commented.
"You think? My best guess is like you said, Heat got his heartbroken, but somehow there's more to it."
"Make's sense," Blondie mumbled. "I think I'll take a shower now and get some more sleep if that's okay."
"Great. I've got a date tonight. Make yourself comfortable. Heat gave me some cash, and I put it by the phone." Amy laughed at the mention of a landline. "Can you believe Heat makes me keep an unlisted landline? In the drawer under the phone, it's in the kitchen, you'll find take out menus. Just order something and use the money to pay."
“Thanks,” Blondie muttered, unsure how to respond to the kindness of strangers. Wanting to avoid further contact with her host, she hurried into the bathroom and shut the door. Not wanting to see how bad she looked, Blondie igno
red the steamed-over mirror and removed the t-shirt and panties, setting them on the sink top.
Without warning, the bathroom door opened, and Amy's head peeked in. Blondie froze, unable to move and cover her body, giving her host freedom to visually examine every inch.
"Oh, my," Amy whispered, her eyes focusing on the matching brand on Blondie's left hip before moving on to take in the old bruises. "Heat will kill whoever did that to you if he finds them."
CHAPTER TWELVE
“YOU SURE?”
"Yeah. I wasn't about to toss the place. It was pretty evident this Heatley just sleeps there. I found a bill for a cleaning service, which explained why the house was so clean and neat. Too easy for this Heatley guy to tell someone had searched the place if I really meddled with things, and you said not to tip him off."
“Must be in his office.”
“That will be a challenge.”
“How do you figure?”
"It's in a four-story office complex. People come and go all the time. What's more, I've been inside the place once. Just getting in the building is one problem. Getting into the office is another. They have so-so security on the building, but Pfeiffer and Heatley must be some kind of paranoid because the security in their offices is pretty tight. Cameras, multiple keypads. Once you're in, you're still not in. They have keypads for their individual offices."
"Then, I don't think we have a choice."
“You want me to move things up, Boss?”
“Yeah. I’m afraid so. We’ve got to tamp this down quick. A pair of detectives took Alfonso in for questioning.”
“He won’t talk.”
“I’m not worried about Alfonso. It’s how these mutts knew to question him?”
“You want me to press?”
“We ain’t got no other choice," the boss replied gruffly. "Look, I don't want to take the loss on this order. I want to set the example that nobody defies us, that there is no way out. But there's too much at stake. Do what you have to do and do it quickly."
Ben listened to the silence on his cell. His boss was worried, and that was never positive. He'd have to act quickly and produce results. Results his boss liked. The man had a tendency to shoot bearers of bad news, even if it wasn’t their fault.
“YOU KNOW THIS GUY?”
Alfonso glanced down at the picture on the table, made a face, and shook his head no.
“You sure,” the detective asked, with a faint accent the pit boss couldn’t place.
"I said no," was Alfonso's gruff reply, hoping he hadn't shown a tell he was lying. He'd been in the box enough times in his lifetime being questioned to know homicide detectives didn't get where they were professionally without learning how to sniff out lies.
“We think you do,” the Hispanic detective informed Alfonso. “Look again.”
This time Alfonso picked up the picture and took his time. He tossed it back on the table and shook his head again. “Man, I live in Houston, just like you do. Do you know how many people I see in a day?”
“At your illegal casino?” the well-dressed detective with the accent stated bluntly.
“Poker club,” Alfonso fired back, “which ain’t illegal.”
“Word is you’re a pit boss,” the Hispanic detective pointed out.
"Security. You have to make sure everything is on the up and up, and the players are safe. Some of the games have high rollers playing. People want to have a good time and not worry, you know? It's my job to see things are safe the and the games are honest."
“Whatever. Do you run the girls?”
Alfonso glared at the well-dressed detective. “Why would I do that?”
“You said yourself, it’s your job to handle things, make sure the customers have a good time. That would surely include female companionship.”
“It ain’t that kind of place,” Alfonso said, scowling at his tormentors. “It is a poker club, nuthin’ more, nothin’ less. Legal in Texas.”
“Look at the picture again,” the Hispanic detective ordered.
“No. I done told you, I don’t know the guy. Don’t mean I ain’t never seen him, but like I said, a couple of million people live in Houston and the surrounding area. I see faces every day I’ll never see again.”
Alfonso watched as the two detectives looked at each other, communicating somehow without words.
“If you ain’t gonna charge me or somethin' like that, I either want my lawyer, or I'm walkin’ out of here.”
The well-dressed detective stared first at Alfonso then his partner before finally shrugging. “You’re lying, Alfonso. So, we’re going to let you go, give you some time to rethink your stance on things.”
Opening the door to the interrogation room, the Hispanic detective motioned for a uniformed officer to come over.
“Would you show this man the way out, please, Officer Bently?”
With a nod, the older cop motioned for Alfonso to follow him. Garcia shut the door behind as they left.
“He knew Wolf,” Boucher stated. “Or, at least he knew of Wolf, what he did for a living.”
“Yeah, you caught his tell?”
Boucher nodded. "He needs to wear long-sleeve shirts when he gets taken in for questioning. Alfonso's face was like a rock, but his forearm muscles kept flexing when he lied."
“Heat was right, you think?”
"He was right that Wolf was at this place, and the fact Wolf was there makes this Alfonso jumpy. But jumpy enough to kill Wolf? That was a rage killing. If it was a hit, it would have been a .22 to the head and two through the heart."
Garcia considered things for a moment. “Let’s have him picked up again tomorrow. Let him sit in the tank for a day before we question him a second time.”
"Sounds good to me," Boucher replied, yawning. "Missus Boucher's baby boy is hungry. It's on me, Miguel, let's grab a bite."
“YOU LOOK GORGEOUS,” Blondie exclaimed. “I wish I could squeeze into that dress. But, uh, well, I’m not a size zero like you.”
“Oh, come on, Blondie, you are hardly fat. What are you? A size four?”
"Size four on the bottom but a size six on the top, and then I get it fitted when I have the money." Amy gave Blondie a dirty look and changed the subject.
“You know where the menus are?”
“Yes.”
“Money?”
“Yes.”
“Heat’s cell and office number?”
“You wrote them down.”
“You going to stay put?”
Blondie felt ashamed as Amy cast a stern look in her direction. “If I go back, I’ll get another bad beating. So, yeah, I’ll stay for now. Leastwise till I can figure out where to run to.”
Amy’s expression changed to a pleasant, forgiving smile. “We’ll talk tomorrow morning. If I can do it, you can do it.” Amy giggled. “Look at me, I mean, I’m going on a real date, not an appointment. I can say no if I want to.”
“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Blondie mumbled. “I’d like that too.”
“Oh, there’s my date now,” Amy said, looking out the window. “Want to meet him?”
"Looking like this?" Blondie replied. "No way. Maybe later, when I have my face on and something to wear."
“Look, I’ll take the day off tomorrow,” Amy promised. “We’ll go clothes shopping for you.” She grinned at Blondie. “I have an expense card for the firm. Heat will get you some clothes.”
“You sure?”
“Tax write-off,” Amy laughed. “Now, go hide unless you want my date to see you looking like this.”
No further encouragement was necessary. Blondie hurried back into the empty spare bedroom and hid out of the door's line of sight but where she could still listen. Amy exchanged greetings and listened to her date's flattery over how she looked. Seconds later, the front door shut, and the sound of the deadbolt engaging informed Blondie they were gone.
With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Blondie ran to the front window and peeked out. Her s
uspicions confirmed, she hurried to the kitchen, looked at the notepad with Amy's handwriting, and frantically dialed the phone.
It rang and rang, increasing Blondie’s anxiety level with each ring. “C’mon, Heat, answer the stupid phone!”
Over the line, the sound of a groggy Heat mumbling could be heard. “Heat!”
“What?” came the gruff reply.
“Are you sleeping?”
“I was. Who is this? How did you get my unlisted number?”
"It's Blondie! Amy gave it to me! She said to call in case of an emergency!"
Heat’s voice carried through the line clearly when he replied. “You okay?”
“I am, but I don’t think Amy is going to be.”
“Explain,” Heat ordered.
“First, I thought I recognized his voice, but I could be wrong, you know?”
“Blondie, get to the point,” Heat ordered.
“I’m trying to! Then I looked out the window after Amy left with her date. I was sort of hiding in the spare bedroom, and I'm glad I did."
“To the point,” Heat barked.
Heat’s order went unanswered.
“I recognized her date when I looked out the window,” Blondie finally told Heat. “He’s the trafficker who turned me out.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BESIDE HIMSELF WITH guilt and driven by rage, Heat sped down I-10, disregarding the hateful stares and hand gestures displaying the universal symbol for number one. Every mile or so, Heat repeated himself, “It’s that Ben. I should have background checked him.”
Exiting I-10 just past the Beltway, Heat turned left on Gessner and headed north into the neighborhoods there. Five minutes later, the front of his Honda Pilot came to a sudden stop, mere feet from the door to Amy’s apartment. Before Heat could open his car door, Blondie emerged, barefoot and wearing nothing more than an oversized t-shirt.
