“Now, let us start with your name.”
Johnny smirked as the pretty woman in the chair said nothing.
Claire sneered. “Would you like me to carve my initials on your breasts?”
“I’m Joanna.”
“You’re lying.” Claire turned to Johnny. “Give me your little knife, please.”
“My name is Cassie. You can look in my bag.”
“Excellent. Cassie. Now, you get one freebie. If you lie again, then I do a little poking and jabbing. Clear?”
Cassie nodded.
“Who is the fisherman that managed to swim to save himself?”
There was dead stillness in the room.
“His name is Bill.”
Claire quickly thrust the blade into her victim’s arm. The pain was awful.
“Now, shall you tell me the truth?”
Through tears, Cassie blurted out. “I’m telling you his name is Bill! Please stop.”
“Bill what?”
“Bill August.”
Johnny had heard her say the name “Mike” but said nothing.
Her tormentor spun around and then glared at her. “Why do I feel like you’re making that up? Do I need to cut you again?”
“It’s Bill August. He’s just a fisherman!”
Johnny laughed out loud. “He’s not just a fisherman, and she said the name ‘Mike’ when I snuck up on her.”
“Your Mike is not just a fisherman.” Claire sneered with a beady gaze. “Where is he? Right now. Where is he?”
“I don’t know. I don’t have any connection to him.”
The murdering widow sighed. “And is that why you were at the clinic to pick him up after his little swim?”
Cassie answered immediately, “They needed someone who could translate. He’s not even from here.”
She sighed again. “You will tell me what I want to know.” She turned to Johnny. “What is the time?”
“Six-seventeen.”
“At six-thirty, you will be dead unless you start giving me the right answers. Do you understand?
Cassie absorbed what the woman standing above her with the knife was threatening. She saw Mike in her mind’s eye. Her parents. Her childhood back in England. Involuntarily, a tear flowed.
“I see you are beginning to understand where this is leading. Make it easy on yourself. Answer my questions.”
From somewhere deep down, a will to fight and delay rushed through her. “Go fuck yourself!”
In a flash, the knife entered her leg. Claire dragged it down and cut a long gash in her thigh. The pain was excruciating. Cass wanted to scream, but a warbling kind of moaning came from her lips instead.
“Look at that, Johnny; I got her foul blood on my hand.”
“Don’t worry, Claire, I got wipes, and there’s a sink down in the kitchen.”
“I see you are bleeding, not too bad. I’ve done worse. Where is the fisherman?”
Cassie whimpered in pain. She began to accept that this wasn’t going to be a nightmare from which she would awaken. But she wanted to live. Her only hope was that Mike would come and rescue her, but then his own life would be at risk.
“I told you, I don’t know!”
Johnny stood up. “She’s tougher than you’d expect, Claire. Let me give her a few love taps.”
“I need her to be conscious.” It was a command.
He stepped closer and put his finger into the deep gash in Cassie’s thigh and pressed. She moaned in agony and then, amazingly, spit directly into his face.
“Foul skank!” He landed a controlled punch to her face and broke away a couple of Cassie’s teeth. Blood flowed from her lips.
“Fuck you!” She spat the oozing blood at him.
“Sit your ass down, Johnny. If she doesn’t talk, then we’ll go find the fat guy.”
Approaching, Claire said, “I admire your courage, but is your Mike worth it? Tell me where he is, and I might not have to kill your chubby friend.”
Cassie’s head was spinning. Her thoughts were becoming jumbled as if she was doing summersaults in some weird twilight world that this evil woman controlled.
“Please,” she whispered.
Claire smiled. “That’s better.”
“Please,” her confidence and courage grew amid fatal despair. She was barely audible, and the widow Clemp leaned closer to hear. “—please, go screw yourself, you pig.”
Mike was frantic. The love of his life didn’t come back at 6:30. At 6:35, he decided to go to the pub and get her. The short walk was tension-filled. Everything was peaking, and they had to get the hell on that plane and out of Pellaro. He jogged up the dusty street and slipped behind the building. It made sense to go in the back door—that’s what Cassie would expect, and he didn’t want to scare her. He grabbed the knob and turned it.
“She’s worthless! Give me the knife.”
Claire grabbed the weapon. It was a tool of murder like so many she’d used before—a small, simple blade. She weighed it in her hand like she was judging its value.
“I love you.” Cassie’s eyes were blurry, and she was delirious. Mike was standing in front of her. She could feel his hands touching her.
“I’m sure you do,” announced Claire as she plunged the knife into Cassie’s abdomen.
“You want me to finish it?”
“Sure, Johnny. Don’t make me wait. Any problems and I leave you here.” Claire went out the door and headed down the stairs to rinse her hands.
At the bottom, she turned and saw Mike entering from the kitchen. He stared at her, and they were both frozen for a second. There was blood on her hands. Cassie, he thought. He lunged, and simultaneously, Claire turned to bolt for the front door. She had the jump on him.
Mike reached out to grab her. In the chaos of the moment, she’d gotten barely out of his reach. His fingers grazed her hair as she sprinted for the exit. Claire was almost free, but Mike’s fingers wrapped around the serpent earring. It ripped through her earlobe. Then, the woman from the boat screamed and burst into the street as he fell to the floor.
From above, he heard a horrible shriek. It was Cassie.
Casper grabbed a small broom and dashed up the stairs. One of the men from the motorboat stood a few feet away in front of Cassie. She was taped to a chair, and blood was all over her. The handle of a knife protruded from her chest.
Johnny Demarco was practiced at fighting—Mike expected this. New York would not send amateurs to kill him. They eyed each other for a tiny sliver of time. Mike snapped the broom handle and held a two-foot pointed stick. His enemy took a defensive posture and parried the first lunge. Casper controlled his rage. He’d been close to a lot of violence in ten years of drifting around druggies in Brooklyn; his mind was clear and sharp.
Johnny made a mistake and underestimated his opponent. A glancing blow caught Mike on his left arm, but in that instant, he thrust the sharp end of the broomstick into Demarco’s stomach. The murderer stepped back and looked down at the wooden shaft protruding from his belly.
He screamed in disbelief—a loud bellow that had to be silenced. Mike jumped and spun himself behind the man, wrapping his arms tightly around the assassin’s neck. Johnny struggled and squirmed because his life depended on it. The grip on his neck tightened. His mind was reeling as the fisherman twisted his head until the vertebrae cracked. Demarco dropped in a heap with his neck twisted at an impossible angle. Dead.
Mike rushed and got down on his knees to see Cassie. She was slumped over in the chair—gone. Mike knew it and whimpered. It couldn’t be. He’d failed. He’d failed her! Cass’ beautiful face was lifeless. She was drenched in her own blood, and her body had wounds everywhere, the last being a stab to her heart.
Casper was torn to pieces. And, he’d arrived too late. He wanted to cry and die right there with her. But the New York survivor in him was still alive. There was nothing he could do for the woman he loved so much. The only thing remaining was to run. Run to save himself—that’s wh
at she would have demanded of him. From outside, he heard the squeal of car tires.
Mike reached into his pocket and retrieved the bloody serpent earring. He gazed at the vile thing, perhaps his only clue to track down that psychotic bitch and pull her guts out.
She’d fled. But he held a part of her in his hand. The evil bitch didn’t get away for free—at least he’d inflicted a bloody injury which was just the beginning. That stinking assassin was going to pay for Cassie. Whatever it took, Mike would see her die.
Chapter 15
Dr. Josh Altman got to figuring out Glenda Jones's story pretty quickly. The East Harlem transwoman was damn impressive and more intelligent than a lot of doctors he’d met. Josh also made sure to move the reporter from the clinic at night—that was prudent.
“Being careful is a big chunk of smart, Doc,” was the way Glenda put it.
He offered her a fine bourbon, but Jones declined. “I need to keep my head straight, and besides, I gave up drinking when bars became too risky for me.”
“Because of your gender?”
“Hell no. Because I pissed off a lot of people by digging into their rotten ‘illegal’ activities—maybe you should read some of my journalistic adventures.”
Altman laughed. “I already did. Not everything, but the one about the scumbag shuttling underage, illegal aliens as toys for rich bastards on the east side; that was a good one.”
“Do you know how much crap and threats I got from that? The guy was well-known and ran a few popular charities. I pissed off a bunch of powerful people.” She paused and smirked. “Too bad. They all deserved the jail time they got. On the other hand, some of them want to fund a hit on me, probably.”
The doctor yanked the handle that operated his recliner and took a sip of Kentucky’s finest. His house was a typical three-bedroom rancher. Knotty pine paneling in the den was rare in New York, but he’d learned to embrace its charm. The stone fireplace was damn lovely.
“How much time do you need to work out witness protection or something?”
“Ha. That’s a joke. I’m a reporter. The best I can hope for is to nail down some good research and uncover enough dirt to put away my targets.”
“So, how long?”
Jones stretched her tall body out on the sofa. Parts of her still ached from falling into a dump truck and bumping her head. “It’s not quite that simple. If I don’t come up with enough to get a warrant for the bad guys' arrest, they will make me disappear. The condom-method.”
“Huh?”
“It means they prophylactically make me eternally gone.”
Josh yawned. “Sorry, you’re not boring me, but are you saying that it’s all or nothing?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“Who?”
“It’s risky to tell you.”
“Why not share it?”
“Because you might talk, and something dumb could slip through your lips. That will get you and me dead.”
“Doctor-patient confidentiality, remember?”
“Bull. The less you know, the better, but I will need internet access and a VPN. And I’ll need to change the VPN every few days. And, it’s gotta be on your credit card.”
“That’s a lot of quid without the pro-quo.”
Glenda sighed. “The public stuff is already recorded from my questioning of the Deputy Police Chief named Bruner. He’s now chief. He denied that a woman was the head of all New York drug distribution. He denied that it is all consolidated under this new boss. Cops are involved and think Bruner is part of it. That’s all I want to tell you. The last part is only me. There is no concrete evidence that the chief is in cahoots, but my gut says yes. You got cops like Ty Williams, now deceased, being transferred or leaving the force in Brooklyn. Why?”
“Seems logical that they are getting too close.”
“That’s obvious. Those cops don’t want their children knifed while walking home from school. When I met with Ty, I already knew I was on the right track, but the Juan kid, the informant who was assassinated with Williams, could have been a real help. That teenager knew who the drug boss is. Or maybe he knew someone who knew who the drug boss is. And he got splattered on the garage floor because of it. These people have no limits. I’ve guess I’ve told you enough for now.”
“Okay. I’ll nudge you tomorrow or the next day to tell me more. You can use the computer in your room, and I’ll give you my card to pay for the networking security. Don’t leave the house. Whatever food you want, I’ll make sure you get it—just stay out of the light.”
Jones nodded her gratitude. “Can I ask you why you are doing this?”
“My uncle got murdered in the middle of a drug bust.”
“Really?”
“No. That’s some bullshit.” Altman grinned. “Truth is, that if you just split and they catch you, that could mean them coming here to clean up any possible loose ends. I don’t want to die. I also have this gnawing sense of justice.”
“Good reason to get me out of town as if I’d never been here.”
“True, but I also like crime thrillers. Authors like Grisham, Child, Blunt—writers like those guys.”
“This isn’t fiction, Dr. Altman. These people have no conscience.”
“Nevertheless, you’re here. Nail them and then go back to New York alive.”
Glenda got busy the next day. She started by dropping hints and innuendo on the web, her own dark and nasty part of the internet. Speculation about Bruner. Conspiracies theories about Ty Williams and Juan Alvarez. She called it “Rocking the boat.”
The next thing was to contact her three most trusted people in Harlem. She did this using an audio call over the internet that distorted her voice and left no trace. The biggest lead was a rumor that someone had gotten videos and pics of a meeting between the chief and the drug kingpin. That was huge. A picture was worth a million words.
“That’s the funny thing about the Big Apple; the market for drugs is massive, but there’s always someone talking. These people will snitch on their own grandma.”
Glenda’s contact also answered with a digitally distorted voice. “The infamous double-edged sword.”
“When did this happen?”
“I don’t know, but the best guess it was around the time that a cop was found dead with a chunk of H in Queens. You can look that story up. What I heard is that there was too much blood on the ground for that one guy and different DNA. I got that from someone inside.”
Glenda pondered that. “Are you saying that the new lady boss and the chief did a meet n’ greet and took out a cop and maybe someone else?”
“That’s what I’m getting. The dead guy might have tried to set up a small business with her goods. A contact of mine from Queens passed that on to me. Can you come up with something other than ‘lady boss’ to describe the bitch that is running things now?”
“Sure. One sec. How ‘bout Ma Barker.”
“Who the hell is that?”
“Look it up. In the meantime, if your source is good, then Bruner was at the scene of a cop murder. And someone got a picture and got away alive? I’d say whoever that is, and all of this is crazy speculation, but that guy with the pictures has a big bounty on his head.”
There was silence on the internet connection. Glenda’s contact added, “That man or woman could already be fish food. Who the hell could outrun Bruner and the drug lady? I’d give them three days tops.”
“Then the best hope is that the pics are still safe.”
“Dunno. Maybe you should advertise for them?” asked the voice on the other end.
“Those pics are worth more than a signed Ansel Adams photograph.”
“Who’s that?”
“Not important. Keep your head down. I’ll get back to you.” Glenda disconnected and wondered if someone with balls enough to spy on Bruner could still be alive.
*
In Belize, Ken Manshu, detective, laid out the scraps of paper that Kimberly gave him. He sat on them until
getting home in the early evening when the chance to spread them across his kitchen table arose. His little bachelor pad was simple—one bedroom, one bath, a small kitchen, and a living room with a couch that was a hand-me-down from his parents. The walls were a tired pale yellow, which Ken pledged to repaint monthly.
The microwave beeped, but he ignored it. Instead, he gazed at the five slips of paper. Each one had the name of an account that received a deposit at the time of the two unsolved murders. These were the cases with dead bodies and clues which hung out there in limbo. He looked at the list. Accounts that received deposits regularly were not considered. Only those that had more extended periods of inactivity, and then suddenly, the money showed up at the time of the murders.
The first two were men. Considering what he’d heard from the witnesses on the beach, he was looking for a woman. First name, John Malcolm Cartoner. He typed the name into the internet. The man was a retired accountant from a big company. He was one of the original guys, and a business site said that the firm repurchased his shares. The timing made sense.
The next possible suspect was a comic book artist confined to a wheelchair—Scratch that.
The following two were also unlikely older women who’d received money from insurance policies—not possible that they would pass for a thirty-year-old.
Ken eyed the final paper; Kimmy had written the name of a man named Martin German. That sounded like another dead end, but he looked it up on the internet. The bio spelled out a short story about a well-known New York lawyer. He was also a big philanthropist. The blurb quoted some of his peers who said he was brutal when it came to the law but wonderful when he raised money to help out the unfortunate. There were more fluff statements about the nice guy followed by a line that said he died in a bizarre accident.
Manshu searched for more information. It took several articles before he found a description. It said that Attorney German had fallen on a pair of scissors. Several years earlier, his wife died in an elevator accident. What were the odds of two strange accidental deaths in the same family?
Cold Dead Hands (A Mike Casper Thriller Book 1) Page 13
