Wildcase - [Rail Black 02] Read online

  Her delicate Hong-Kong-born face, though now corpse gray, had been kept from becoming death-distorted by the low temperature, but that was where natural stopped. The baseball-sized head of a jade tiger had been jammed into her mouth, mashing her lips and breaking teeth. The animal’s watchful expression now stared at me directly beneath the horror in Lucille’s wide-open eyes. Its positioning was obviously deliberate and meant to convey a message, but as I searched my mental archives for something that made sense, I came up empty.

  Yale wasn’t doing much better. “They described it to me on the phone, but...”

  Phil pointed to the corner we had passed on our way in. A two-foot shelf jutted out from the wall, and the headless body of a crouching tiger sat on it like a ruin in a museum. I’m not a jade expert, but I know pieces that size are expensive. Probably at least $25,000.

  “Damn thing must weigh ten pounds,” Phil said. “They had to beat hell out of it on the doorjamb to get the head off, so as slick as they were with everything else, it seems like an afterthought.”

  Maybe, but it was more interesting that it had been put back on the shelf.

  I returned to Lucille. Her wrists had been taped behind her, and on the table next to an open Wall Street Journal were several bloody single-edge razor blades and a folded square of stained, medium grit sandpaper. Some sadist had cut multiple striations down each of her breasts then ground down her nipples with sandpaper until they weren’t much more than brown circles. Large droplets of dried blood from the procedures had spattered the tablecloth, run down her bare stomach and pooled in her lap.

  Her sliced, raw flesh had also been painted with a greenish brown liquid that had blistered the skin. Near the blades and sandpaper were two unlabeled, pharmaceutical bottles, their brush tops off and lying to the side. Through the clear glass, I could see the contents of one was bright red, the other the same dark color as the residue on Lucille’s breasts. I leaned down and inhaled from the red one. The unmistakable metallic smell of blood was undercut by something slightly sweet that I didn’t recognize. When I did the same to the other bottle, even cut by the Vicks, the fumes caused me to jerk my head away. “What the hell is that?” I asked.

  “Don’t rightly know,” answered Phil. “Sulfuric acid probably, but until I get it to the lab, I gotta take the Fifth. Looks like our boy brushed the cuts with this stuff to bring her around after the choking. The other bottle . . . your guess is as good as mine. It’s none of my business, but from the looks of it, Lucille was just as stubborn as her husband.”

  I knelt and looked under the table. More blood had run down Lucille’s legs and onto the floor. Her ankles had been taped to the stainless steel, center support pole, and straining against it had caused her bare feet to swell to twice their normal size. She was also wearing panties, which for some reason, I thought odd. As I stood up again, I noticed the shredded leather backrest where her bound hands had frantically torn at the only thing they could reach.

  What in the hell could this woman have possibly known that somebody would go to this much trouble to find out? It was coldhearted to be thinking about the torturer’s inconvenience, but she and Chuck were beyond insult. The kind of questioning they had undergone takes time, and even a psychopath knows that the longer he’s on the scene, the more likely it is somebody will stumble in.

  I stood and looked at Phil. “What’s your guess on cause of death?”

  Phil looked at Yale for an okay and got it. “She didn’t lose enough blood to kill her, and the usual signs of asphyxiation aren’t there, meaning the tiger head went in after she was already gone. I’m gonna guess heart. But I might find a needle mark when I get her on the tray, so put a maybe on it.”

  “Semen?” Sometimes, a professional will have a fetish and take time to indulge himself. The panties and welder’s torch on Chuck argued against it, but I needed to ask.

  “Nope. Guys mighta taken a piss or two up front, but that’s all. Didn’t leave anything in the shitter, but we’ll pull the tank and check for cigarette butts and whatever.”

  “How many?”

  “We got several sets of ATV tracks, but the wind’s pretty much ruined them. No vehicle, though, and Lucille didn’t hoof it out here.”

  “So somebody drove hers back to the house.”

  “That would be my guess. Way I hear it is that Chuck’s got a slew of them and always kept two right out front for running around the property. Killers probably doubled up on the way out and came back singleton. Why bring more if two will do.”

  Phil knew his stuff. Two was my bet too. Somebody to do the heavy lifting while the pro asked the questions. “How about other blood?” I was thinking about the bite Chuck had taken out of one of his assailants. Maybe if they hadn’t been able to get what they wanted out of him, they’d come out here, grasping at straws.

  He shook his head. “Other than what’s obviously Lucille’s, none.”

  That meant Lucille had been done first, making it all the more incomprehensible. But it did account for the trashing at the house and probably the dead puppy. They hadn’t gotten what they came for. I turned to Yale. “Who found them?”

  “One of our guys. Mike Lombardo. He’d been calling and not getting an answer, so he came out.”

  “Drove eighty miles rather than have a local cop take a look?”

  Yale looked at Phil, who got the message and walked to the other end of the car. When he was out of earshot, the deputy chief lowered his voice. “I told you Chuck was in the middle of something sensitive.”

  “Sensitive enough to get him killed.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “ ‘Possible’ isn’t any more than you gave me earlier. So far that cage you want Jake Praxis in doesn’t have any sides. You’re going to have to open up, Yale.”

  “Can’t do. We’re appealing to you as a citizen.”

  “I live in Beverly Hills. The LAPD thinks we’re assholes.”

  He didn’t think that was funny, so I told him I didn’t like being dragged way the hell out in the middle of nowhere to have my stomach turned, then strong-armed into a bullshit assignment a priest couldn’t make good on.

  He was silent for long moment, like he was trying to figure out a way to tell me something without telling me. But as clever as cops are about sucking information out of a brick, when it comes to dispensing it, they’ve got one eye on the code of silence and the other on their pension. Eventually, Yale shook his head, turned and walked out. Before I followed, I took another long look at Lucille. I thought I saw a tear in the corner of one eye, but it could have been my imagination.

  Yale was standing by the ATVs, double pumping a Camel Ultra Light. He offered the pack, but I declined. “Don’t blame you. Like smokin’ a tampon. Fuckin’ Surgeon General.”

  I noticed that his hands weren’t steady. Dead friends notwithstanding, he’d been around enough bodies. His emotions should have had calluses on top of calluses. It didn’t take a genius to know he wanted to say something but couldn’t get started.

  Normally, I sit people out. Sooner or later, most open up. They just need to get to it in their own way. But with a cop, unless you’ve been his partner for seven lifetimes, that can take forever. They’re also born with a case of big dick, so prodding them only causes them to dig in deeper. The only way to speed up the process is to have them in a vise, and even then, a cop will drag his feet until every option expires. Sometimes, internal affairs people must just scratch their heads.

  I didn’t have anything that would scare a deputy chief anyway, and I sensed Maywood was really trying. So I took a stab in the dark. “I don’t believe I’m taking this tour because of Jake Praxis.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  His answer should have been to tell me to believe anything I liked and, while I was at it, to go fuck myself. He knew that too. He was letting me pull something loose.

  “Because the chief wouldn’t put his cold, calculating ass in anybody’s hands. Not mine, not Ja
ke’s and especially not yours.” Yale’s cigarette had burned down to his fingertips. He dropped it and lit another, but this time he broke off the filter. “I think you and the chief are up to your neck in shit, and you’re dancing without choreography. Only you’re not very good at it.” I took the pack of Camels from him and lit one for myself.

  As I blew smoke toward the stars, he said, “You remember Lefty Delano?”

  “The SWAT guy who got dropped by another sniper?”

  “Two ex-Marines a thousand yards apart, staring at each other through their scopes. Know what Lefty’s last words were? ‘Motherfucker’s got seven grand worth of McMillan, and I’m sittin’ here with a peashooter some budget director was able to slip past City Council. Color me dead.’”

  We smoked and watched the silent, blinking lights of a jet at thirty thousand feet.

  Finally, I said, “Even a McMillan can’t aim itself.”

  Yale turned to face me. He suddenly looked very tired. “Couple of weeks ago, Lucille comes to see me. Never been alone with the woman in my life, but there we were, huddled in a back booth of the Biltmore bar like we’re getting ready for a nooner. She’s completely at ease. Got both her hands on mine and looking me right in the eyes. I got no idea what’s going on. All I can think about is she’s going to ask me to get a room, and I ain’t about to do that to Chuck. Then again, she’s an eyeful.”

  “You’ve got quite an opinion of yourself.”

  I’d caught him off guard, and he laughed. “Hey, I’m a cop.” But it seemed to loosen him up a little. “She asks me to make her a promise. I’m so relieved I’m not going to have to sweat the hard decision, I say, sure, anything. She leans real close and almost whispers, ‘There’s a chance something could happen. Something bad. Soon. If it does, I need to know you’ll keep it from going public until . . .’ Then she just stops.”

  He shook out another Camel. “So I’m waiting for the rest, and I can see her turning it over. You know how it is with a woman who’s trying to protect somebody. Like if she says it, it’s going to happen for sure.”

  I did know. She’d worked up her courage, worn just the right outfit and practiced her lines. Then at the critical moment, she saw it in her mind and suddenly realized she wasn’t talking about a maybe. “I won’t insult you by asking if you pressed, but did she say anything about Chuck knowing she was there?”

  “She was real clear it was all her. Then she just got up and left.”

  “So when this mess went down, you started asking yourself if there was anything you could have done. And, of course, there was plenty—not the least of which was watch the house instead of just having Lombardo call once in a while. Then, you had to lay the whole thing out for the chief. That must have been one mother of a walk down the hall. And sensitive as his royal highness is, he’s thinking about his own butt hanging out there, and he unloads—hard.”

  I waited for a reaction, but he just kept smoking. So I continued, “But the chief’s boxed in because if it comes out that one of his guys—a deputy chief, no less—knew this was a possibility and sat on his hands, he might as well walk over to the Times and grab his ankles. But maybe, if he authorizes some kind of investigation—top secret, like the lady asked—he can buy enough time to get fitted for an asbestos suit. How am I doing?”

  “The detective exam’s coming up. You should maybe look into it.”

  “And I’m going to make the leap that if Chuck was working on something sensitive, it wasn’t for the department. At least not officially.”

  I’m always uncomfortable when I catch somebody bullshitting me. Usually, a lot more uncomfortable than the bullshitter. This time, though, Yale Maywood was suffering enough for the both of us.

  So there it was. He was carrying the guilt of the ages. His pension was probably safe, but the day he hit the door, his picture was coming off the wall. And that was almost as bad. “There any more layers on this cake?”

  He glanced at me nervously, and I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. “One. Lucille said that if anything happened, I was to tell you. That you’d know exactly what to do. That’s the biggest reason I dropped the ball. I figured I was just last in a line of people who knew more than I did.”

  He was still talking, but I didn’t hear him. Me? What did he mean, tell me? I’d only been in the same room with Lucille Brando a few times. And those were social events. I saw Chuck only marginally more often. At board meetings and for a couple of lunches. We’d played Hold ‘Em at some director’s house after Chuck’s first picture came out, but that was it. Secrets that can get people dead I don’t usually forget.

  “And, of course, you didn’t tell the chief this last part,” I said. It wasn’t a question, and he didn’t answer.

  Two lab guys came out of the Pullman. One of them lit a joint and passed it to his friend. I don’t do drugs, but if there’s a job where a little weed should be part of the gear, these guys had it.

  “So how long’s the chief going to hold his water?” I asked.

  “I’d say until the first time somebody asks him a question.”

  On my way back to the freeway, I almost ran off the road twice. If I tried to make it home in my current sleep-deprived condition, I’d be able to personally ask Chuck and Lucille what happened. As soon as I hit the city limits of Victorville, I saw a sign for a Red Roof Inn, which, in my punchy state, got me laughing about a hotel owner named Red Roof. Real funny stuff when you’re out on your feet. My eyes were so blurry I had to feel my way into the parking lot.

  The young, African-American clerk in a smart-looking navy blue jacket glanced up when she heard me coming. I knew the look. She was about to ask if I was a Laker. I was wrong. She knew exactly who I was, and my Platinum Card confirmed it.

  “You’re the guy who got shot last year, aren’t you? It was like the only thing on TV for a couple of weeks.”

  Jesus, why couldn’t I have gotten some dim bulb with her head in a magazine? I didn’t say anything.

  “You’re a billionaire or something, right? What’re you doing in Victorville?”

  Her name tag read zenda cole. I gave her my best smile. “Actually, Ms. Cole, at the risk of sounding like a jerk, I just did a couple of Vegas all-nighters, and I shouldn’t have been on the road this long.”

  She smiled. “Made that drive sleepy a few times myself. No fun. No fun at all. Glad you’re all healed up.” And from that moment on, she couldn’t have been more accommodating. I was checked in and directed to a room in thirty seconds.

  I may have undressed first, or maybe I pulled off my clothes in my sleep. Either way, it was the most wonderful mattress I’ve ever fallen into. My compliments to Mr. Roof.

  * * * *

  4

  Omelets and Saints

  When I awoke, I thought I was in Rio. It was probably the cheap painting of Corcovado on the wall, but it could have been the dream about the machete fight with the guy wearing a smiling piranha T-shirt. That had actually happened in Prague, but somewhere in my reptilian brain, it had gotten turned into Brazil and tended to show up when I was beyond exhausted.

  I stood under the hot shower until my skin wrinkled, then dressed. Since everything I’d come in with was on my back, I was good to go. I noticed the clock. It was 4:45. I’d slept twelve hours. All I wanted now was a twenty-four-hour breakfast menu.

  I opened the door and stepped out. Half a second later, somebody stuck a pump shotgun under my chin, and a voice yelled, “On your belly! Hands on the back of your head!”

  I had a snappy comeback, but a rifle butt to my kidneys sent it packing. I went down on both knees and felt a pair of cuffs being jammed onto my wrists. Remembering Chuck Brando, it wasn’t a comforting thought.

  FBI Special Agent in Charge Francesca Huston sat across from me. I knew her name because she’d pushed one of her business cards along the laminated table between us. We were in one of those buses like country music stars use, only this one was dressed out like an office, and ther
e weren’t any windows. I heard the engine, probably to keep the air-conditioning blowing, but all it was putting out was a lukewarm breeze.

  The contents of my wallet were spread neatly on the table, facing her. So were my registration, cell phone, Thomas Guide, and two coupons from Burger King that had been in my Rolls’s factory-installed safe. The way I see it, any thief who has to resort to that kind of B&E probably isn’t eating regularly.

  “You’re welcome to everything but my free Whoppers,” I said. She didn’t think I was funny, but the thumping pain in my lower back might have hindered my delivery.

  “What are you doing in Victorville, Mr. Black?”

  “I heard you might be in town. Okay to just call you, ‘sir’ ?”