The Girl at the Deep End of the Lake Page 8

  “Yes ma’am,” I smiled.

  “There’ll be a black and white there shortly. I’m right behind. Don’t touch anything, okay, repeat what I just said!”

  “Don’t touch anything.”

  “Right, don’t touch anything.”

  “I got it.”

  She hung up.

  It took less than five minutes. I heard the patrolmen coming up the stairs and could see the light swinging up the stairway. I heard one of them say “Oh shit!” when they saw the girl.

  I stood with my hands out from my sides.

  They came through the door like they’d been trained. The one with the flashlight put it on me and they both put their sights on me.

  “Freeze, asshole,” the one with the light barked. I stood very still. The other came over and began to frisk me. When he finished they looked around.

  “Jesus, look at this mess,” flashlight said.

  The other one unhooked his handcuffs and said, “Turn around with your hands behind you.” I complied and he cuffed me.

  Flashlight unhooked his radio and moved out on the landing. I could hear him talking, just not what he was saying. Soon I heard others arriving. A crime scene team came in carrying the tools to their trade. They didn’t look like they had just been rousted out of bed. If the scene bothered them they didn’t show it. They set to work quietly and efficiently. They all wore booties over their shoes and rubber gloves. They didn’t have the ski mask or the hazmat coveralls I had worn earlier so I was up on them. One of them, a short, heavy Hispanic woman came over to me and started testing me for gunpowder residue. She asked me to slip out of my shoes so she could test them. My prosthetic confused her. I couldn’t unfasten it with my hands behind my back. Finally she leaned down and took a swab of it. She didn’t offer to help me take off the other shoe. When I got it off, she picked it up in her gloved hand and swabbed it. A young man with an expensive looking camera started taking pictures from all different angles.

  A few moments later, Mendoza came through the door, followed by Detective Boyce. He looked at me and nodded, then slowly made his way around the room taking everything in. Boyce came over to me as the technician finished. She looked at the technician.

  “He’s clean,” the tech said, unceremoniously dropping my shoe on the floor.

  “Jackson, what the hell are you doing here?” Detective Boyce asked.

  “How about taking the cuffs off?”

  She nodded to the uniform and he unlocked the cuffs.

  “I thought if I got here early I could..,” I started. She held her hand up to stop me.

  “Wait, the lieutenant will want to hear this,” she said.

  “Can I move around now?”

  She pointed at the couch. “Go sit there.”

  I dutifully complied. I took my shoe with me. The couch was vinyl and cracked and worn. I sat and it sank like the part I was sitting on was the side where all the heavy people sat. That wouldn’t be any of the dead ones. They were all stick thin and emaciated. Crack does that. I slipped on my shoes and watched with interest as the pros went about their work. Once in a while Mendoza would talk to one of them and they would answer his questions. Detective Boyce mostly watched him, standing to the side. He studied the bodies closely, lifting their heads and studying their faces. He moved their clothing to examine their wounds. Finally, he came to me.

  “You are a very concerned citizen, Mr. Jackson.”

  “Just Jackson,” I said. “Concerned about the girl, yes, I am.”

  “And yet she is nothing to you? No relative, no friend?”

  “She’s somebody’s daughter.”

  “They all are. Tell me your story.”

  “I know you sent a black and white here and they found nothing, but our mutual friend Nacho suggested that they always have someone up top. A sentinel. So I decided to pay a visit early. Try to catch them off guard.”

  “These are punks, Jackson, but they are dangerous punks. They would shoot you as readily as lighting a cigarette.”

  “I guess I took a chance, huh?”

  He looked at me for a long time, then looked at Boyce. She shrugged.

  “Tell me what you did and when you did it.”

  So I told him I had just got there, parked out front, found the back door open and came up to find the girl in the stairway.

  “I had Detective Boyce’s number in my phone, so I called her.”

  “Not 911?”

  “Gosh, I didn’t think of that.”

  “Gosh?” Boyce said.

  I gave her my best Boy Scout smile.

  Mendoza looked at Boyce. “Residue test?”

  “He’s clean,” she said.

  “Do you know who they are?” I asked.

  “Don’t know the girl in the stairway, but that one,” he said nodding toward the girl’s body on the floor, “is Jaunita Rodriquez. Been with them a couple of years. Picked her up a couple times for soliciting, but no one would sign the complaint and she was smart enough not to fall for a sting. The guy over there was the one they called Dog. Name of Ruben something. Ortega, I think. Been in and out of the joint his whole life. The short one there was Pedro Bernal. Called him Petey. He hasn’t been out long. The girl on the stairs?” He shrugged. “I don’t know. We’ll have to see if she’s in the system.”

  “What if she’s not? Lucinda wasn’t.”

  “Same thing. Check with Missing Persons. If we don’t get a hit we’ll go out on the street with a composite, see if anyone recognizes her.”

  “A composite?”

  “A drawing. Sure can’t send a photo the way she looks now.”

  “Who do you think did it?”

  He gave me a long cool look, “That’s the sixty four thousand dollar question. At first look I would say a pro, but that is so unlikely.”

  “A pro?”

  “You a shooter Jackson? Hunter? Go to the range?”

  “I was in the service.”

  “Looks like the shooter used a small caliber weapon. Unless they discover more bullet holes, it appears the shooter hit where he wanted to hit each time. There are no shell casings. The shooter either picked them up or used a revolver.”

  “And that makes him, the shooter I mean, a pro?”

  He shrugged, “Gang bangers are sloppy. They don’t care. They would have sprayed the room with a semi-automatic assault rifle.”

  “So you think these kids were targeted?”

  “Right now I don’t think anything. I know you think they are someone’s children, but society didn’t lose a lot today and I doubt seriously there will be any parents grieving. This could be anything. Drug deal gone bad. Revenge. Turf war, anything.”

  Detective Boyce looked at me, “Anything else you got for us?”

  I stood, “Not really except—”

  “Except what?”

  “It’s probably nothing, but when I got here and I was parking the Mustang at the front curb, a black SUV like a Chevy Tahoe came around the corner real slow like they had come from the back parking. But they could have just been on the side street. What was funny is how slow they were going, like they weren’t in any hurry. It was almost like they were checking me out. Kinda made me nervous.”

  “I don’t suppose you got the license number?”

  “Yeah, YLT something, maybe 1410.”

  Mendoza’s eyebrows went up. “You remember the license number on a car passing by at 5 in the morning?”

  “I bought my first car when I was fifteen and the letters on my license were YTL,” I lied.

  “And the 1410?”

  “I might be wrong on that.”

  “You said ‘they’?” Boyce said.

  “I might be wrong on that too. I don’t know if there was one or more. The windows were tinted and it was dark.”

  “Chevy Tahoe?”

  I shrugged, “Not sure about that either. I’m a Ford guy.”

  “But you think there was more than one?”

  I shook my hea
d, “No, not really. It was just a figure of speech.”

  “You got any more little tidbits for us?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  One of the techs gestured at Mendoza. He nodded, then turned back to me. “Why don’t you give your car keys to Officer Maloney here,” he said, indicating flashlight. “You can ride with Detective Boyce downtown to make a statement. Officer Maloney will follow with your vehicle.”

  I handed the keys to Officer Maloney. “Don’t let her get away from you. She has a mind of her own,” I said, but he was already turning away.

  19

  By the time I got back to the marina it was ten-thirty in the morning. Everything was overly bright and my eyes were grainy and tired. The coffee I’d had at the station had left a fine coating of sludge in my mouth. When Officer Maloney had finally showed up with my keys he was grinning. “Sweet, sweet ride,” he had said.

  I parked the sweet ride at the top parking lot of the marina and pulling the canvas cover from the trunk, I covered and battened her down. I stopped at Marina Market and picked up a six pack and some eggs and cheese. The usual teenager had been replaced by a rangy old man. Eddie was an eighty year-old fixture around the marina. He lived aboard an old thirty-foot wooden scow that had a small sleeping area and a utility kitchen below decks. He had to use the public restrooms and the restaurant let him use the showers they had in the back for boating customers. Mostly he used a garden hose he attached to the water supply for personal hygiene. He was a very handy guy and made his pocket money fixing whatever was broken for those that needed something fixed. I had used him when I bought the Tiger Lily. We had dry docked her and had spent a long, sweaty summer day scraping off the barnacles. We gave her a new coat of paint. He was old but he was a worker.

  Besides odd jobs, I was told he received Social Security and a police pension from the city of Chicago. Every day, rain or shine, he could be found on the water, slaying crappie and bluegill and the very occasional striper, but stripers only when they were hitting so voraciously he couldn’t resist. That was it. Those were his species. He was very particular. He had fried me some little bluegill filets once. They were so small, the size of the tip of your little finger. Like popcorn shrimp. They were delicious.

  “Hey Eddie,” I said, placing my items on the counter. “You so bad off you had to get an honest job?”

  “All honest work is honorable, young fella.” He rang up my purchases. “Kid called in sick. Kids don’t know what real work is. Heard you pulled a girl outa the water. Saved her life.”

  “That what you heard?”

  I gave him some bills and he made my change. “Small town, this marina,” he smiled. “When we going out again?”

  “Sooner rather than later, my friend.”

  “Well, watch your topknot.”

  “Watch your’n,” I replied moving out the door. This from our finding out we both enjoyed an old Robert Redford mountain man movie.

  Carrying my packages, I went through the security gate and moved down the dock. When I got to the Moneypenny, I saw the curtains were drawn back about halfway and the sliding glass door was open. I set my packages down and stepped on board.

  “Hello, the Moneypenny,” I sang out.

  I could see into the dimness of the interior, but didn’t see Romy.

  I came to the door and sang out again, “Romy, it’s me, Jackson.”

  I didn’t enter but did move to the threshold of the door. From my left, a man stuck a pistol in my face. “Don’t move,” he said. Or at least that was what he was going to say. I was born with a whole lot of quick, and hours and hours of close-quarter training took over. This man, like most in this kind of situation, thought he was in charge. Because of this, the last thing he expected was for me to instantly react. Before he could get the words out, I had moved my left hand palm out up to grasp the pistol, bending it back against his fingers. At the same time, my right hand came across and I slammed him in the face with my elbow as I placed my thumb between the hammer and the firing pin. If it had been a hammerless pistol, I would have wrenched his thumb back toward his wrist and broken it. My body slammed against him as he let out a yelp and bounced against the wall. I pulled the pistol from him and now I had it.

  “Stop!” Romy cried.

  The man was down on one knee, leaning against the wall with his dislocated index finger down between his thighs. He was making a high keening noise.

  “Jackson, it’s okay, he’s a friend.”

  “Sorry,” I said, my adrenaline ramped up a little. “I guess he startled me.”

  “Startled you? What the hell would you have done if he downright scared you?” she said looking at me, shaking her head.

  She came over to the man and helped him up. He was looking at his damaged finger. It was definitely out of the socket.

  I tossed the pistol on the couch, noting that it was a 9 mm Taurus.

  “Let me help you,” I said. “I’ve had medic training.”

  “Stay the fuck away from me,” he snarled.

  “Let him help, Diego,” she said, almost like a command.

  The man looked at her, then gathering himself, he nodded. I reached out and took his hand. He instinctively tried to pull it back but I held on, looking him in the eye.

  “It’s okay, I’ve done this before.”

  “What are you going to do?” And before he finished the sentence I pulled the finger out and around and snapped it in the socket.

  “Jesus Christ,” he yelped, jumping back. He stared at his hand, then he slowly closed his fist, then opened it and closed it again.

  “Feel better?”

  He looked at me, “Yeah, it does.”

  “What do you think you are doing?” Romy scolded him. “This man is a neighbor, there was no need to pull your damn gun!”

  She looked at me. “Diego is an associate of my husband’s. He thinks he has to be my protector.” Now Diego was watching her. “Frank sent him to check on me, see if I needed anything. We were just getting ready to head to the store, pick up some things.”

  “Sorry I interrupted,” I said. “If you want to, come by later and have a drink.” I looked at Diego, “You too. I have to get some shut eye, I was up all night.”

  “Sure. Why were you up all night?”

  Diego was watching me, his dark eyes impassive. “I was night fishing,” I lied, not sure why I was doing it. Just seemed right.

  I stepped out onto the bow, then onto the dock. They followed me out. I picked up my things.

  “I’ll get out of your hair,” I said. I looked at Diego, “Sorry about the finger.”

  Romy said, “See you later.”

  I nodded and turned and walked down the dock toward the Tiger Lily. I could feel Diego’s eyes on me. I glanced over my shoulder; they were going back into the boat. I could still hear them.

  “That was stupid,” Romy was saying.

  20

  Blackhawk, Nacho and I were sitting at the main bar at the El Patron. It was late afternoon and the doors weren’t open yet. Nacho had opened three bottles of Dos Equis and we were slowly drinking them. Earlier I had taken a shower and stretched out on the couch and had slept till about two in the afternoon. I had gotten up, taken a swim, showered, got a bite and gone down to the Moneypenny. It was battened up tight, so I headed for the El Patron.

  So I took another drink of the beer and it was cold and delicious.

  “The Colonel says Frank Bavaro is hooked to the Hermanos cartel.”

  “Those are some bad dudes,” Nacho said. “Kill you soon as look at you. Cut your fucking head off.”

  “And Bavaro is married to the woman on the boat?” Blackhawk asked. “What’s her name again?”

  “Romy,” I said.

  “Romy, kind of an odd name.”

  “Like Blackhawk.”

  He smiled, “Had to earn mine, son.”

  “Didn’t we all. I met one of Bavaro’s boys today.”

  “Yeah?”


  I told them about Diego and his gun.

  “What’d he look like?” Nacho asked.

  “Hispanic guy. Long dark hair, about my height, wears contact lenses. I’d guess he runs one eighty or thereabouts. Expensive suit and shoes. Probably spent a grand on the suit. Tailored to carry a shoulder rig. Had a Taurus nine.”

  “Broke his finger?”

  “Just dislocated.”

  “And you just a boat bum,” Blackhawk said, setting his bottle on a coaster.

  “Yeah, I know. I reacted before I thought.”

  “And you think Mendoza thinks you are just a guy so dumb as to walk into the Diablo’s warehouse all by yourself.”

  “Had to be a part of it so I can talk with him later about it, or whatever I need to talk to him about if I need to.”

  “Huh?” Nacho said.

  “He wanted to open an avenue to Mendoza,” Blackhawk explained. “If somebody else found the bodies, Mendoza would have no reason to talk to him about it.” He looked at me, “So what do we do now?”

  “Find Roland. He’ll take us to the girl.”

  “You think Roland did those kids at the warehouse?” Nacho asked.

  I shrugged, “Don’t know. Maybe. But I can’t think of any motive, especially as it relates to the girl.”

  “Yeah, It doesn’t make sense,” Blackhawk said. “They were his gang. As long as he had them, he was somebody. And you can bet your ass that if he didn’t do them, he’s running right now. The question is ‘where’s the girl?’”

  “Probably with Roland, or maybe the shooter took her.”

  “Why?”

  “Yeah, there is that. There’s a whole lot that doesn’t make sense.” I looked at Nacho. “Was that his whole posse?”

  Nacho shook his head, “Naw, there are more than that.”

  “So we find someone that knows Roland and shake them a little and find out where he would run to.”

  “The girl mentioned someone named Roberto.”

  “Just Roberto?”

  “Yeah. Probably a lot of Robertos out there. Mendoza probably knows who he is.”

  Suddenly a female voice echoed through the room, “Hello.”