Читать книгу Ray Tate and Djuna Brown Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Lee Lamothe - Страница 15

The skipper told Ray Tate to cool his jets a sec, he wasn’t about to roll out a murder team because some chick had left some notes stuck to some fridge in some housing project. “We’ll just lay back a minute here, Ray. We’re riding a pretty rich horse with this task force. We call in the Homicide hammers and next thing you know they pull in the Intelligence guys and the narcos and who else knows what?”

“We come in here, skip, after a guy outside tells us he saw the chick get into a car with Phil Harvey. He saw ’em drive off. He says she’s shitless. He doesn’t see her again. He says Harvey’s got a piece. We go into her crib and there’s a note that she’s going to be whacked by Phil Harvey. Somebody should come secure this place at least, just in case.”

“Yeah, I see that. Let me call the dep, see how he wants to do it. You guys stay there until I get back to you. Any stuff in there? Any seizure for us?”

“Cleaned out. A couple of double Cs but just spillage.”

“So I can say we’re on the right track, right? This is part of our mandate?”

“No question.” Ray Tate watched Djuna Brown close her notebook and look at him with a raised eyebrow. He shrugged. “One of us’ll stay on the door, skip. The other’s going to get the witness, take a statement from him.”

“What project you in?”

“Hauser South.”

“This witness, I guess, then, he’s a black guy?”

“Yep.”

The skipper was silent a moment. “Okay, I’ll put out a silent hit on Harvey’s car. You send the douchebag to scoop up the witness. Keep him on ice until I get some more bodies out there then take his statement. You stay by the door, Ray, okay? Just in case.”

Ray Tate clicked off. “He wants one of us on the door, one of us to go get the witness.”

“That’s be me, right?”

“He thinks I might get twitchy. You want to wait until some troops get here, take someone with you?”

“Naw. No, Ray, I’ll sweet talk him.” She made a weak smile. “He’ll talk, or he’ll wear his ass for a hat.”

He laughed and watched her silhouette walk down the long hallway to the fire door. Her slippers whispered on the cheap tile floor. He hadn’t spent much time with dykes but he got the feeling she knew he was watching her sway.

* * *

The Big Chan’s new dep tasted fruit salad. Another scoop on his shoulder boards would look good. He’d be in line — if he was careful and did it all right — for the big oak desk. He could sit and study the dents made in the surface by the Chinaman’s lumpy skull. He could count the dents and send minions out to wreak all kinds of havoc in the squads and stations. There were fuckers who needed fucking and he was just the fucker to fuck them.

“Gordie, Gordie, Gordie. That pouty-faced motherfuck at City Hall is all over us. The Chinese Menu is ragging him. Those kids, fried up in Chinatown, they were Willy Wong’s. It’s all about chemicals, so gimme something, anything. The Chan wants this speeder, Captain Corn, behind the pipes.”

“Captain Cook. His name’s Captain Cook.”

The dep began yelling into the telephone. “Captain Corn, Colonel Klink, Corporal Cornhole, or Commander Fucking Cocksucker, I don’t give a fuck. Where we at? Am I going to have to send someone down there, take over the fucking thing?”

“Okay, okay, yeah, we’re on it. We found a stash house, we ID’d one of the Captain’s goons. We’re doing interviews at the stash, we got a silent hit out on the goon and his car. We got a missing person, maybe, probably a witness we can turn around. We’re looking for the super lab.”

“Super lab? What the fuck?”

“Those double C pills, like the ones in east Chinatown and the ones at the lab fire, we have intell they come from a super lab this Captain guy’s running. Churning out, like a million a day or some fucking bullshit.”

There was a pause on the line. “Okay, Gordie. I’m all stupid, okay? First, who found the stash house? Where is it?”

“The Statie dyke and the gunner. I had an idea and I sent them out to the projects and they tracked it like I told them to. Like I thought, it was in the Hauser projects. There was only a couple of pills around, but they had double Chucks pressed in them.”

“Right, okay. The goon, this henchman of Captain whatever. Who be he?”

“Phil Harvey. Speed cooker. The Captain’s number one henchman. We think he was the guy at the branding out east Chinatown. When I sent the guys up to the Hauser they spotted him lurking around. He got free, but they found a witness who saw him with the girl last night.”

“Whoa. Hold it. What girl?”

“The missing witness. Agatha Burnett or Barnett or something. She lived in the stash house, left a note saying if she didn’t come back, Phil Harvey had offed her.”

“Ah fuck. We got maybe a homicide, here?”

“Dunno. I told the guys to debrief the witness, seal off the apartment. And now I need someone to go in there and take some evidence away, if there is any.”

Big Chan’s new dep laughed. “And you don’t want the hammers from the Homicide Squad involved, right?”

“We lose control of this thing, we get nothing, dep. The pills are real. The Captain’s real. Phil Harvey’s real. But a dead body? Based on a note? I don’t know. You want to take this down to the guy next door that runs the Homicide Squad, we’re going to lose it.”

“Yeah, yeah. Okay. Good thinking.” The dep was silent on the line for a few moments. “Yeah, I get it. Okay. Now, the witness, this missing broad. If there’s a strong chance she’s in the ground we gotta slide this under the door down the hall.”

“Slight chance. Real slight. I think Ray Tate’s overreacting.”

“Anything, ah, on that front?”

“Not yet. Tate says he’s gonna be able to put the hat on the dyke. Then we’ll put the hat on him.”

“What did you promise him, if he spikes her down?”

“I hinted at maybe duty sergeant with his own meat puppets to worship him.”

“A duty? Right, Gordo,” the dep laughed. “Fat fucking chance.”

* * *

Djuna Brown contacted the Statie headquarters and was told that the coroner said the smoking remains in the burned-out truck lab up north appeared to be that of a woman. DNA was going to be harvested from the bone marrow but it would take a while, then they’d do some comparisons, if they found anything to compare it to. The Statie major-crime investigator said there were tire tracks near the scene from a Firestone set, the wide kind of rubber GM slapped on several performance cars, including Camaros. Djuna Brown tapped out a memo suggesting the remains might be the missing Agatha Burns and the tires maybe indicated the Camaro driven by Phil Harvey. She printed it, gave Ray Tate a copy, and said he could deliver it to the skipper. She’d had her life’s limit of Irish dickhead bullshit.

In the glass office, Ray Tate handed the skipper the memo. “We should get the hammers in on this, skipper. This is going to be her, I know it.”

“No, no. Ray, slow down. If it’s a homicide then it ain’t our homicide. The case lies where the body lies. If that’s her up in the burned truck then it’s a Statie case. So fuck it for now. We’ll wait for the DNA. The dep’s on it, he’s coordinating with the homicide guys and they’re working with the Staties, they’re on standby. They want something more substantial. The stuff from the apartment, maybe that’ll give them something. Right now, we just concentrate on this super lab and the guys running it, okay? The Chinese Menu is leaning on the mayor and the mayor’s leaning on us. You guys getting anywhere?”

“We got an address for Phil Harvey. We’re going to set up on it later. You okaying the overtime?”

“Sure. For now just note it in your book. I’ll try to get you some guys, you give me the location.”

“Okay. Send me the memo, skip, okay? You and me’ve got to protect our asses until we take her out. She’s in with the Gay-Glo and when we put her down they’re going be grabbing up paperwork for her lawsuit. We want to be covered.”

“Good thinking, Ray.”

* * *

The skipper was hovering, bugging, questioning. Ray Tate and Djuna Brown put up with it for a half hour, then grabbed two rovers from the charger, their files and jackets, and headed out while he was on the phone. They took the Intrepid for a spin.

“Interesting things happen when you’re around, Ray. This is turning into, like, work.” She turned out of the driveway and headed north on Huron Street. “You think we can grab this super lab, put the chains on Captain Cook?”

“Connie Cook, maybe Conrad Cook, I think. Maybe Connie the Cooker. She put it in the note on the fridge. Connie wants to kill me. At least we know he exists, right?” He saw the entrance to the cemetery up ahead. “Turn in here, this place is quiet. We can get some work done.”

She shook her head. “No way. You heard of the ju-ju man? Spirits. Mojo. I’ll wind up with steel teeth and your nuts’ll shrivel to raisins. Pass.” She had a wide cat grin on her face but he saw something of hesitation in her eyes.

The rover squawked and Ray Tate grabbed it up.

Gloria, the receptionist, came over. “Skipper says there’s a silent hit on the Camaro you’re looking for. The Staties stopped it for lane change on Interstate northbound, south of Stateline, where it swings west to the badlands. Statie guy said it was a white male, long hair over his face, burns, long leather coat. Solo. An hour ago.”

The Statie doing the traffic stop wouldn’t know about the silent hit. He’d have made a stop, run the driver and plate, laid down his ticket, and taken off, none the wiser. The hit would pop up almost instantly on the main computer and the Chemical Squad notified.

Ray Tate asked Gloria to contact the Staties and have other highway cruisers look out for the Camaro. “Take it off that silent hit shit. We have intell he’s got a gun in the car, the guy doing the stop has to know that. If they see him, grab him for something, call us. They oughta take the Camaro for ident, especially the tires. They should seize the tires off it.” He clicked off. “Phil Harvey’s running around in the woods. We can set up on him later.” He gave her directions to his apartment.

“Your place? What the fuck’s that about? I’m not going there, fuck that.”

“Okay, Djun’, you pick a place. But my place is okay, unless you go all hetero on me.”

She shook her head. “You wish.” But she was smiling. “You just wish them wishes, buddy.”

* * *

The files were scant and while Ray Tate mixed gin and waters Djuna Brown laid them out over the rickety kitchen table that sat in the living room. Feeling home proud for some reason, Ray Tate folded paper towels to use as coasters.

Her nose wrinkled. “Gin and taps? That’s it? Not even fizzy water? No lime?”

“The drink of the people,” he said. “Gin and taps. Lake water and juniper. The beverage of nature.”

She sipped at her drink. “Jeez, I thought I lived like a rat. But you live like a barricaded suspect, Ray.” She looked around, sniffing loudly. “Paint. I thought you said you were painting the place? Why’s it smell like paint? This place is a dump.” She spied, by the sink, a jar with brushes poking up out of it. “Aha. I detect art.” Before he could stop her she went into the kitchen and saw his pallet in the sink. She espied his canvases, face in, under the window. She didn’t turn them. “You really are a beatnik, Ray.” She seemed pleased at this knowledge. “Officer Bongo.” She moved along the wall where he’d hung his daughter’s photographs so they wouldn’t be in the sunlight. She sipped. “You take these?”

“My kid.” He felt a pride. “My daughter’s a photographer.”

“She really likes green, eh? She should come down to my island. The whole thing’s ganja green.” She made a smile. “Except the people of course.” Confidentially she whispered, “They’re black.”

“Well,” he said, feeling his way in the face of this friendliness, “except for that part, it definitely sounds like my kind of place.” He suddenly felt a dread, imagining how the comment would look, typed up on a piece of paper in front of a discipline command.

* * *

There wasn’t much in the files. They were just wasting time until they headed over to Phil Harvey’s place. Mostly they batted ideas back and forth and sipped their gin and taps. Twice she caught him looking at her. The third time she said, “What?”

“I’d like to …” his throat clogged “… ah, paint you.”

She whooped and drained her glass. “Nice. Nice one, Bongo. You do okay with that line?”

He hung his head. “Not really. Not lately anyway.”

Later she said, “There’s an elephant in the room.”

He nodded.

“We should, sometime, talk about the elephant.” She thought for a moment. “No, maybe not.” They were tiptoeing in partner territory but not deep enough to get all confidential.

They went through the statement she’d taken from the black guy who saw Agatha Burns get into Phil Harvey’s Camaro. Ray Tate stood behind her chair, watching her long brown finger trace the lines of handwriting. She had perfect penmanship. Her fingernails were chipped and worried. He thought he smelled a faint spice off her skin then it was burned away by her bleached hair.

She looked up at him. “You reading this? You read dyke?”

“Sure.” He was a little drunk. “Sure. I read all the romance languages.”

She laughed and briefly there was something open and unguarded in her look.

* * *

On the way to Phil Harvey’s place in the east end she drove away from the river into an industrial area and they stopped for dinner at a chicken-and-biscuits joint.

“Maybe we’re going at it wrong, Ray. Maybe we should work from Agatha Burns and go backwards. She left a phone number. Maybe we talk to the family and find out how she got from cradle to grave.”

He shrugged. An anti-gang ghost car, all black with fat blackwalls and whip antennae, pulled up in the lot beside the Intrepid and two chargers got out. They stood huge in their vests and utility belts in the parking lot, like they owned the kingdom. Their sidearms were tied to their thighs by straps, gunslinger-style. Two lanky guys in gold chains sitting across the restaurant headed for the back door. The clerk yelled into the back to make two with extra hot wings, Petey and Gary are here. The chargers came in and looked at everyone. One kept his eyes on Ray Tate, then on Djuna Brown, then back. They were being added up and divided by suspicion. Ray Tate had done it himself a thousand times, reaching conclusions based on what was visible, reading tea leaves. If you asked the cops next week who was in the chicken joint when they went in that night, they’d get it right, right down to Djuna Brown’s slippers and Ray Tate’s scuffed cowboy boots. He thought: a competent cop is the best of creatures if they were caught young and mentored out of their hubris and stupidity. These two, he decided, had benefited from a crusty old duty sergeant, not from some crafty self-guided missile heading for a white shirt at the Swamp.

“We got to shake something up, Djun’,” he said. “Let’s do Harvey’s place and if it washes, we’ll put the chick through.”

“Okay.” She reached over to help herself to his coleslaw. While he watched her concentrate on balancing a wad of ’slaw on her fork he saw her lashes were long, her eyes had a Chinese slant, her skin, even in the fluorescent light, was smooth with tiny pores. There was muscle in her neck, long cords that stood out when she jutted her pointed chin out to let falling coleslaw fall on the plate instead of her horrible jacket. The hair was crazy and he wondered about a cop who wore embroidered slippers. But he did want to paint her. There was a hint of the exotic about her. He felt like he was on a teenage date with absolutely no shot.

She dabbed her lips with a paper napkin and caught him staring. She made a wide smile. “Imagine, Ray, if you were a chick. Where’d you have me right now? In the back seat, that’s where.”

He felt his heart race.

* * *

Djuna Brown drove lightly with the tips of her fingers. Periodically she glanced at them and regretted the worried nails. She drove with one eye on licence plates and the other on the traffic flow. The Staties were taught to drive inside a created bubble, to outfit themselves with a zone of protection as they swooped and whipped up and down highways. Beside her, Ray Tate was quiet, listening to the city dispatchers sing their songs. As they drove across invisible sector lines, he leaned forward to change frequencies, each time picking up a new dispatcher. He laughed when a bland charger came on looking for a “female-speaking officer” to search a shoplifter.

Being a dyke had served her well during her time up in Indian country, where the farm boys stayed away as though she had a disease they might pass on to their wives. The one guy who’d tried to jump her had been drunk. He smelled of manure and hay and announced he’d never had black ass, especially queer black ass. She’d surprised herself when she went for her stick and started in on him. She had just one partner after that and he never said a word to her. When he wanted a meal break, he burped. When he needed a bathroom break, he tilted and farted.

There was an ease in the Intrepid. She’d heard about cops like Ray Tate. Not the racist gunner stuff, although there was a lot of that, especially inside the Gay-Glo. She’d heard of coppers who were coppers to their core, who passed on lore and knowledge like old alchemists. You felt safe and never alone and always in company with a keeper of secrets. She’d never met one before; they were increasingly rare. The bitter dykes at Gay-Glo said that was all technique. They wanted to be daddies and get into your pants.

Suddenly, Ray Tate asked: “Hey, Djun’, where we at?”

She looked around. “Uh, eastbound … uh …”

“See,” he said, laughing. “When I was first in the suit I was out with an old sergeant. Turn here, he said. Turn there. All the while he’s talking baseball, he’s talking gossip. Then he says, Hey, boy, where we at? I go, Fucked if I know, and I start looking around. He reaches over and grabs me by the ear and twists. Fuck it hurt. He says, If you need help and you go on the radio, what are you going to say when they ask where you at? You’re gonna say, Uh … uh. And you’re going to bleed out. I guaran-fucking-tee it. Always, always know where you’re at.”

She looked at him. He was smiling at the windshield. “You going to twist my ear, Ray? Make me a cop?”

“Ah …” He looked at her ear and seemed about to say something but instead flipped through his notebook. “Anyway, Phil Harvey. State Motor puts two vehicles under him. The black Camaro, registered two months ago, and an old knucklehead Harley. The Harley lapsed out and the address was on a commercial strip over in Stateline. The Camaro’s registered to an apartment in the Beach. Old Harv had a change of status for the better, it seems.”

Ray Tate felt like a working cop. As Djuna Brown drove he watched both sides of the street, counting pedestrians. “The Stateline address is a strip club. The Beach is a condominium. Lake view, tennis courts.”

She steered through a jam-up in Little India, four short blocks decorated with strings of Christmas lights that burned year round. A turbaned man was selling grilled corn on the corner, rubbing the cobs down with a lemon, waving a can of salt over them. A woman in a headscarf modelled a sari in a doorway for another woman, both of them giggling behind shy hands. Ray Tate was in love with every colour and smell and weird sitar note blaring from a speaker. Past the street crowd, Djuna Brown cut south and picked up speed, timing the lights.

Phil Harvey’s condominium was just across a wooden boardwalk from the lake. Djuna Brown cruised the parking lots in case the Camaro had made its way back from the north country. She drove to a Donut Hole and Ray Tate, following the tradition that the shotgun buys, bought two coffees. At Harv’s building she backed into a handicapped slot with a view to the front door of the building and the entrance to the parking lot and they racked their seats back.

“So,” Ray Tate said, “let me ask you one. What’s with the hair?”

“What’s with the painting?”

They were silent. He said, “There’s always Harry Potter. That’s a safe subject.”

“That little fag?”

They sat companionably and didn’t say anything for a long time.