Diabla Makes an Entrance, Page 3

  “Okay,” said Ricky, “I’ll work some of my girls on the street, check a few of the snitches, see what I can shake out of the bushes. I don’t expect much, but for you, Diabla, little Ricky will perform.” I wish he hadn’t winked.

  “That’s why I love you, Baby. I know Callano. I’ll spray on a little Lysol and pay the bastard a visit. Hopefully come away with something besides a communicable disease.”

  He downed the rest of the bourbon, kissed me lightly on the cheek, and left. Thank God there was someone I could trust.

  Chapter Eight

  The next morning I cleared my desk, ate a bagel and headed toward town. Callano’s office was in a dowdy three story walkup a few blocks from the huge edifices of glass and steel that stood at attention for the cognicenti of South Florida and beyond. On the third floor to the right was a scarred wooden door with frosty glass in the panel. PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS was printed in black peel and stick letters, probably from Wal-Mart. The door was cracked slightly. I could hear the rough, throaty tones of his voice. “Yes, ma’am. Strictly confidential. I’ll get the pictures. You can make book on that.” I shivered, rolled my shoulders, and knocked.

  “Dee,” he bellowed, “what I did to deserve such a beautiful surprise? Come on in, Honey. Set dat sweet ass on de chair.”

  A half-eaten meatball sub lay on the desk. The whole place reeked of tomato paste and cheap seasoning. He stuffed a bite into his jowly face and stared at my tits.

  “This is a business call, Louie.”

  “Oh, Honey. I know about your business. Dis is Uncle Louie you talkin’ to. What? You missin’ de old days when you was rollin’ in sweet green and the best whiskey money could buy?”

  “Like I said, Louie, business.”

  I crossed my legs and sat up steel straight. I fired a few daggers with my eyes and hoped they would register on his feeble brain. Louie was a first class creep, but he wasn’t dumb. The man was always looking for an edge. I was willing to bet he had one.

  “I need some info. You did some work for Ms. Stuart Longstreet. A few indescretions by the Commandant. I know that. Maybe you picked up some other tasty bits while fulfilling your contract obligations. I’d like to know what they are.”

  “Come on, Dee. You ever hear of client confidentiality? I’d be glad to fill you in, but the judge got prettier words than me. I can’t tell you nothin’ and you know it. Dey’d have my license in a heartbeat. I’d be on de street, just another hustler . . . kinda like you was.”

  Good old Louie. Never missed a chance to make you bleed. He came around the desk and sat on the corner. I could see the glint of orange smothering his teeth and smell the crappy sub oozing out of him like red pus.

  “Now you know, my memories is kinda hazy. I need something sweet and wet to help me focus. Dis business, you know, sometimes files get misplaced. You let go of something by mistake. But it’s a quid pro quo world out there. You got something for me? Maybe I got something for you.”

  He stared at my crotch and grinned. Then he leaned a little closer and reached for my breast. I grabbed his balls and squeezed ‘til my hand ached. Then I buried a fist in his paunch. He rolled onto the floor, gasping and whining.

  “We ain’t friends no more,” I heard him belch.

  “Louie, you need to learn how to treat a lady,” I said as I slammed the door. The glass rattled in the frame. I took a deep breath and tried to shake the stench off of my body. Then it was back to my rattletrap.

  Okay, not much there except wasted time and gasoline. But he had mentioned files. I wondered . . . Maybe it would pay to make a little after hours visit to his office. Strictly illegal, but who’s to know?

  I hadn’t heard from Hot Rod in a few days, but I hadn’t had time to miss him. Now I did. I fantasized about the last night at my place when I got all lathered up. The only thing it had cost me was some homemade lasagna and hell, he brought the cabernet. Maybe he was using me, but I was damned sure using him. Just like magic, my cell rang. Oh Rod. I tried to sound nonchalant, but it wasn’t working. Dinner? How about casual for a change? I said yes in a short breath that I hoped was sexy enough.

  I put on some extra tight jeans and a top that plunged. No bra. The weather was perfect for taut nipples. I definitely wanted my best attributes to be on proud display.

  He knocked at seven, gave me one long look and whistled under his breath. Then we got into his Lexus and headed for the strip across from the beach. He parked in the lot behind the Lauderdale Marina. We walked the two blocks up to the corner. The kids were out in force. Laughing, smoking, just hanging out and making nuisances of themselves. The guys wore an assortment of t-shirts with incredibly clever sayings. “Suck This” with an arrow pointing down at the crotch, “If Your Mama had Balls, She’d be your Dad,” and the ever popular “Fuck You.” You can buy them at any one of the numerous shops on the strip. They did, and it was quite charming. The girls wore next to nothing. Still in bikinis, shorts that crawled up their asses and tank tops three sizes too small. Hell, it could’ve been me a few years back. Guilty as charged.

  The sun was setting behind us in orange and golden hues. Across the street, the goddesses on roller blades were whizzing down the sidewalk. Live music was blaring out of the Elbow Room. Billy Kincaide, the white man’s answer to the black man’s blues, was strumming and picking to the thumping of a drum machine. Billy’s bass man, Raz, was in blues heaven. Probably stoned or at least damned near drunk. Rod grinned at me and we squeezed in. A couple of cold Morettis and we were rocking and swaying to Leadbelly, Big Bill Broonzy and Josh White, seasoned with a little Sonny Boy Williamson and Willie Dixon. One beer led to another, but we finally decided to head down to Lu Lu’s Bait Shack. Their shrimp were the size of small bananas, sweet and succulent, and the mugs were coated in frost.

  More music. Lion’s Mane, a rock band with a flame haired female vocalist. She had the guts of Janis Joplin and the sweet soul lilt of Aretha Franklin. Not the place for quiet conversation. We danced a couple of numbers and when the band went on break, we finally had a chance to talk. Mostly innocuous, cordial stuff. It would have been boring as hell if it had been anyone but Rod. I knew it would turn to work at some point. After all, we were in the same business, catching bad guys.

  “So any interesting cases?” he asked.

  “Too damned interesting and too damned personal.”

  I told him about Angie, holding the details close. Still, I kind of thought he already knew, but I sure as hell didn’t want to break down. Besides, he had his share of shit on his own plate. I did mention Stuart Longstreet. His brow furrowed and he looked over toward the stage. The band was returning.

  “I’m going to put you in touch with a guy. Raoul Marquez, DEA. When he calls, talk to him. You can trust him. By the way, keep Ricky out of this one for now.”

  No Ricky? I had plenty of questions, but it wasn’t the time or the place. I’d know soon enough and tonight I needed to focus on the primary objective. Getting laid.

  I am happy to say I wasn’t disappointed. The boy was a stallion from the starting gate to the finish. Afterwards, the aching in my thighs was all too welcome.

  Chapter Nine

  I was at the office a little late, but the shit was still waiting on my desk for me. I shuffled papers, made a few notes and waited. Ricky was doing the same across from me. I finally got my mind off the delightful carnal encounter from the night before, but only after the soreness had faded. Hot Rod had definitely lived up to his nickname.

  Raoul Marquez. I knew most of the Feds, DEA, and FBI, who worked South Florida. This name was new. Why had Rod told me to keep Ricky out of this one for now? It was already too late. He was my partner and my confidante. We were two sides of the same coin. I just didn’t function as well without his input, his loyalty and his friendship. Anyway, I figured there was a reason and I would know soon.

  No call from the mysterious Mr. Marquez throughout the day. I began to plan my nocturnal visit
to Louie’s office. I knocked off around six, threw a frozen pizza in the microwave, had a glass of the Sterling and went down for a nap. I woke at two A.M., put on my phony black ninja outfit and headed for the Taurus. Glock, lock picks, small flashlight. All the good stuff for a clandestine B and E by an officer operating slightly outside of conventional protocol. Hell, it could cost me my job, but if there was info on Stuart Longstreet in that filing cabinet, I needed it. Client confidentiality be damned.

  I parked a couple of blocks away. The street was quiet. I slipped on a pair of latex gloves. The front door lock was candy and the credit card trick opened Louie’s office in seconds. I eased in. The shade was pulled. A noxious smell crawled into my nostrils. Probably rotting meatballs. I turned on the flashlight. The top drawer to a gun metal filing cabinet was half open. I went to the S’s. Nothing. Louie kept files. He told me that. Something had been removed. I turned the LED to the desk. That’s when I realized I wasn’t alone.

  I was sharing the office with Louie’s corpse.

  He was sprawled in his chair. Legs spread, the arms falling behind like a puppet whose strings had been sliced. There was a small hole in his forehead centered just above the furry brows. His face was frozen and gray, the mouth slightly open in mock surprise. The blood was almost dry, but had run down his nose and collected on his upper lip. I checked the back of his head. No exit wound. A .22 caliber hollow point had probably scrambled his brain into gray pudding. I backed out of the office, locked the door, and made for the Taurus.

  When I got back to the apartment, I phoned in an anonymous tip and bolted into the shower. I wanted to scrub my skin raw until the stink of death was off of me. There wasn’t that much soap in all of Fort Lauderdale.

  I tried to sleep, but it was no use. My mind spun like some crazed kaleidoscope, but the shapes and colors wouldn’t come together. Two murders, one with a garrote, the other a small caliber pistol. Coincidence? Hell no. They were related. Two different MOs. Two killers or just one who liked to mix up his methods? Was he trying to confuse us, or was it simply a matter of convenience? Why take the file? Was there more than a tawdry affair involved? It all pointed to motive. If I knew that, maybe the mystery would begin to unravel.

  Chapter Ten

  I got to the precinct around eight. I wanted to be in on the take from the investigating officers. I knew I looked like shit, but I hoped no one would notice. Ricky wasn’t in yet. I was glad. I wasn’t ready to talk until I felt more comfortable with what I didn’t know. I wasn’t sure what I’d tell him, but I knew I’d need him sooner or later. And probably sooner. I was shuffling files when the phone rang.

  “Detective Rabow. Raoul Marquez, DEA. I am told it would be advantageous for us to meet as soon as possible.”

  “I expected your call Mr. Marquez. I am tied up at the moment, but I can free some time this afternoon.”

  “I certainly hate to inconvenience you, Detective, but this matter is rather pressing. There is a coffee shop a block south of the station. El Chico’s Hot and Fast. I believe you know it. Please be there in twenty minutes.”

  He hung up. I guess it was more a command than invitation. I decided to roll the dice and be there. In the old days, I was used to do command performances. They made me more money than I’d ever made in this crummy job. One more wouldn’t hurt.

  He was easy enough to identify. That well-worn black suit, the gray tie flashed FED like a neon sign. He managed a crocodile smile and signaled to the server. I ordered a raspberry croissant and black Columbian.

  “I appreciate your promptness,” he said lifelessly. “I understand you are conducting a murder investigation.”

  Probably two, I thought. I nodded.

  “Please forgive me,” I said, “but I need to see some identification.”

  He pulled a tattered card from his wallet and handed it across the table. I’d seen them before. It looked legit. He spoke in a whisper.

  “Let me assure you, Detective; the DEA has no intention of interfering with your investigation.”

  Yeah. Right. Then why were we here?

  “Nevertheless, there are some sensitive matters that need your attention. I am sorry I am not at liberty to discuss them at this time, but I am sure you understand. Ongoing investigations at a very high level.”

  He stared at me through dead eyes. If I didn’t know these DEA zombies, I’d have thought he just wolfed down a couple of ‘ludes.

  “I hope you will back off just a bit. Give us time to develop our sources, but at the same time share any information that may seem pertinent.”

  My God. Typical FED bullshit in its most formal costume. Translation: Don’t work the serious shit, but if you stumble on something, make sure we are in a position to get credit for it. Yeah, thanks, pal.

  “By the way, Detective, this meeting never took place. Not for you, your partner Mr. Fuenes, or anyone else in the department. You will get updates on a need to know basis.”

  Sure. I’ll bet. He handed me a card. Nothing on it but a telephone number. Then he left a five on the table and walked to the door. Cheap bastard. It didn’t even cover the check. I walked back to the office. I didn’t know a damned thing now that I didn’t know before our little rendezvous. But the FEDS were involved. DEA spelled DOPE. I thought about the cocaine in Angie’s condo. “Pure, better than anything on the street.” That’s what our forensics guy had said.

  Well, I certainly had every intention to honor Mr. DEA’s tacit instructions to lay low. Well . . . maybe not too low. But the cat was out of the bag and I had work to do. It was time to call in our secret weapon, one Cleopatra Ramparelli.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cleo was six-two, 240 lbs, built like Hulk Hogan without the moustache. At one time, she held the women’s world record for distance in the softball throw, something over the length of a football field. She was our intern from Florida State University. Dad used to say there was a fine line between sheer genius and the idiot savant. I wasn’t sure which side she was on.

  Cleo could hack the FBI, CIA, and the NSA in the time it took her to finish her Black and Mild, one of those little cigars she sucked up behind the building. Only, of course, when someone in the department hadn’t put her to work using those magnificent brains or delivering coffee. Her two word vocabulary consisted of “Yeah and here”.

  I saw her stomping like Bigfoot through the precinct, that perpetual scowl pasted on her face.

  “Hi,” I said and smiled.

  “Yeah,” she grunted.

  “I need some help. Full rundown on a guy named Stuart Longstreet, also his wife Nancy, nee Flagler. Credit report, bank records, anything that looks out of the ordinary, legal or illegal. They live in one of those mini mansions on the ICW near the entrance to the New River. Poinciana Drive, I think. Big power yacht out back. Can you get that to me quickly?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thanks,” I said. Seeing her up close made me rethink the moustache. It was light, but it was definitely there.

  Ricky came in looking like a Latin cover boy from GENTLEMEN’S QUARTERLY. This time the coat was beige Armani, the shirt a willowy black silk, slacks from Don Johnson’s MIAMI VICE closet, and immaculate black alligator loafers. He even had a satiny paisley handkerchief peeking out of his breast pocket. A bit much for a cop, but I whistled when he came in. Miami real estate money, no doubt. He laughed a little, feigned a tip of the hat and fluffed the satin. I had decided to tell him everything. The FEDS could go to hell. They damned sure wouldn’t cover my back. Ricky would.

  He watched and listened. He didn’t seem surprised at anything, but I guess we damned near heard it all at one time or another.

  “So we got two murders, the Fort Lauderdale PD, the DEA, maybe the Coast Guard all very interested. The only dicks left out are the FBI and the guys in IA,” he said.

  IA was internal affairs. I’d rather be strip searched by Homeland Security than deal with those vultures.

  “S
o what else do we know?” he asked.

  “Not much, but I sic’d our own female Darth Vader on Longstreet and his lovely bride.”

  “Oh my God. I pray for them if they’ve gone over to the dark side.”

  I laughed and dove into some file folders that were moldering on my desk. He did the same.

  It hadn’t been an hour when Cleo sauntered up to my desk.

  “Here,” she growled and slammed a piles of copies on the corner.

  First was the credit report. Their score was a less than robust 225. If they weren’t Longstreet and Flagler, they couldn’t borrow enough for a cup of coffee. Seventeen collections in the last four years. House, $9081 per month plus taxes and insurance. Two months in arrears. Both their Mercedes and Lexus on month to month leases. Also behind. The yacht in the back yard was a Hatteras 48, probably a cool four or five mill floating palace, financed to the hilt. $14000 plus on their VISA card, and several thousand more on a collection of Mastercard, American Express, Neiman Marcus, etc. etc. No liens on any of the property. All of the collections except a couple had been satisfied with cash disbursements. The whole thing was simply weird. These people were living like the king and queen of England and they didn’t have two dimes to rub together.

  The next item was the real killer. Several bank accounts, but none with a balance over a few hundred dollars. Any cash transaction over $10,000 must be reported to the IRS. It’s supposed to identify the bad guys. Dirty money being laundered and all that. Some of the disbursements were over the limit. But like all good laws that apply to the wealthy and powerful, there was a loophole. Wire transfers between banks. The codes told me there were plenty. Cleo had scored.

  The obvious question was next. Where had the money come from? Nancy was a Flagler. At one time that family could have bought the entire state of Florida and had enough left to throw in Georgia and maybe South Carolina. Did they still have it? And was sweet Nancy just writing checks and signing the famous Flagler name? Maybe Stuart had a crop of crisp $100 dollar bills growing in the back yard. A lousy bet, but who the hell knows? I wouldn’t be able to use any of this in court, but it was damned sure interesting.