Dead Money Run (9 page)

“Wher
e
is that file, Mandi?”

“It’s on your desk
, Sal. Isn’t that what you asked for?”

“Okay, I see it. Thanks.”

Ramiro was starting to put things together. The Kandi Kain killing had been written off by the tribal police as just another prostitute killing. The investigation, for what there was of it, was one step down from a circus event. The Indian Cops definition of a crime scene was the Little Big Horn.

Looking at the file,
Ramiro plugged in the names Kandi Kain and Susan Malloy into the National Crime Information Center data base. He got hits on Kandi Kain as a prostitute and a Susan Malloy who worked for a Federal agency in Atlanta that he had never heard of. Whatever it was, it was part of the big daddy of them all, Department of Homeland Security. Shit, thought, Ramiro. I got an agent from some Federal black op group killed while undercover. Ten months ago this Kandi Kain was living in Atlanta working at a place called the Starlight Club. The report went on to detail her various arrests for prostitution and disorderly conduct. But there was no history on a Susan Malloy.

The Starlight Club was owned by a guy named Sonny Cap who also happened to have a piece of the Casino in Jack
sonville Beach and on Cumberland Island, Georgia. The problem with the file, there wasn’t a lot in it because the actual case on the girl’s death was handled by the Indians and it was little more than the blind leading the blind. The two Indian cops were named William Two-Tree and Samuel Horse. Picking up the receiver on the phone, Ramiro dialed the Timucua Tribal Police Department to talk to one of the officers on the case. After about ten rings, someone finally picked up.

“Hello, this is the Timucua Indian Tribal Police Depar
tment, this is Officer Shinning Water. How may I help you?”

If there was one thing Ramiro would have
fancied it would be to insist that all Indians take American names. Everyone one of them had names that sounded like some Eco group.

“This is Detective
, Sal Ramiro, from homicide at the Jacksonville Beach Police Department. I need to speak to either Officer Two-Tree or Officer Horse.”

“Which one do you want to talk to first, Officer Ramiro?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“One moment.”

The music playing while he was on hold sounded like some sort of war dance. Where was his tom-tom when he needed it?

“
Sergeant Two-Tree, speaking.”

“
Two-Tree, this is Detective Ramiro, from homicide over at the Jax Beach Police department. I have a ten ninety at an apartment complex and the owner was a Kandi Kain that your department did a work up on about four months ago.”

“Kan
di Kain, let me see,” said Two-Tree. “Who is the dead person? Let me see. Got a name?”

“Jake Lockman was the name on his driver’s license.”

“Let me see.”

If the
Indian cop said ‘Let me see’ one more time, Ramiro was going to reach through the phone and strangle him.

“Lockman. We have a Jake Lockman listed as this Kandi
Kain’s fiancé. That him?”

“Sounds like it,” said Ramiro.

“You know, this dolly’s name is not Kandi Kain, but Malloy.”

“As in Susan Malloy you mean,” said Ramiro.

“The one and the same.”

“When were you going to tell us?” Ramiro asked.

“It’s all in the report, officer. Just have to read the report. It’s all in there in black and white.”

Ramiro caught himself. There was no sense in getting i
nto a war dance with this guy.

“Okay, okay. You got me on that one. Our fault.”

“One other thing, this woman’s brother was part of that gang that heisted that fifteen million from our casino on Cumberland Island about fifteen years ago. He’s supposed to be out by now. Maybe these killings have something to do with that? You ever think of that?”

Ramiro wanted to say that part of the case was in
Two-Tree’s backyard and what was he doing sitting on his ass, but held his tongue.

“What’s the possibility
of me getting a copy of that file?” Ramiro said.

“Give me an email address and I’ll send you a complete copy.”

“You can do that?”

“Sure, we Indians can do everything now
adays. Be hard to send it with smoke signals. Probably take a month of Sundays and a shit load of firewood.”

After hanging up the telephone, Ramiro saw that he had a call waiting. Hitting the flashing button he said, “Ramiro here.”

“Sal, this is Stan. We have another ten ninety over in Sterling Heights. Man it is messy.”

“Who’s there from CSI?”

“Roscoe. We caught the call as we were leaving the condo caper. And get this, Sal, there are seven people dead over here.”

“Shit. Give me the address
. I’m on my way.”

T
h
e
Tijuana Rest Stop began as a beer stand serving customers who lived across the state border in the dry counties of North Carolina. Over the years, it grew into one of the most unique spots in the South. As we got closer to the North Carolina-South Carolina border, I saw the giant Mexican statue in front of the place that someone had named Taco Pete.

The place had three things going for it.
It was remote, quiet and reasonable in price. A person could get lost and no one would ask a lot of questions. The best part, it was not in Georgia.

I booked one of the suites with a king size bed for two days. I was tired of packing and unpacking. When we reached the
room, Hilary was asleep. I hated to wake her, but the room was a drive up and we were only one of two suites in the complex. The guest clerk promised we would not be bothered and breakfast was included with the room. When he asked what time I wanted breakfast, I told him I would get back with him. As I climbed into bed, food was the farthest thing from my mind.

At five
in morning, I opened my eyes and looked for something to do. The computer disk containing the file on my sister’s murder was on the top of a small desk in the room. I must have laid it there before going to sleep.

The room was one of those business type units that had a kitchen complete with stove, refrigerator, microwave
and dishwasher.

On a
small desk, there was a computer terminal, monitor and ink jet printer. Getting out of bed, I walked over and inspected the desk’s accessories. The small tower had a place to insert a CD. I was in business.

Picking up the
disk, I inserted it and waited for the machine to boot up. I sat listening to the machine’s repetitive sounds as it loaded the disk in. I turned on the monitor and a file flashed on the screen. I clicked ‘open’ and there were more sounds.

Finally
, the file appeared. First, it showed the index of what was on the disk. I clicked on the one that highlighted the words ‘crime report’. When I did, my sister’s name and vital statistics flashed up on the screen. Next, the file showed the site where the body was found and the investigating officers involved in the investigation. The names were William Two-Tree and Samuel Horse of the Timucua Tribal Police Department. I wondered how long they spent on the case.

The report gave my sister’s pro
fession as prostitute. The body had been claimed by Angel Garcia and that surprised me. It listed his address in Atlanta. I wrote it down on a sheet of paper. The report had the time of death, condition of the area, and the fact that she had nothing on her. No keys, no purse, no phone and no clothes. The physician who performed the autopsy was a Doctor Harold Banks and gave his office address. I wrote that down. I’m rarely at a loss, but I had nowhere to go on this. Finally I pulled myself together and clicked on the autopsy report itself. Reading this was the hard part. I felt my stomach tighten up as I opened the file.

My sister had been ra
ped repeatedly and sodomized to the point where she had bled from her anal cavity. In addition, she was tortured. Someone had pulled out a bunch of her teeth. I felt my eyes misting. In prison I had seen and heard of a lot of bad things happening to some of the inmates. I tried to keep my mind separate from that. When it was close to home, it was not that easy.

I
wasn’t the best example of refinement. I like to think of myself as a compassionate killer. I looked at it like this, it is better to kill a few bad apples than have them ruin the whole barrel. Besides, it kept my backside protected. I never had to worry about someone coming up behind me.

Like the
one thumbing his phone that I shot on the Marks’s front porch. If I had killed him when I wanted to and not felt guilty because of what Hilary would think, he wouldn’t have had the chance to kill me, which, given the chance, he would. I promised myself not to make that mistake again.

I became angry as I read
the report. I just wanted to kill them all, but first make them pay. I took out a sheet of clean paper and wrote down my priorities. First name on the list was Sonny Cap. Next was Angel Garcia. I wanted to know why he wanted my sister’s body and where he fit into the scheme of things. Where was my sister’s car? Next, who or what is Sixty-Six, Partners? What did they have to do with my sister’s death, if anything, and what was her relationship with that company. My mind was swimming. I needed a cup of coffee and I didn’t want to send out for it. Getting up, I padded into the kitchen and made coffee using the coffeemaker in the room.

Taking out one of the packets of coffee,
I was surprised that it was Columbian, but ground locally at the hotel. Putting the filter in the holder, I dumped the coffee in and added a full pot of water. After a few minutes, the little unit gurgled and the coffee started to fill the pot. I turned and reached up to get a cup and when I did, I saw Hilary standing in the doorway crying. I put the cup down and reached out for her. I knew what had happened. She had been reading the file on my sister.

“Oh
God, Lou. They hurt her…What horrible people.”

I patted her on the back and said, “Now you know why I kill them when I can.
Treat’m like roaches. Never give them an edge. Never. Maybe now you can understand why I do what I do. ”

She nodded her head and cried some more.

“Whoever did this is worse than the worst kind of animal,” said Hilary.

“That’s because they
are animals,” I said. “Come on, how about some coffee?”

We sat and talked fo
r a long time. Hilary wanted to tell me about herself. I never told anyone anything about my past or otherwise. What was past was past. I couldn’t do anything about it. I couldn’t bring my sister back or resurrect any sort of family life. My parents, if they were alive, were someplace in Florida and it was too late to go back there for any reason.

Up until I met Hilary, my life basically was a bowl of shit.
There really wasn’t a lot to tell about Lou Malloy. I had a brother who left home for California when I was seventeen years old and was supposedly in the movie business. Susan was fifteen at the time. Almost half my life had been spent behind bars. My father had been a sheriff’s deputy and was the reason I left home. My mother had been a house wife. After I went to prison the only person I stayed in touch with, and that was not often, was my sister. Hilary on the other hand seemed to have a happy life. Her Father was a dentist somewhere in the north end of New York. He built a nice life for her, her mother and a brother. It seemed that she had an ideal family life. Went to college, married her high school sweetheart after being the homecoming queen. Life was great until she found her husband in bed with her neighbor. After the divorce, with no children, she joined the Army to get out of the town she was born in, raised in and married in. She said she just didn’t want to die in the place.

“How long were you in?” I
asked.

“Four years. Made i
t to first sergeant and took my out.”

“Looks like things worked out just like you figured.
I thought about going into the Army once,” I said. “I didn’t go because there was no money in it. Looking back, it was a dumb thing not to do. If I had, I wouldn’t have spent fifteen years of my life doing nothing, but eating, defending myself from queers and predators, while waiting for the road back to the money I had stolen opening up again.”

There was nothing
more to say. Hilary wanted to talk some more, but I had talked enough about myself. I didn’t see any profit in it. I listened to her talk.

“Did I tell you I went to college?”

“No, but I am giving even odds that you are going to,” I said.

“University of Florida.
Degree in Criminal Justice. Can you believe it and here I am driving around with someone I just met who thinks killing people is like lions culling out a herd. Whatever happened to just turning them in?”

“I tried that, remember,” I said.

I saw where Hilary was having trouble with my attitude about justice. Since she was worth the effort, I decided to straighten her out about a few things.

“Listen
, Hilary. I know you’re having a hard time with my approach, but here is the thing. We’re up against some very tough and vicious people. When I was in prison there was only one way to do something and survive. When someone hurt you, you hurt them back, only worse. A man who takes a shot at me has to know that when I shoot back I shoot to kill. Anyone who tries to take my arm, I take their head. It’s the only way. Trust me. They have to fear you and right now they fear us.

“I know, Lou. I know. It
’s just a little hard to get over. Know what I mean?”

“Hilary,
let me tell you a little story.

“
There was a man in prison with me. He was a preacher, who had been caught, so the witnesses said at his trial, stealing from the church he pastored. Then a parishioner’s wife claimed that he had raped her. He was arrested, tried and sent to prison.

“
While in prison he tried to help some prisoners find God, was the way he put it.

“
One day one of them beat him up so bad he could hardly walk. Next day that preacher went up to the prisoner who had beat him and told the inmate that he forgave him. The guy killed the preacher. When asked why he killed him, his reasoning was simple. He couldn’t stand someone who lied to him because no one beat up that bad could be that good. So, while the preacher was a good man, he was still dead. His being good didn’t save him. It killed him. See what I mean?”

“Not really. Lou,
what happened in prison is not necessarily something that has to happen out here. You are a smart man. You could go to college, get a degree and live a nice life somewhere. What the hell does one man dying have to do with what you do in life?”

“Look, I have a college degree
. Business Degree,” I said.

“You do?”

“Sure, got it in prison. You know why I got it?”

“Because you could
.”

I stared at Hilary for a few moments. She had hit the nail on the head. For the first time I found myself starting to care about someone other than myself. I tried to fight it off and shook my head like a cornered cougar.

“What’s the matter? Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” I said. “On the contrary, you
were right on the money.”

With that I s
et her coffee cup on the counter, picked her up and took her to bed. We stayed there until lunchtime.