Desperate Souls (6 page)

He glanced in her direction. “How’d you know about that?”

“You think you’re the only one in this car who’s got sources? I’ve got sources.”

He shook his head. “You haven’t got sources.”

“I got
sources.”

“Get the fuck outta here.”

“I figured it out, okay? I
am
a detective. I got the gold shield and everything. You just happened to take a personal day when the test was taken.”

Edgar chuckled.

“So why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t see any reason to.”

“You didn’t see any
reason?”

“Yeah, that’s right. I don’t know how I did yet, so I didn’t see any reason to have this discussion.”

“Well, we’re having it now—understand? We’re partners. If you’re going to mess that up, I think I deserve to know.”

“Look, I’m forty-three. I got eighteen years on the job, eight of them in Homicide. I got something good going on with Dawn, and I’m ready for a change.”

“You want to give up the street?” Maria sounded incredulous.

“I want a promotion and the raise that goes with it.”

“You gonna retire when you reach your twenty, too?”

“Who knows? Even if I scored high enough to make the grade, I still have to wait for a slot to open up. You’re stuck with me for a while yet.”

“You know they won’t keep you in Homicide.”

“I do know that…”

“You could get stuck in some shit detail like Narcotics or the K-9 Unit.”

Edgar said nothing.

“Would you have done this if Jake was still your partner?”

“Hell, yes. He was a bigger pain in my ass than you are. Now can we drop this?”

She didn’t say anything for at least five seconds. “I got
mad
sources.”

Edgar parked outside the bakery on 110th. Three RMP cars lined the curb, their strobes throwing red and blue light on the faces of the spectators standing alongside the yellow crime scene tape. Maria hung her badge on a chain around her neck, they each pulled latex gloves on, and they got out. Crossing the sidewalk, they gave their names to the uniformed recorder stationed outside the bakery.

Inside, they saw the other uniforms milling about the glass display counter. A wide archway behind the counter led into the kitchen area, where camera flashes went off at intervals. Circling the counter, they entered the kitchen. As they did, Maria felt self-conscious, imagining the eyes of every uniformed officer on her ass.

Serves you right,
she thought.

Crime Scene Unit specialists and Detective Area Task Force detectives swarmed the space, measuring blood spatters and photographing bodies. Maria saw a woman’s naked legs on the floor, protruding from behind an aluminum rack. Flour and blood spotted her thighs. The headless trunk of a man lay on a marble-topped table. His arms had been hacked off like his head. The mixture of blood and flour made it appear as though someone had strewn cotton candy all over the bakery.

“Another Machete Massacre,” Maria said.
Obviously.

Edgar said nothing.

They passed the decapitated corpse of a woman slumped against a slop sink. Blood drenched her breasts.

“The supercops are here,” said a familiar and sarcastic voice.

They turned to see Gary Brown walking toward them, followed by Frank Beck. Brown chewed gum on one side of his mouth. His blond hair made it difficult to see the gray that had started to come in. Beck, thicker and shorter, wore a permanent sneer on his face.

Gary looked her up and down. “Looking good, Maria.”

“It’s Vasquez,” Maria said, recalling what Jake had implied about the Narcotics detectives.

“Whatever you say.”

“We got six DOAs,” Frank said. “Five of them naked, all of them headless.”

“The heads are here,” Gary said. “In the refrigerator, the oven, the mixing bowl…”

Frank gestured to a wooden table where a powdery substance had been spattered with blood. The resulting mixture had congealed into something nasty. “There’s at least two keys of coke here and a thousand empty vials. A real pharmacy.”

“Are the vics all black?” Edgar said.

Gary flashed his teeth. “Every one of them, right down to the overseer.

Makes sense, doesn’t it? Russians, Dominicans, Puerto Ricans, Columbians, Koreans, Chinese. The new power players in town don’t want to just take over; they want to wipe out the competition. And they’re doing a pretty good job, if you ask me. From what I see, the Italians are sitting this war out.”

“I saw a surveillance camera in the front,” Maria said.

“It’s just a live feed, no recorder,” Gary said. “They used it for security, not playback.”

“Let’s get started on a chain of title,” Edgar said. “Whoever owns this bakery allowed it to be used for a front. If nothing else, they can identify this gang for us.”

“Already in motion,” Gary said.

A fifth detective joined the party. “Did I hear someone mention ‘gang’?” Bernie Reinhardt from Gang Prevention slid into the conversation with his hands in the pockets of his khaki slacks and the ends of his mustache drooping like tired tree limbs.

“Didn’t see you there, Bernie.”

Mustering a smile, Bernie pushed his glasses up his nose. “That’s because I’m as quiet and unobtrusive as a cat.”

Maria stifled a laugh. Bernie’s sense of humor could be as dry as a desert.

“This is the seventh attack we’ve seen like this,” Bernie said, gesturing at the gore. “The machete screams Haitian to me, but from what I hear, the Haitians are more afraid of this than anyone else.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” Maria said.

“Lovely dress. Of course it’s the point. Whoever’s hacking these people apart wants to spread fear as much as they want to move drugs. There’s something primal and ritualistic about these murders. They could have used guns, but guns are too
clean.”

“Guns are too
noisy,”
Edgar said.

“You’ve heard of silencers?” Before Edgar could answer, Bernie continued, “Trust me, these people made as much noise screaming as a gun would have made. Machetes are an instrument from another time. They inspire fear of the old country and of old ways.”

“Are you afraid of the old country, Bernie?”

“Brighton Beach? Sure, I’m afraid of my mother.”

Maria giggled. “You’re too much.”

“You got that right,” Gary said.

“You don’t think my insight has merit, Brown?”

“What insight? You haven’t
said
anything. No wonder the gangs are running roughshod over this city: you guys in Gang Prevention can’t stop them.”

“Indeed we can’t. Our budget has been cut as much as yours, our manpower’s as depleted. And we can’t stop gang activity until you stop narcotics activity. How’s that coming?”

Gary’s face reddened. “Swell,” he said before stalking off with Frank at his heels.

“Isn’t he too short to be a cop?” Bernie said once Frank was out of earshot.

Edgar snickered.

“Come here,” Bernie said to both of them. “I want to show you something that will stop your laughter in its tracks.”

They followed him over to a ceramic-tiled wall not far from the body of a naked pregnant woman. “See that?” He pointed at what appeared to be flesh clinging to one tile. “It’s human flesh.”

“You sure about that?” Edgar said. “It looks kind of gray.”

“That’s because it’s dead. Very dead. And it’s not alone. There are pieces of tissue dripping from corners and tables all over this kitchen.”

Maria cocked one eyebrow. “What are you trying to say?”

Bernie led them over to the clothed corpse of the overseer. The man’s dismembered hand still clutched a Glock. “Look at the shell casings on the floor. The overseer went down fighting. He fired at least six shots.” He gestured at the wall with the dead skin.

“You saying the dead skin belonged to our perps?”

“It would certainly seem that way, Detective Hopkins. The collateral flesh doesn’t match that of any of the vics. Now I’ve done you a solid. How about you do one for me and shut down some gangs this week?”

Jake sat in the Malibu’s front seat, sipping coffee from a thermos. After dropping Dawn off at her building, he had driven downtown to his office and changed into all black clothing, then parked on Montclair, with the corner of Caton in view, without drawing any unwanted attention. The car’s dents and wear and tear had appealed to his desire for anonymity, and he had spray-painted the vehicle charcoal gray to render it nearly invisible on nighttime stakeouts like this. By parking as far from a streetlight as possible, he was able to blend into the darkness while observing his surroundings.

In the distance, six-story concrete buildings rose into the sky along Flatbush Avenue, towering above the darkened four-story buildings before him. Several storefronts and apartment buildings had been boarded up, minimizing the amount of available light. Half a block ahead, three figures stood motionless in front of an abandoned church. Two of them wore hoodies, the third a do-rag. All three wore baggy jeans and stylish sneakers. Lean bodies and hard faces.

Hoppers.

Corner boys.

Jake had busted young men like this while serving in SNAP and had shaken them down for drugs and cash during darker times as a homicide detective. He pushed the memories back into his mind but did not shut them out. It was important to remember his actions. That was the best way to atone for his crimes.

He had taped a photocopied enlargement of Louis’s photo to the dashboard. Raising his high-definition camera so that it rested on the steering wheel, he activated the night vision feature, and the LCD screen blossomed with bright green light. He trained the camera on the drug dealers and zoomed in on them. Two of the boys were black, the third—one of the two wearing hoodies—appeared to have light skin.

That could be Louis,
he thought, but it was impossible to match the glowing eyes and shallow cheeks to the image hanging from the dashboard. He needed to approach the boys up close, a feat he did not relish. Over the last hour, he had witnessed at least two dozen addicts purchase drugs from the boys. He had also watched the same ugly hookers walk back and forth on Montclair and had not seen even one RMP or patrolman. The darkness felt heavy, the neighborhood deserted except for the dealers. Anything could happen to him on these streets, and no one would know a thing about it.

He reflected on dinner that evening. Dawn had been charming, and he should not have been surprised that Edgar had invited Vasquez to join them. He liked Maria: the attractive woman had style and moxie, and because she worked Homicide, they had a lot in common.

Still, he had no desire to enter into a relationship, physical or otherwise, with another woman. He still loved Sheryl and hoped to be reunited with her one day.

Before he could dwell on this matter further, his stomach tightened, his senses warning him that someone lurked nearby. Turning to his left, he came face-to-face with a ghostly countenance pressed against his window, bulbous and unblinking eyes staring at him from leathery gray skin.

He jumped in his seat.
Jesus!

As a cop in SNAP he had seen many drug addicts up close, and as a homicide detective he had seen murder victims even closer. The emaciated woman standing before him fell somewhere between the two. The look in her eyes was a mixture of fear and desperate drug lust. Her hot pants and belly shirt hung like rags on her bony frame.

Jake could not roll down his window without starting the engine and alerting the corner boys to his presence, so, with his heart still beating fast and his eyes locked on the woman leaning over him, he switched off the dome light, then opened the door a crack.

“Yeah?” he said in an impatient tone. He knew better than to show any weakness to a creature like this, who was a predator as much as she was a victim.

“You want a blow job?” she said in a raspy voice.

Jake’s nostrils flared, and he gagged as her stench enveloped him. He did not know the exact source of the foul odor and had no desire to learn it. “No. But I’ll give you twenty bucks to walk away and forget you saw me.”

She looked him up and down. She reminded him of a life-sized puppet more than a human being.

He pulled a twenty-dollar bill from the empty second cup holder by the stick shift, and he slid it up the window.

Her eyes dilated into wide black saucers, and when the twenty came within her reach, she snatched it with the speed of a bird. Then she scampered toward the corner.

Closing the door again, Jake raised the camera and zoomed out wide enough to capture the wretched prostitute in the frame, then followed her progress to the boys.

The dealers formed a triangular pattern facing her, with Do-Rag on point and the Hoodies flanking him. She gesticulated with the twenty, and Do-Rag nodded. The Hoodie on the left took a step forward, grabbed the twenty from her, and returned to his position. Then the Hoodie Jake suspected might be Louis walked forward, reached into his jacket pocket, and took out something too small to see, which he deposited in the hooker’s open palm. Even before he returned to his spot, she hurried down the sidewalk, moving in and out of the pools of light provided by the streetlights, and disappeared around a high wooden fence.