A.W. Hartoin - Mercy Watts 04 - Drop Dead Red (18 page)

But it wasn’t a toilet or bugs or any of the things that could go wrong with a vacation rental. It was something that could only go wrong in my life. I was halfway down the alley when the smell got to me. Not hot dogs, which I kept expecting, but something else much less savory. Sausages, and not good ones. The sort of sausages that ought to have been thrown out, not barbecued.
 

There was no one in the courtyard. I headed back to the pool on the other side of the servant’s quarters and found it empty, too. Maybe it was a neighbor. Nana couldn’t be expected to control them. The high brick walls on the three sides of the property blocked my view, but there wasn’t any smoke that I could see. Weird. And that’s when I got worried. I went back to the courtyard and looked at the back of Nana’s house. Smoke. A layer of it drifted around Pop Pop’s room like heavy cloud cover.
 

“Oh shit!” I didn’t cook anything. Did I cook something? I ran to Nana’s door with my key, but it was unlocked. I flung it open and ran into the kitchen. There standing over the stove was a lanky man with limp black hair. I could barely see him through the greasy smoke billowing out of the pan he was holding.
 

I pulled my pepper spray out and aimed. “Who the hell are you?”
 

The man forked a rancid-looking sausage and turned to me with a goofy smile. Stevie, the loser son of Big Steve Warnock.
 

“Hey, Mercy. Hungry?

I sprayed him.
 

A humid breeze blew in through the kitchen window, but it didn’t help. The smell of rancid sausage had taken hold. If I didn’t figure something out, Nana would kill me. Stevie did it, but that would hardly be seen as a good excuse.
 

Honk.
 

The cab!
 

“Don’t move!” I yelled at Stevie, who had his head under the kitchen faucet. He sputtered something through the water and I ran out.
 

The cab driver didn’t look so much relaxed as angry. “What happened to your shoes?”
 

I’d forgotten all about the shoes. “Something came up. I’m sorry.” I thrust the fare at him, plus a generous tip, and ran back through the gate.
 

Stevie did move. He never listened or learned. He was back at the stove and the burner was fired up.
 

“Stevie!”
 

He jumped and clonked his head on the hood. “What happened?”

“Turn that off.”
 

He didn’t. I did. I have never seen a grosser sausage in my life. I put a lid on the pan so I wouldn’t have to look at it any more.

“Go lay down, while I figure out what to do with this…this stuff.”
 

“Let’s eat it.”
 

“We’re not eating it. I’d throw it out the window, except I’m afraid a stray dog will get it and die.”

Stevie ambled out with a dripping face. Of course he did. Why would he bother to dry off like a normal person? I checked to see if the stove hood had a higher setting than turbo. It didn’t, so I put the pan on the granite countertop to cool off.
 

I found Stevie on Pop Pop’s favorite leather sofa, dribbling all over it and rubbing his eyes.
 

“Don’t rub,” I said and went to get a towel and a wet washcloth.
 

I wrapped the towel around his sopping head, trying to be gentle when I so didn’t want to be.

“Ow. My head hurts,” he said.

“Sorry,” I said, pressing the cool cloth to Stevie’s red eyes.
 

“Why’d you spray me?”
 

“Instinct.”
 

“I didn’t do nothing,” he said.
 

“You try my patience.”
 

“Patience?”
 

“Never mind. What are you doing at my grandmother’s house?”
 

“Hiding out.”
 

“You’re not even going to bother to lie?” I asked.

He lowered the cloth and gave me his sad puppy eyes. “I cooked.”
 

“That smells like salmonella, so I’ll pass. How’d you know I was here?”

“Your mom told my mom in an email. I have her password,” said Stevie.

 
I put the cloth on my forehead. This was just great. “Is it your birthday?

“It’s ‘my sweetie boy.’”

Gag.

“Of course, it is. Who are you hiding from this time?”
 

“Your dad.”
 

“You’re hiding from my dad in my grandmother’s house? How stupid are you?”
 

Pretty stupid. I don’t know why I asked.
 

“Ernie told me about hiding in plain sight, I thought I’d try it out.”
 

I sat back. This better not be going where I thought it was going. “Who’s Ernie?”

“Ernie Costilla.”
 

“Oh my god. You’re hiding from one of the Costilla brothers?”
 

Stevie gave me the blank look that he did so well. “Yeah. He wants to kill me.”
 

I smacked him with the cloth. “You’re hiding from Ernie Costilla here? Are you crazy? He’ll kill me to get to you.” I wasn’t exaggerating either. Ernie Costilla was the criminal that Mexican drug lords looked up to.

“No.” Stevie shook his head like I was silly for having such an idea. “I’m hiding from your dad. If I go to jail, Ernie’ll have me killed.”
 

“You have an arrest warrant out then. What state?” I asked.

“Just Missouri.” But he didn’t look all that sure about it.
 

“I’m calling the cops.”
 

“You’ll get me killed,” he said.
 

“You did that yourself. What idiot thing did you do? Tell me you didn’t steal from the Costillas.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t think he’d notice. There were a lot of stereos in that warehouse.”
 

“How many stereos did you take?” I asked.

“Sixty-two.”
 

I dropped the cloth and punched him in his bony shoulder. “I’ll kill you myself. Sixty-two stereos? Who wouldn’t notice sixty-two stereos?”
 

“You want one? I got ‘em in a storage unit out in Slidell.”
 

“No, I don’t want a stolen stereo. I want you out and you can take those disgusting sausages with you.” I picked up my phone. “Time to go, Stevie. I’ll give you a five minute start, just to be sporting.”
 

He crossed his arms. “I’ll stay here.”
 

“You can’t stay with me. I’m working and you’re, you know, you. There’s probably a trail behind you wider than a semi.”

“No way. I was careful. All cash for travel and I used a fake name at the storage place.”
 

I had to ask. I couldn’t help myself. “What name did you use?”
 

“Steven Warnockski.”
 

I slapped my forehead.
 

“You like that. See how I added the ski at the end? Nice, huh?”
 

There were no words.
 

“Besides, you’re not working.” He stretched out and put his hands behind his head.
 

“Yes, I am.”
 

“You packed four pairs of stilettos.”
 

“You went through my stuff?”
 

“Yeah and I am digging the thongs. They’re getting a little ratty though.”
 

I smacked him with the cloth again. “You touched my panties, you freak? What is wrong with you?’

“I’ll take you shopping. I saw a Frederick’s of Hollywood on Bourbon.”
 

“That was probably a porn shop.”
 

“Close enough.”
 

I looked up New Orleans police department on my phone. “I hope they put you in the general population.”
 

“No, you don’t. You like me. We’re the same.”
 

“We’re not the same. I’m surprised you can breathe on your own.”
 

“Our dads are the same,” he said.
 

Stevie had me there. Big Steve and Tommy Watts were showstoppers and cast big shadows. But that didn’t make me the same as Stevie, the guy who once tried to sell drugs to the undercover cop who arrested him the week before. I’d been arrested, but never for being a complete idiot.
 

“If you think I feel sorry for you, you’re wrong,” I said.
 

He tilted his head. “Do you feel sorry for my mom?”
 

“I feel pity for your mom. It’s gone way beyond sorry.”
 

“Works for me. Mom would be crazy upset if I went to jail and got killed. She’d never forgive you.”
 

“You need to go to jail.”
 

Big Steve was a powerful lawyer and, so far, he’d managed to keep Stevie out of jail with a series of questionable deals. He did it for Olivia, Stevie’s long-suffering mother. She believed with all her warm heart that Stevie would turn out great, if only they could just get him through his awkward phase. Keep in mind that Stevie’s awkward phase started in Kindergarten where he’d eat anything on a dare, including rocks and worms.
 

“Jail won’t help. The Costillas will kill me and Mom’ll be devastated. I’m her sweetie boy.”
 

“Why do you have to be such a dirtbag?”
 

“I’m a good guy.” He said it with big, red eyes, and he believed it. Stevie never really hurt anyone but himself and his parents. He wasn’t violent. Did he deserve to die because he stole from criminals? Darn it. I’m such a sucker.

Stevie grinned. “I knew you couldn’t do it.”
 

“Fine. I won’t turn you in, but you can’t stay here. When the Costillas show up and kill you, they’ll get blood all over and I am not cleaning that up.”
 

“Deal. You want a sausage now?” he asked, grinning.
 

“Do not eat those sausages. Throw them away and don’t cook anything else. There’s a club sandwich in the fridge that I left out all night. You have a better chance of survival eating that. I have to go out. I want you gone by the time I get back.”
 

“Sure thing.”
 

“Where will you go?” I asked.
 

“There’s always a place for a guy like me.”
 

A guy like Stevie? That would be what? A failed criminal with a low IQ.

“I’m charming,” he said.
 

I gave him a look meant to convey my doubt, but he didn’t get it. He looked rather pleased with himself. As long as he left, I guess I didn’t care. I had a bacteria to track down and it was bound to be way more wily than Stevie the worm eater.
 

Chapter Thirteen

MY CAB PULLED up in front of Donatella’s house in the upper-middle class suburban of Belle Chasse. It was a new plantation style house with lots of white pillars and wrought iron on the balcony.
 

“You want me to hang?” asked my driver.
 

“No. I could be awhile.” I paid him and went up the long walk to the big front door. My code worked and I let myself into the two-story foyer. I froze. It was one of those sixth sense things. Something was wrong, but the problem wasn’t immediately apparent. The foyer was gorgeous with highly-polished floors and a gleaming crystal chandelier. The flowers on the side table had died in Donatella’s absence and petals littered the table and floor. That was normal, but something else wasn’t.
 

I stepped back out and took a look at the alarm keypad. It didn’t tell me if there had been any other entries. It had been armed and the door was locked, so why did I feel so exposed? I called Uncle Morty, but it went straight to voice mail. Still on the plane. Damn. There was nothing else to do, but to go in. I pulled out my Mauser and stepped back into the cool foyer. The room to the right was a formal living room and it was also perfect. I crossed the foyer and entered a home office. At first glance, it looked fine, too. But when I walked through, there were a few things that caught my eye. The desk drawers weren’t pushed all the way in. The top of the desk had a few items on it, a lamp, calendar, a pen holder, and several family photos taken recently by a lake. All these things were carefully arranged, but one thing wasn’t, an address book. It lay open off to the right side. Whoever looked at it wasn’t seated. Odd. Donatella was obviously a neat freak. Everything that I’d seen so far had a place. That address book wasn’t where it should’ve been.
 

From there I went into the family room. It was tidy, except for some family albums tossed about on the coffee table. The kitchen and the rest of the first floor were all perfect. I went up the stairs, gun still in hand, with the hairs rising on the back of my neck. I expected to find someone up there. Since there was no smell, I had to assume they’d be alive and aware of me. But there was no one in the master suite or the guest room. Abrielle and Colton’s rooms were more lived in than the rest of the house, with clothes and Legos strewn about, but empty as well. Their older brother Christopher’s room was where I found it, the thing that had been freaking me out since the second I walked in. Christopher’s room was trashed, and I mean trashed. The mattress had been thrown on the floor and shredded. The plaid wallpaper hung in ripped strips off the wall. His desk and bookshelves were tipped over. His lamp had been thrown against a wall and was shattered to bits.