Shoot the Woman First (10 page)

“Half is better than nothing. And nothing's what you've got right now.”

Marquis was looking past him, at Damien again. Burke didn't turn. He tapped ash into the tray, waited.

Marquis looked back at him. “Even if you find the people that took my money, how do I know you'll bring it back to me?”

“I'd bring half back to you.”

“Half, then. How do I know?”

“You don't. That's where our long professional relationship comes into play. Mutual trust, right? I mean, if I wanted to, I could chase this whole thing down on my own, find them, keep all the money. You'd never know a thing about it.”

“Why don't you?”

“Because you have information I need. I'll start with your people, pick up the threads, work from there. Finding your inside man—or woman—is the first step. I'll need your help with that.” He blew out smoke.

“You are one arrogant white man, you know that?”

“I've been doing this shit my whole adult life. I know how to run an investigation. And that's what this is.”

“Kind of arrogance put you in a hole in the ground.”

“I've come this far,” Burke said. “I'll take my chances.”

A Detroit Metro cruiser flew by on the street below, lightbar flashing. They listened to the siren fade.

“If I say yes,” Marquis said, “what do you need?”

“A list of names, and ten thousand up front.”

“What names?”

“Everyone in the Armada, the driver of the drop-off car, anyone else who knew about the setup. For a start.”

“Why you need the money?”

Burke stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray. “I'll have expenses.”

“Expenses. And that ten K, that comes out of your share after you find the money, right? If you find the money.”

“That's right.”

“Then answer me this: Why the fuck would I give you ten thousand dollars for something my own people will do for free, just because I tell them to?”

“Because I can promise results. You can throw a hundred soldiers on the street, and all of them together in a month couldn't do what I can in an hour. And ten grand to you is nothing. You make that before breakfast, right? But a quarter million, that's something else.”

Marquis looked at Damien. “Cut him ten K out of the safe.” Then to Burke, “Damien will be your man. Anything you need, you talk to him.”

“I don't need anything else. Just the names. And the money.”

“What happens if my boys out there looking, too, and they find those people—and my money—first?”

“Then I'd owe you ten thousand dollars, wouldn't I?”

“That's right,” Marquis said. “You would.”

*   *   *

Burke bought a pint of Four Roses on the way home, cracked it in the car. Back on the freeway, he took a long pull from the bottle, tucked it between his legs, and got out his cell. Rico answered on the first ring.

“Major Crimes. Sutton.”

“How's the whitest black man in Detroit?”

“Ask your mother.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Would if I could.”

“You pulling graveyard again? Who'd you piss off?”

“Everyone's hours are screwed up these days. Not enough warm bodies to go around in this broke-ass city. Can't make plans, can't do shit about it”

“I'm looking into something,” Burke said. “Incident downtown today, shots fired. One of the vics is at Detroit Receiving.”

“
Lots
of shots fired. Brass all over the street.”

“That's the one.”

“Should I ask why you care?”

“You could.”

“I won't bother. Can't tell you much. Terrence caught it.”

“Haney? That's like no one catching it at all.”

“Fat man's closing in on his twenty, taking it slow.”

“He never took it any other way. I'd still like to know what he gets on this, though. Think you could put eyes on it?”

“If it's worth it.”

“You're cheapening our friendship.”

“Times are tough, brother.”

“Say one hundred flat fee for whatever you give me. Another hundred for copies of the actual reports when they're in. Anything above and beyond that, we'll talk.”

“Now I'm curious. Why shell out that kind of coin for 411 on a punk-ass wild west with no fatalities, no charges, and no complaints?”

“I have my reasons.”

“I'm sure you do,” Rico said. “I'll let you know what I find out.”

*   *   *

He took the bottle into the house with him, locked the metal front door gate, then the door itself. The town house smelled of stale food and cigarette smoke.

He sat on the couch, pushed aside the day-old Chinese food containers on the coffee table, and put up his feet. He loosened his tie, lit a Newport, looked at his reflection in the blank TV screen across the room. A clock ticked somewhere in the house.

It had been months since he'd done anything for Marquis. He'd gotten by in the meantime with some debt collection for local shys, a couple repo jobs in neighborhoods the professionals wouldn't go to. But it wasn't enough. The town house was paid off, but he'd had to cash in all his Treasury bonds, sell the twenty-foot Chris-Craft he'd kept out at the riverfront marina.

He'd lost his monthly pension from Detroit PD when the city had gone bankrupt. With the little he had coming in, and what he'd been dropping in the casinos, here and in Vegas, the math didn't work. He had less than twenty grand in the bank, another five in emergency cash hidden in the house.

A year back, Marquis had offered him a kilo to put on the street, let him make points on the package. Burke had turned him down. Marquis didn't want a partner, he wanted an employee. And Burke would starve before he let that happen.

He sipped bourbon, let the Newport ash grow long before he tipped it into the fried-rice carton. His buzz was back now. He took out the envelope with the ten thousand, thumbed through the bills, counting it for the first time. It was all there. He tossed it on the table, looked at it. It was a start.

There was nothing more left for him here. It was time to move on. But he'd need money for that, a lot more than what he had. And maybe now, finally, he saw a way to get it.

He listened to the empty house, the ticking clock, thought about turning on the TV, finding a game to watch, maybe a movie. But he couldn't raise the energy. These days, he ended up sleeping on the couch more often than not anyway, too drunk to make it up to the bedroom.

When he raised the bottle again, he was surprised to see it was almost empty. He drank the last of it, turned the bottle over in his hand, angry at himself for not buying a second one when he had the chance.

He threw the bottle at the dark TV, missed. It broke against the wall.

 

TEN

Crissa unlocked the front door, pushed it open with her fingertips, and listened. The house was silent.

She stepped in. To her left, the alarm on the wall began to beep. She punched in the code to deactivate it, closed the door behind her.

She'd left the suitcases in the car, wanted her hands free. She walked the empty rooms, found no signs anyone had been there. The .32 was still in its holster, clipped beneath the bed.

She brought in the two suitcases, one of them full of money, locked the front door, left them in the living room. The sliding glass door that led onto the back deck was locked and barred, as she'd left it. She pulled back the vertical blinds, opened the door. The motion detector above her clicked on, bathed the deck in light.

A chill breeze blew in off the inlet. She drew up one of the wrought-iron porch chairs, sat. The security light lit up the sloping backyard all the way to the small dock beyond. In the distance, she could see taillights on the drawbridge that linked Avon and Belmar. Looking east, toward the ocean, the far-off lights of fishing boats on the horizon. She heard the soft clang of a buoy out in the channel, the squawk of invisible seagulls overhead. The sounds of home.

She'd bought the house the year before, put down a hundred thousand dollars in cash, a fifth of the purchase price. She could have paid it off all at once, but that would have been a red flag to the IRS. On paper, she lived off low-level but steady investments—strip malls in Arkansas and Alabama, a car wash in Tennessee. They gave her cover for the life she lived, let her layer her take-home cash into legitimate sources of income. Rathka, the lawyer in New York, had set it all up for her. In the three years since she'd lost everything, had her identity compromised, forfeited all she owned, she'd built a new life.

The light clicked off, and she sat there in darkness. Her right arm and shoulder were stiff, but the pain had dulled to an arthritic ache. She'd open a bottle of wine, pop a couple of Aleve, turn on the radio to WQXR, the classical station out of New York. A long hot shower and then sleep. Tomorrow, she'd unpack the money, separate Larry's eighty thousand, stow some more in safe deposit boxes she kept at two local banks. She'd call Rathka tomorrow, decide what to do with the rest.

After a while, she went back inside, locked the door behind her. In the bedroom, she took the .32 from its holster and checked to make sure the magazine was full, with a round in the chamber. It was a nervous habit, but she couldn't sleep otherwise. For the past few months, she'd had a recurring nightmare of a figure coming at her fast out of darkness while she pulled the trigger of an empty pistol again and again.

But those were just dreams. She fit the gun back into its holster. She was home now, safe. Alive. This time.

*   *   *

“You're back,” Jimmy Peaches said.

She sat beside him on the bench, looked out at the empty beach, the ocean beyond.

“For a little while,” she said, and set the white and gold box of cigars between them.

“Portofinos again,” he said. “You're spoiling me.”

“Life's too short to smoke bad cigars. Isn't that what you always say?”

Twenty feet up the boardwalk, out of earshot, the aide who'd brought him out was smoking a cigarette and talking on a cell phone. He'd nodded when he saw her approach, then wandered away.

“You pay him for that?” she said. “To mind his own business?”

“Julio's a good kid. He looks after me.”

“And you take care of him as well, I'd guess.”

“The little they make here, I'm happy to help out. And he looks up to me for some reason.”

“Because you're an OG?”

“Me? I'm just an old man with bad legs and not much time. He feels sorry for me, more likely.”

Gulls wheeled overhead. The ocean was calm and still, only a faint breeze moving the dune grass. Behind them, the retirement home cast a shadow across the boardwalk. Twenty stories of pink concrete rising into the sky, the tallest building on this side of Asbury Park.

She nodded at the red aluminum walker beside the bench. “You lost the wheelchair.”

“Finally. Been a few weeks now. Can't go very far, and I'm exhausted when I get there, but it's better than being stuck in that chair, having to call someone every time I need to take a piss. Excuse my French.”

He had color in his cheeks, had gained weight since the last time she'd seen him. He wore a yellow monogrammed shirt, dark slacks, black shoes polished to a mirror shine. But his hair was thinner, pink scalp showing through.

“You look good,” she said.

“You're lying, but that's fine. I don't mind.”

She touched the cigar box. “You want me to open these for you?”

“Not a bad idea, as long as we're out here. Might as well take advantage.”

She got out her penknife, sliced through the plastic wrap and seal. “How's your grandson, Anthony?”

“He makes it down here when he can. He's got the restaurant, so he's busy with that. I think he's getting back together with the ex, too. Or trying to. I don't think he knows what he wants.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he's always asking about you.”

She closed the knife, put it away. “The kids will make the difference. He won't want to take the chance on losing them again.”

“I hope not,” he said. Inside the box, the cigars were in thin aluminum tubes. He took one out. “The older I get, the more I realize there's nothing more important than family.”

“I'm sure you're right.” She looked away.

“I'm sorry,” he said after a moment. “Forgive me. I'm an old man. I forget sometimes.”

“It's all right. Things are what they are. Hopefully someday they'll be different.”

“They will. What do you hear from our friend in Texas?”

“Nothing new. And I'm not expecting much anytime soon.”

“It's too bad, what happened down there.”

“He called the play,” she said.

“Way you told it, he had his reasons.”

“Maybe. But they didn't make much sense to me.”

He unscrewed the tube, slid out the cigar, held it beneath his nose, inhaled. “Been a while since I had one of these. You mind?”

“Go ahead.”

He leaned to one side, took a gold cigar clipper from his pants pocket.

“You're prepared,” she said.

“I try to be. My age, you take your pleasures where you can.”

He sliced the tip from the cigar, flicked it away, put the clipper back, got a silver lighter from the same pocket. She took it from him, opened it and thumbed the wheel. He leaned forward as she cupped her hands against the wind. He got the cigar lit, puffed. “Thank you.”

He sat back, drew in smoke, held it for a moment, then let it drift back out.
“Bellissimo. Grazie.”
She set the lighter atop the box.

“It's none of my business what you do,” he said. “But these days I worry when I don't hear from you for a while.”