

DIABLA

MEETS

ABADDON

by

Karl Tutt

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Karl Tutt 2014

All rights reserved without limiting the copyright reserved above. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, brands, characters, places, media and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which might have been used without permission. The publication use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Thanks to Carolyn and Rosalee, my patient readers, and Sue, an editor who is generous with her time and attention.

DIABLA MEETS ABADDON

by

KARL TUTT
Chapter 1

"I am God's agent. My mission is clear. It comes from Him. I will rid the world of the liars, the thieves, the whores who despoil God's green earth and defy his will. They lay down before me as the Philistine, Goliath, lay at David's feet. Their heads will roll as they hang from the sacred tree like rotten fruit, ready to have eyes plucked from their skulls by the savage vultures of hell. God's will is mine. The sword is mine. The rope is mine.

Beware and behold the eternal agony of God's vengeance."

Abaddon

What the hell? It came in an unmarked manila envelope. No return address, no note of explanation. Who the hell or what was Abaddon? It sounded like the ravings of some demented soul from an institution. It was obviously a photocopy. Maybe a bad joke . . . maybe a warning of some sort. I've done a lot of things, been a lot of things I shouldn't have been in my time. Now I was just trying to make a decent living as a private investigator, minding my own business when it suited me.

I showed it to Ricky, my partner.

"This guy needs to be in one of those lovely jackets that laces up from behind." His comment was one I couldn't disagree with.

I stuffed it in a drawer. Some kook, I thought, nothing to get bent out of shape about. Not the first time I've been wrong, but almost the last. I went back to the files. There were damned few of them. Most of the cases we'd had since we opened the office were small and petty. Most people paid, but we were barely making the rent. Not like when we were Fort Lauderdale cops working homicide. A lot of deadening routine, but spiced with plenty of excitement and a regular paycheck. The thrill of going out on your own? Better be careful what you wish for. That's what Dad always said. The good news is I hadn't been shot at recently. But that was also about to end.

I've been pretty good at a lot of things in the past. I was a damned good stripper. Had the ass, the tits and all of the moves. I knew how to get that sexy trill my voice, bat my eyelashes and twirl my long blond curls with the best of them. When I graduated to call girl, my date book was always full and I was rolling in cash. I'm not making apologies -- although I definitely own one to my Dad. Then I became a cop. It took me a while to learn the ropes and get the attitude I needed to work homicide. But I got pretty good at that, too. Now my partner, Ricky and I had gone private and I can't scare up a solid case to save my life. The landlord quietly knocks on the office door, offers a sad smile and whispers, "Late again." If someone else didn't knock on our door soon with a case and a check, we'd be doing business out of a tent on Ocean Drive. Believe me. Fort Lauderdale is way too hot for that.

I picked up the SUN-SENTINEL hoping to find some solace or at least a lead we could work. Sometimes there was bit of local news that got my professional chops drooling. We had a few things on the calendar, but not enough to keep the wolf from the door. Of course, there's always some divorce work. I hate it, but it comes with the territory. The shit is often ugly and personal in a way that made my guts churn. How people who had done the 'till death do us part' two-step could long for their ex-partners to get terminal cancer was beyond me. The pay was usually crappy, when they paid at all. I had even turned down a couple of potential paydays when the exes resembled denizens from the bowels of Dante's Inferno.

Nothing too interesting until I got to the society page. And there he is -- above the fold -- holding the most beautiful Brazilian woman I've ever seen. They were formally engaged. His arm is around her shoulder and she's looking up at him like he's the Messiah returned to earth. I read the first couple of paragraphs.

She's from a prominent South American family, apparently quite wealthy and well-connected, a practicing attorney with one of best law firms in South Florida. He is the handsome, up-and-coming assistant DA rumored to be running for the Senate in November. He is also an ex-bedmate of mine. Quite competent in that area also. Dear old Hot Rod, looking eminently respectable and totally enamored with the striking Estrella. I'd be lying if I said it didn't hurt some. But what the hell? Let 'em be happy. It's all too rare these days. I had no right to any axe to grind and he wouldn't be the first senator I had screwed, or maybe I should say screwed me.

There wasn't much else in the paper. The shoot-em-up in the mid-east was far from over. Unfortunately the civilians were still the victims. Dead women and children in a market bombing in Bagdad covered the front page. Al Quaeda at its best. But now ISIS was going them one better. Beheading an American journalist and posting it on YOUTUBE. Allah be praised. Our old pal, Assad in Syria, had conveniently found some chemical weapons that had mysteriously escaped detection during the searches by NATO inspectors. The Israelis and Hamas were lobbing rockets at each other in the Gaza Strip. Reminded me of that old rock song that was covered by James Taylor, "Wonderful World." But pardon me . . . I guess that was a love song.
Chapter Two

The rest of the day was quiet. Ricky and I discussed the few cases we had and set off on respective errands. By 5 P.M. I was back at Cooley's Landing in the New River enjoying a glass of Cabernet on GREAT GESTURE.

The good news is that I had a place to live after Ms. Medford, my kindly landlady, suggested not-to-politely that I vacate my last apartment. The bad news is that the leukemia had come back. When he found out, he asked me if I would stay on the boat while he was undergoing treatment. It was his last. When the attorney called, I had no idea Uncle Teddy had left it to me in his will.

I gotta say I grieved. He was one of the last of Dad's old friends from the Lake Norman days. It sounds corny, but he really was like an uncle to me. Knew me when I was bad and loved me and accepted me when that was what I needed the most. Despite the sorrow, the timing couldn't have been better for me. Ms. Medford had found the bullet hole in the wall. I thought I had done an adequate job of patching it after Triple D tried to off me with his favorite appliance, a garrote. That was the proverbial last straw. I had to leave the building with no notice and no ceremony. At least I got my deposit back. Of course, the furniture stayed. Luckily I didn't need it anymore. Uncle Teddy had called me the day before to give me the dreary tidings. He couldn't leave his beloved Pearson 365 without someone to look after it. If I would just pay the slip rental, it was mine as long as he was in treatment.

In six months, he was dead and with no other family, he had left the old yacht to me. She's a Bill Shaw design, no speed demon, but graceful lines, nice spaces below, full galley with oven, and a separate shower stall. Air conditioned, thank God. The Perkins 4-108 is well maintained and dependable. The slip rent is reasonable and she's all mine. In Uncle Teddy's memory, I was keeping her up to his standards. I hoped somehow he knew. Dad damned near raised me on a sailboat and I know my way around the water. So she's home.

I took a hot shower and tried to figure out what to do with the rest of the evening. TV makes me crazy. The damned commercials insult my intelligence and break up my train of thought. I had become a regular at Bugsy's Last Resort up off of Las Olas and visions of alcoholism were starting to dance in my head. So that was out. No knights in shining armor had ridden up on their white chargers recently and I wasn't going to meet any if I hid out inside my boat. My lady stuff was longing for some hot contact. I really needed to get laid, but I am somewhat particular about who I crawl in the sack with. In my line of work, most of the guys you meet are creeps and crooks. No recent exceptions. It seemed like everything was turning to pure shit.

That's when the cell rang. I looked at the screen. Hot Rod. What the hell? He gets engaged to a knockout Brazilian number and he's calling me the same day? I gotta admit I had missed him. Still, I hesitated. It rang a few times, and finally I couldn't resist. I pressed the button.

"Hello, Dee. I know you didn't expect to hear from me."

Just the voice gave me chills. Hot Rod had rocked my female nation and was involved in saving my life. I couldn't help it. I felt a little wet. He had disappeared when he realized that an ex-pole dancer and call girl wouldn't do much for the image of an honest Assistant DA and purportedly honorable politician running for the senate.

"I'm sorry, Dee. You're the only one I can trust. I sent you a copy of a message I received a few days ago. Did you get it? I didn't send the photos that were with it."

"I did, Rod. You need to watch who you're keeping company with."

"I don't know who that company is, but I'm being blackmailed. The next day I received a call. I was to leave $10,000 in a brown bag and deposit it in the trash at the beach across from the Elbow Room."

"So you called the cops?"

"Are you kidding me? That's just the kind of publicity I don't need right now. I left the money as instructed. Hoped the SOB would disappear. It didn't happen. Another call a couple of days ago. More money or he'll release the photos to the media. If he does, I'm screwed. No Senate, no DA's office. I'll be lucky to be selling pencils on the sidewalk on A1A."

"Does your fiancé know about this?"

"Hell, no. She can't. Too much to lose for both of us."

"So you call me?"

"I need you, Dee. It's a case. You could use one. I'll pay whatever you rate is. I'll promise you more work later with some well-heeled clients. Help me find this bastard and shut him up. Get the photos, but this has got to be confidential. I know you. Only you can do it."

"I guess I have to take that as a compliment, Rod. Let me sleep on it. Give me a number. I'll call you tomorrow."
Chapter Three

I poured another glass of the Cab into a jelly glass, swirled the ruby liquid and took a generous sip. So Hot Rod needed me. 'I was the only one he could trust. He knew I could do it.'

Nice line, but the sucker in me slammed that door long ago. I wanted to believe he still had a soft spot for me. Maybe he did, but the bottom line . . . he had to be desperate. His entire career, his ambitions, a convenient marriage, possibly a woman he loved . . . all on the line. Maybe I owed him. I guess it is a woman thing. I wanted to understand. But not so much after he had abandoned me. Then had he really? Sometimes I really do work at the 'Lady Thing' and I can look and play the part. I don't like to admit it, but I've got my soft and fluffy side. Sometimes it shows up at the wrong time. Truth is – a girl like me -- lucky I didn't end up in prison or a shallow grave. I should be glad to be breathing and free of any intimate reminders of my life before I 'reformed.'

I thought I ought to talk to Ricky. I'd need him, and we both knew how bad we could use the cash. I also knew that Rod had contacts in places that could be very advantageous to a couple of struggling private dicks. Hell, Ricky could buy some snakeskin boots.

I called the number Rod gave me.

"Okay. I need a $5000 retainer and I've got to have copies of the photos."

He paused for a moment. I could hear the wheels turning even over the phone.

"Forget the pause, Buddy. You told me I was the only one you could trust. And Ricky is in. I can't do this without him."

"Okay, Dee. No contracts, nothing on paper. You'll have to take my word and this has got to be strictly graveyard talk. If Ricky's in, he's in, but I'm trusting you to watch him. I'll send a certified check and photocopies to your office by special courier with instructions to leave the parcel with no one but you. You'll have it by 2 P.M. today. You can use this number any time day or night. I expect regular updates."

"Done," I said, but I hoped that didn't turn out to be wishful thinking.

Ricky and I were sitting in the office doing next to nothing when there was a knock on the door.

"Come in," I said. A man in cut-off jeans, a plaid shirt and a bright green bicycle helmet cracked the door.

I guess he knew who I was. Gave me a long look, didn't ask for any ID, and handed me a manila envelope. He said nothing, nodded and then closed the door behind him.

I split the envelope with a sterling silver letter opener that had belonged to my grandmother. Grandma would have been proud. It was all there. I handed it to Ricky. I hadn't told him anything. I wanted to make sure the parcel arrived before I opened what is my sometimes too big a mouth.

He fingered the check -- looked long at it -- I guess to confirm it was real. Then he shuffled through the photos. A short wolf whistle escaped his lips. The he smiled.

"Holy shit, Dee. You didn't tell me about this one."

Now I did. He opened a small notebook and jotted down a few key phrases

"You don't have to tell me. Strictly confidential, client privilege and all that shit."

He picked up the photo on top again and bit his upper lip, nodding.

"I got a flash for you, Dee. I know this girl. She used to be just a street hustler, but moved on to bigger and better things. Actually she is even more beautiful in person than this damned photo gives her credit for . . . and she knows how to please and how to keep her mouth shut. Not only good looking, but smart. Good combination. She's no junkie and that helps. I imagine her clientele would read like the rosters of the best country clubs in South Florida."

He handed the photos back across the desk. She was a pure-t knockout. Long silky blond hair, boobs that didn't come from any cosmetic factory, and legs like a young Lauren Bacall. Rod was sitting on the bed in his underwear smoking what looked like one giant doobie. She was sitting next to him in all of her naked glory, smiling like a cat about to eat the canary. I couldn't tell where they were. Looked like a cheap hotel, but it really didn't matter. If these nasty particulars got out, our golden boy was definitely screwed. Nobody would even buy his pencils.

"Eleisha Pierpoint, that's her street name. Don't know her real name. She's blond in the photo, but I think she's originally from somewhere in South America. Probably educated here. Slightest trace of an accent. Beautiful girl, skin like burnished porcelain, probably came to the states hoping for something better, modeling, maybe acting. I guess in some ways she got her wish."

"Damned, Ricky. You're a regular fount of information."

"Went with the territory when I was working vice. The bottom line is she's probably just a harmless kid trying to make a buck like all of us. I'll check my sources. I may even be able to talk to her. I think she might trust me."

"That's a place to start. Get on it. And buy the shoes."

He gave me a mock salute and left. I made some notes. Here's what we had.

1. Letter from the creep.

2. Info on Ms. Pierpoint, the lady of somewhat questionable virtue.

3. Photos – probably a setup. Obviously some sort of camera hidden in the room. I'd take even money Eleisha was in on it. But who wanted our boy that badly?

To do:

  1. Check with Rod for enemies. List, if we could get it.

  2. Interview/question Eleisha, if possible. Ricky – point man. He said she might trust him.

  3. Get my shit together and use my brain.

It damned sure wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. I got to work.
Chapter Four

"These are the holy words of the Bible. 'He who calls his brother a fool is in danger of hellfire.' I will take that chance. It is the fool's errand to defy me. All is in vain. The Angel of Death sits at his right hand. I do his bidding as the agent of God. The whore is no more. She resides in the very pit of hell. Her painted face will appear no longer to tempt those who refuse to tread the paths of righteousness. Sin no more. Your penance must be paid. Comply with my direction or proceed at your own peril. 'Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord."

Abaddon

It came in the mail. No return address, just like last time. It had to be from Rod. I thought for a moment, then grabbed the Lauderdale SUN-SENTINEL. It was on page seven. Short, but not so sweet.

"Murder Victim Beheaded."

A girl had been found in a small motel just off of the turnpike, west of Fort Lauderdale. She had been stabbed numerous times with some sort of large blade. She had also been sexually assaulted, probably after her death. She had been decapitated and her undergarments had been stuffed in her mouth. Her name was being withheld pending notification of her next of kin. She was identified as a suspected "sex worker," a nice way for the papers to say prostitute. A man had registered for the room and paid cash. He was alone. No creditable description of him or a vehicle. The desk clerk had not seen the woman prior to the discovery by a maid the next morning. The police were asking any individuals with information to come forward.

Grisly and bizarre, but nothing much shocked me anymore in our neighborhood. I read the 'love note' from my new boyfriend again. A damned good cop had told me once never to trust coincidences. There were way too many. I had tried to stay as far from the police as I could for the last few months. The powers that be had decided I was a loose cannon, a 'liability'. But I needed to find out if the gruesome murder had anything connection with Rod's extra-curricular activities. I didn't know the victim, but Ricky probably did. He might be able to identify the body.

I called him on his cell and filled him in on the latest.

"Yeah, I hope to God it's not her, but nobody has seen Eleisha in a few days. She and a couple of her friends on the street usually meet for coffee in the mornings. The girls said they were worried. Hadn't heard from her. One of 'em phoned. Left several messages. No reply. I'll call Captain Sullivan, do the concerned citizen routine. He won't believe it, but he'll let me in if he thinks I might have some info."

"Sounds good. I'll meet you at Bugsy's at 4 P.M. unless I hear different."

Bugsy's was quiet, but it was a little early. I sat at my usual booth in the back. Bugsy knows me from the old days, used to be a pretty fair pimp, if there is such a thing. The bar was his retirement gig, hastened by a nasty run-in with the local mob. He still carried a limp from that encounter. He brought me a shot of Jameson with a water chaser.

"So how's the new gig, Dee? You solvin' lots of crimes."

"No, Bugsy. Mostly chasing faithless husbands and wives and trying to make the rent."

He laughed a little.

"Yeah, well I'll be looking for the next Blue Dahlia murder. Put you on it so you can be a star. Then I can tell 'em, 'I knew her when . . . Maybe get interviewed on TV by John Hunt."

"You da' man, Bugsy."

My partner, every girl's Cuban dream, came in and collapsed across from me. He's usually upbeat and charming. The ladies love his soulful brown eyes, the finely chiseled features, and the Ricky Riccardo smile. Laughter comes naturally and bursts out of him, the perfect combination of music and sex appeal. Today it wasn't so easy. His skin was taut and lifeless, the eyes glazed. His mouth hung open slightly and fell at the corners.

"It was her . . . Eleisha. You don't want to know what he did to her."

"I don't, but I need to."

Bugsy set down a tumbler of Jack Black with a couple of cubes of ice. Ricky picked it up and drained a good half of it.

"Okay, you asked for it. She was on the table, gray as hell. I guess she had lost most of the blood in her body. She had stab wounds through both of her breasts and one just above her pelvis. Each one had penetrated the entire body. Large exit wounds on her back. He had carved a cross on her chest. It started at her neck and ended at her navel. Her head was in a tray beside the body, the blond hair matted red. Sullivan told me about the panties in the mouth. All some sort of hellish statement. The bastard screwed her – they think -- after she was dead. But it could have been before . . . maybe after he sliced through her neck. The cut was fairly clean. They think he used some sort of sword, very heavy and razor sharp."

He reached for the oily brown Jack and emptied the glass. I thought Ricky had seen it all on the street, but his hand trembled. He waved to Bugsy and there was a refill on the table instantly.

"Anything else," I asked.

"Yeah. Here's where it gets really weird. Before the cops entered the room, one of them heard a dull clicking sound from within. When they opened the door, the sound exploded. There were hundreds of locusts all over the room. The floor, the furniture, the curtains, and her body . . . all covered with brown bugs. She had little bites all over her body. The cops had to step over and around them to examine the scene."

"Locusts? How the hell are they gonna get in a motel room? One, maybe a few, but a whole room of them? That makes it even more strange. What else?"

"Not much. The cops did find a cardboard wrapper. One of those throw-away cameras you get at the drug store. The pervert must have taken pictures of his handiwork. No prints, no other physical evidence. My ID didn't help much because they still don't know her real name. Sullivan gave me the routine in his best stern warning voice.

'Mr. Fuenes, this is police business. Warn Ms. Rabow that you and she are not to get involved in this investigation in any way. Let us handle it."

"He said it loud enough for everyone in room to need earplugs. Out in the hall he pulled me over and whispered, 'Ricky, quid pro quo.' He'll keep us informed if we keep him informed."

"Fair enough," I said, "so will Eleisha's friend talk to us?"

"I'll find out."

The whiskey wasn't doing it. I couldn't erase Eleisha's face from my mind. I went home hoping for some re-runs of "The Brady Bunch." Maybe all of that big hair and giggles would cheer me up, but first I had to make a call.
Chapter Five

When I got back to the boat, I picked up the phone and dialed the number.

"So do you know?"

He cleared his voice. "Yeah," he said in a deep whisper, "I heard about it right after it happened. I had to play dumb, but I made an excuse to look at the body. Jesus . . ."

"Yeah, Jesus wasn't much help to Eleisha. Have you heard anything else from the blackmailer or the Abaddon creep? Any more requests for cash in a brown paper bags?"

"Not yet, but I expect it before long."

"And he hasn't tried to contact your fiancé or anyone else in your immediate circle?"

"No, I don't know anything I didn't know when I talked to you last."

That was a rather large lie, but I didn't know any better at the time. I told him I'd be in touch and put the phone of the table.

Then I did something I should have done a couple of days ago. I Googled Abaddon. There were several entries, but they all led to the same place. Abaddon was the Angel of the Abyss, the darkest pit of hell. He carried out the punishments of God and was said to lead an army of locusts. That explained a few things, but mostly it told me we were dealing with a legitimate psycho. I sure as hell didn't want to meet him in a dark alley, at least not without my old pal, Mr. Smith and Wesson.

By now, the booze was making me a little stupid. I crawled up into the v-berth and was out in seconds. Actually, I slept like a brick.

I met Ricky at the office at about nine the next morning. He was already busy working the phones. He covered the receiver with his hand and spoke out of the corner of his mouth.

"Don't get too comfortable. We are meeting Lana, Eleisha's best friend, for coffee at The Big Mug at ten."

I nodded. The Big Mug was right around the corner, better coffee and pastries than any Starbuck's on the planet. I kept myself busy and nursed a well-earned headache. Gotta cut down my alcohol intake. Of course, I'd made that promise more than once.

Ricky and I got there a few minutes early. Lana came in right at ten, looking like the wrath of Hades. Her hair was stuffed up under a Dolphin's cap. A few strands trickled out underneath the band. It was candy apple red, but her attempt to hide it wasn't working. The hair was thick and shimmered like crimson silver. Deep circles under eyes the color of dark emeralds. No makeup. A wrinkled green t-shirt and gray sweat pants. Green flip-flops completed the ensemble. Too bad. She was going for dowdy and exhausted, but the disguise didn't work on a girl who was strikingly beautiful. She tried a smile, but it didn't work. She sat down on the wooden chair in a lump.

Ricky ordered her a latte and The Big Bun, a giant pastry slathered in cinnamon and creamy icing. She nodded thanks. Then he began.

"Lana, I know you're grieving and probably scared. There's violent butcher out there. I hate to even be here, but we are trying to get anything we can to get closer to a stone killer. I wanted Dee to be here. She used to be a 'working girl' and you can trust us both."

She gave me a quick once-over. "So you did the streets?"

"I did. Started in the strip clubs. Got trumped up on the junk. Lost it for a while. Then on to bigger and better things."

"But you got out?"

"I got out, but not before I damned near cashed in all of my chips. Thank God I had some friends. Now I'm clean, a private investigator, next best thing to a lady cop. But one who understands the life, 'the good stuff' -- at least what there is of it -- and the endless shit."

She looked deep into my eyes, brushed a red tress off of her forehead. Then she bit down on her lip and went on. I thought I saw a trace of trust in those emerald eyes.

"Cops . . . yeah. To them Eleisha's just another whore who maybe got what she deserved. They'll go through the motions, then stuff it in a cold case file in the basement."

A single tear swelled in her left eye and crept down her cheek. I had to check my gut. I remembered Angie. I placed my hand on my thigh under the table and buried my nails in the flesh.

"So you want to know what I know about her. Actually a lot. I met her in New York. We were doing auditions, hoping for a walk-on in a soap opera, maybe a commercial, anything. But beautiful girls are a dime a dozen in a place like that. We ended up working the street for a guy named Ray Renato. He was a bastard, but a sweet bastard. He didn't beat us up or anything like that. Kept the Johns in line. Kept us away from the bad dope. We got our money regular and he treated us like ladies."

"It's a long way from New York to Florida," I said.

"Yeah. Well, she was such a knockout. When she'd walk in a joint, the guys would drool all down their shirts. But also very classy, smart, a student at Columbia, working her way through school. Her family was from Ecuador, Peru, someplace like that. I don't remember. They had money at one time, but it had dried up. She found herself broke, but she wouldn't give up. She was gonna stay in school and make something of herself. Hell, she studied all of the time when she wasn't on her back. Loved the movies. We used to wear out the damned matinees, especially all that romantic stuff. We must have heard Clark Gable tell Vivian Leigh he 'didn't give a damn' a hundred times. We'd split a tub of buttered popcorn and a large Coke. It was damned good fun."

She got a little misty, but tried to catch herself.

"Ray said he knew some people, claimed to be producers or some such shit. They operated out of Miami. They wanted her. I was her best friend and I got a few of my own attributes. They took us as a package deal. I'm sure Ray got paid off."

Ricky spoke up again. "So did she have any kinky Johns . . . anybody into bondage, s and m, any of the violent crap?"

"Not that I know of, but I hadn't seen her as much lately. She was moving up. Doing the high class call girl gig. With her brains and her looks, she could get away with it."

"So who was her pimp?" Ricky asked.

"Don't know. What I do know is I'm still stuck on the street. I'm doing okay, but I'm getting out soon. Just like you, Dee."

Angie had said the same thing. She was out, but she was dead. The yellow acid welled up in my throat. If I had a dollar for every hooker who'd told me that, I'd be in the Bahamas on the sand in a lounge chair. I'd be swilling pink island drinks with little umbrellas served by beautiful oiled beach boys. Hey . . . it wouldn't be all bad.

"Anyway, Eleisha's done. Maybe we all are, but I'm scared shitless. I heard what he did to her. And the bugs . . . makes me want to puke. The creep's out there. Might be me next time or one of the other girls. We're just trash to them . . . beautiful, willing trash. Ricky, please, I got the willies. I got 'em bad . . . don't let him get me."

"I won't," he said and patted her hand. She looked at her Cuban savior, but she didn't stop shaking.

I wish he'd been right. Lana got up and left, The Big Bun still on her plate.
Chapter Six

We'd gotten some information, but I wasn't sure how useful it was. Still, you collect the pieces and hope that sooner or later they'll begin to fit.

I didn't get the locust thing. I remembered that it was the Eighth Plague that God had visited on the Pharaoh and the Egyptians when Moses begged him to release the Israelites from slavery. Years ago I had read Nathaniel West's Plague of the Locusts. It was all pretty dreary stuff. I knew there were some references in Revelations in the Old Testament. They eat every green living thing. Famine. The end of time and all of that shit. Still it was just too bizarre. I tried to picture the sound and the room where Eleisha was found. I shook my head and shuddered. And where the hell do you get hundreds of locusts?

I googled the long-legged insects and picked up some info. There are three different incarnations, from Cicadas to what is more like a grasshopper. They lay their eggs underground and wait for the right conditions to hatch. I didn't know they would bite. Apparently in self-defense. Did that mean they were there when Eleisha entered the room? Did she try to fight them off in her terror? And how did Abaddon transport hundreds of brown insects? Did her stab her while she fought? It seemed unlikely due to the precise locations of her wounds. Maybe he decapitated her first, then stabbed her so he could create the perfect cross on her dead body. Then the sex? It went too far beyond anything I could conjure, even in a nightmare.

I just couldn't construct any kind of reasonable scenario. But the whole thing was like something out of a bad horror movie. Years ago I had seen "Them," on Count Shockula's Midnight Horror Fest. Nuclear energy. The insects had mutated to the size of small tanks. I think they ate Chicago, or maybe it was New York City. Hell, it could have been Boise, Idaho. Monsters weren't that particular about their diets in those days. Their signature was a hellish clicking. Then the human feast began. It was too late.

Anyway, it must have been the worst reality for the dead girl. Maybe she was lucky she didn't know what was coming next. There are a lot of weird cats out there, but having sex with a corpse has to be at the top of the heap when it comes to sickening perversion.

So where do we go from here? I sure as hell didn't know. I was still trying to figure it out when the phone rang.

"Dee, any progress?"

"Hate to tell you, Rod. Nothing. We've been jumping through all the hoops, tried to reconstruct Eleisha's murder, interviewed a woman named Lana, a friend of the deceased. Got a little info, but no real leads."

"Okay. I sent you another love note from my secret admirer. You should have it tomorrow. Enjoy the reading. I'll be incommunicado for a couple of days. Death in the family, actually Estrella's sister. Really just a kid. She met with an unfortunate accident. We'll be traveling to her home to bury the remains. In an emergency, you can contact my office. They will forward any messages, but be careful what you leave. That stuff all ends up on tape."

I get a little crazy sometimes with my theories and my hunches, but something was bothering me. It was a sound in Rod's voice coupled with an image that lay in the shadows of my mind. It was blurry and it had no color, but it was there. I struggled to bring it into focus, to make some kind of connection, but it danced on the edge of my consciousness only to dart away when I snatched at it.

I thought about Lana -- replayed her comments -- the terrified look on her face, the clear affection she had for Eleisha. I saw the gorgeous blond victim sitting on the bed with Rod. What had Lana said? Somewhere in South America, Ecuador or Peru? Student at Columbia? Apparently serious about her education. I grabbed a handful of old newspapers and bolted to the office. I pulled the file on Rod's case. The photo was on top. I shuffled through the old papers until I got the one I wanted. My smiling ex Hot Rod with his lovely Brazilian fiancé, Estrella Martella. The Sherlock Holmes magnifying glass was in the top drawer.

I scanned both faces slowly. The photos weren't great and Eleisha had that professional dye job, but the features were too similar to deny. The height, even the shapes of the bodies. I wanted Ricky to look at them, but I'd take at least even money that Estrella and Eleisha were sisters.

I'd see him in the morning and get his take on the developments.

I got up early and had coffee. There was nothing much in the newspaper that hadn't been hashed to death over the past few weeks. I heard the mailman in the parking lot. Rod's prediction was right on time. I split the envelope and unfolded the photo copy.

"Only Satan and his spawn insist on tempting the wrath of God. Justice is swift and retribution sure when he lifts his sword. He will not be satisfied until the last painted Jezebel has been struck down. I am Abaddon and my winged army is mighty. See the blood of the infidels mingle in the gutters with the slime of the street."

Abaddon
Chapter 7

Ricky called as I was on my way out the door. Captain Sullivan had called.

Her blood was mingling in the street. They found her in an alley behind a flop house in northwest Lauderdale. Apparently she had put up quite a fight. There were over fifty cuts and stab wounds. Her right arm was nearly hacked off and she was missing three fingers. Her body was covered in tiny red bites. She had been raped, but the Medical Examiner couldn't tell whether it before or after she was dead. There were three places where the weapon had completely penetrated her body, both breasts and just above the abdomen. They were linked by a cross that had been carved with a large blade, possibly a sword. The remains of several dozen locusts were found near the body. Her head was several feet from the body sitting in a pool of blood on the dusty bricks, staring into the hellish mass of trash and filth in the alley.

Same M.O., no major differences, but hopefully a breakthrough. There was videotape from a security camera that was mounted on the corner of the building. It caught a fleeting image of Lana and a tall man in a beige trench coat entering the alley. The camera angle had missed his face, but his full, black hair disappeared beneath a turned up collar. He appeared to be clutching something to his side beneath the coat. They seemed to be having a conversation, or maybe a negotiation. The camera didn't have the range to cover the scene of the crime, but now at least we had his image. No witnesses. The body had been found by the driver of a garbage truck.

Captain Sullivan had come through. I guess he didn't want to talk to me, but he had provided Ricky with all of the details. The stuff we didn't want to know. The cops were scouring the neighborhood, doing a house to house, but so far no luck.

The few minutes I had spent with Lana hung in my guts like food in a dumpster. ". . . don't let him get me, Ricky." That was her plea. It seemed simple, even childish, at the time, but it was all too real. Ricky and I were partners. If he failed, I failed. And she was quite dead. Her blood had mixed with the filth in the gutters just as Abaddon had said.

I opened the door of the office. He sat like a sphinx, staring down at the desk. The beautiful bronze Cuban skin was more yellow and his eyes, usually sparkling with intensity, had lost that glint that assured you we were all alive. I made some coffee and pulled the bottle of Jameson out of my desk drawer. Neither of us spoke as the carafe spit and hissed. When I set the mug of steaming liquid in front of him, he finally spoke.

"Booked a seat to New York on the 3:45 out of Lauderdale. Be gone a couple of days."

"Damned, Ricky. It's a hell of a time for a vacation."

"No vacation, Dee. My cousin, Daniel, is a full professor at NYU. I called him this morning. He has friends across town at Columbia. Thinks he can call in some favors, use a bit of professional courtesy to collect some info on Estrella and Eleisha. She and your buddy, Rod, are MIA for a few days. Might as well do some investigative work while we wait."

"Can't hurt. Listen Ricky . . . about Eleisha . . ."

"Shut up. Dee. You and I both know I screwed up. I wasn't quick. Wasn't careful. She was pleading and I was too damned preoccupied to listen. I just didn't take it seriously enough. Abaddon is fast and deadly. If we catch him, I'm going to take that sword and ram it up his ass."

"Yeah, just let me have one hand on the handle. I know how you feel."

"The hell you do. She trusted me. . . if we hadn't questioned her, she might still be alive. The bastard knew. He must have been nearby." He gulped down a few bolts of air. "Just keep it cool for a couple of days and watch your back. The sonovabitch obviously isn't finished. Hopefully I'll get something useful in New York. At least it's worth a shot."

I got up slowly and went to the window. I could almost see Lana's reflection in the dusty glare of the glass, but it wasn't her. It was me. There was no escape. Ricky was right, but it wasn't him that screwed up. It was us. I stared through the dirt and something caught my eye. Across the street, a man stood in an abandoned store front. He was focused on our office window. His black eyes seemed to catch mine with a malevolent grin. His hair was long and black, slicked back off of his forehead with a shiny gloss. He wore a beige trench coat. I shuddered and turned for a moment.

"Ricky, come here. Now." He came to the window. "Look. Across the street," I almost shouted.

"At what?" he said.

"The man in the trench coat . . ." But there was no man in the trench coat. He had vanished as quickly as he had appeared. Ricky gave me a withering look.

"You need to take it easy, Dee. You gotta be careful, but don't let your imagination get the best of you. It'll make you crazy. I gotta go pack," he said. He was gone before I could reply.

I sat around the office for another hour. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was all just too much. I don't usually spend much time doubting myself, but two murders, little love notes from a psycho and creepy insects in unexpected places will do that to you. I had another hit of the Jameson. I wanted to make notes, call someone, do anything that might seem useful, but my hands wouldn't follow instructions and my brain was whirling like a demented carousel.

It was late afternoon when I finally dragged myself away from the desk. I hoped to find a little comfort at Bugsy's. I sat at the bar and ordered a double of Evan Williams Black. A greasy looking guy with a gold band on his left hand was a couple of stools away sipping a Bud. He looked over and smiled. His teeth shone yellow-green in the dim light. I ignored him.

"Hey, Babe. Buy you a drink?" I shook my head, but avoided looking him in the eye. He sat for a moment longer, I guess to plot his next highly original pickup line. Then he moved to the stool next to me.

"Hey, Babe. I'm talkin' to you." He reached over and twirled a strand of my hair. Bad mistake on his part.

I grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm behind his back. He grunted and moaned.

"Yeah, but I'm not your Babe and I'm not talking to you," I snapped.

I yanked his arm up almost to his ear and pushed him out the front door without much ceremony. He writhed and yelled, "Bitch." I put a little more pressure on the arm and thought I heard something crack. Too bad. One of the hazards of political incorrectness.

"By the way, you might try a shower." I snarled after him.

I heard Bugsy's voice behind me. "Jesus, Dee. You ain't exactly good for business."

"Sorry, Bugsy, but you need a better class of clientele." I drained the glass and left a ten on the bar.

I decided against the front entrance. Mr.Greasy might have decided to exorcise some of his misplaced macho angst on me. I knew the back way out. I hoped he had his tail between his legs and was headed home to greet his sweet, loving wife, but you can never be too careful.

I unlocked the door of the Focus and plopped into the driver's seat. The interior lights went on. I almost gagged. There on the passenger seat were half a dozen dead locusts. I jumped out. My lungs were heaving and my eyes were damned near tearing. I put my hand to my waist. No weapon. I crouched for a moment, then slowly stood up and scanned the parking lot. No movement, no signs of any life except the droning of the cars on the boulevard. I went around to the passenger door and used a Home Depot circular to scoop the dead creatures into the parking lot. Then I hit the starter and headed for Cooley's.

I parked the car beneath the oaks and gingerly approached GREAT GESTURE. No signs that anyone had been on the boat. I dialed the combination and looked down through the companionway. Again, nothing amiss. I closed the hatch boards behind me and set the deadbolt from the inside. I pulled the S and W from its hidey hole and checked the cylinder. Five brassy .357's in the chamber. I laid it on the table. I didn't need another drink. I wanted to be alert. I made coffee and sat.

Abaddon, the crazy sonovabitch, had been in the street outside the office. He must have followed me to Bugsy's and left a little gift to scare the shit out of me. It worked. He obviously knew more about me than I knew about him. I made myself a promise that I wouldn't even empty the garbage without the .38 strapped to my hip or calf.
Chapter 8

I was lying on the settee still trying to get myself together. My mind was racing and I still felt a strain of good old-fashioned terror radiating up and down my spine. Suddenly I heard a knock on the hull.

I grabbed the .38 and raised it up behind my back. Cooley's was a busy place, but I wasn't used to visitors around sunset.

I unbolted the deadlock and eased the hatch open. There was a man on the dock holding a coffee cup. He was painfully thin and wore a stained gray t-shirt and green plaid pants. His feet were bare. There was a tuft of hair somewhere between duck down and simple fuzz on his chin. It looked like it just didn't want to grow.

"Hi. Sorry to bother you. I'm Elvis. Me and Teeny live on the old Catalina down the dock."

Then I recognized him. He was bag boy at the local Publix grocery. I laid the .38 on the nav table, forced a smile and nodded.

"I saw your light. Teeny is baking an apple pie and we ran out of sugar. Can I borrow some?"

"Sure," I said and reached for the cup. I filled it and handed it back to the scruffy owner.

"Thanks. We'll bring you a piece." He padded back down the finger pier and turned back toward the old sailboat.

I'd seen the Catalina, an old 27. DREAM ON painted on the stern. Fine boat. Stout, roomy, great in light air. A few years ago some hearty soul had done a circumnavigation in one. A couple of Dad's friends owned and raced them in the old Lake Norman days. I didn't know anyone was living aboard, but it gave me a momentary sense of security. One immutable law of the docks is that live aboards look after each other. I went back below and made myself a sandwich. Still no booze. I washed it down with a glass of sweet tea. About an hour later another knock on the hull.

It was Elvis and Teeny with a paper plate engulfed with the biggest piece of apple pie I'd ever seen. I could smell the hot cinnamon crust and tangy apples from the companionway.

"Come on aboard. I'm Dee." I said.

She was just over five feet tall, her blond hair stuffed up on top of her head like a sprout of broccoli. Her smile was quiet and gentle like a slow rising tide. They settled into the cockpit and she shoved the delight in my direction.

"I'm Teeny," she said brightly, "as in The Captain and Tennille, 'Love Will Keep us Together', 'Muskrat Love', and all that stuff. They had five gold albums. A couple of them even went platinum. Mom and Dad were huge rock'n'roll fans. Just couldn't resist. Anyway, it works for us. Elvis put his hand on her knee and smiled. She laid her head on his shoulder. It was definitely cool, made me warm inside. I felt like I was watching an old episode of schmaltz from Nic at Nite. The pie was fabulous. I dusted the crumbs from my lip and tried to make conversation.

They were both from Colorado. "Not enough water there," was the reason they gave for moving. She was a service clerk at Publix. That's where they met. He'd been bagging groceries for several months.

"Steady work," he said, "and we get a discount, so all we have to do is make the slip rent." She smiled and patted him on his skinny thigh.

"Elvis is much too humble. He's a totally awesome computer geek. Photographic memory. Never takes a note. Remembers everything. He's a member of the original Skeleton Crew. Cracked three cold cases this year, one in Florida and two in Ohio. The FBI even called to congratulate him."

The Skeleton Crew was a name given to amateur detectives by Deborah Halber in a book of the same name. The cyber sleuths spend hours and days scanning old coroner's files and missing persons databases. They try to match a body to a cold case. Some of them are pretty good. I guessed Elvis was one of them.

"So what do you do?" she asked.

Elvis looked at me apologetically, then dropped his head. A sheepish half-grin invaded his face.

"I know. Sorry," he said quietly, "Dee Rabow, born Angelique, former Fort Lauderdale Detective, dismissed after some questionable tactics while working a murder case. Now working as a private eye. Partner, Ricky Fuenes, also a former cop . . . I won't go on."

He didn't have to. What the hell else did he know about this lady in question? I shook my head.

"Cool." I said. "So you're a hacker?"

"He won't admit it, but he's the best." Teeny's small face beamed with pride. She looked at him. He shook his head and gave her a pleading 'enough' look. She stood.

"Hope you liked the pie."

It was obvious she was protecting him. I think she wanted to bail out her Sir Galahad before he revealed the secret to the Hold Grail. The visit was over.

"Hey, the pie was perfect. Thanks. Drop by anytime."

I went below and fastened the deadbolt. Elvis and Teeny. I needed some confederates. They were innocent kids. I didn't want to put them in any danger, but I couldn't help but wonder what kind of information Elvis could coax out of that computer. Maybe it was another avenue which could lead me to Abaddon. The thought of him made my teeth grind. I tried to fight the darkness in me, but I wanted to put a .38 slug in the prick before he killed someone else. Maybe even me.
Chapter 9

It was time to try Rod. He might be back from the funeral in South America. I dialed the private number he had given me.

"Hello, Dee. Just got in from the airport. Estrella is a wreck, but we're coping. I was just getting ready to call you. What's up?"

"Too much to talk about on the phone. I need a meeting. You and me first, alone. Then Estrella."

"Come on, Dee. She's overwhelmed with grief. Her baby sister . . . dead. She's on Xanax, but even that isn't helping. You and me . . . maybe."

"No, Rod. No maybe. There are a couple of things you neglected to tell me. You want me on the case, we have to hash some things out and come to an agreement. I can't operate with my hands cuffed behind me."

The pause hung over the phone like a block of granite.

"Okay, but it will have to be day after tomorrow. Breakfast at Chico's Hot and Fast. Nine A.M. I can give you an hour at most."

"That should be enough. I'll be there."

I didn't like the delay, but at least it gave me time to get the info Ricky collected in New York. Sure enough, he strolled into the office a little before noon. He was attempting sly, but he couldn't wait to get it out. I smiled at him.

"Sit down, oh Sainted Sage, and inundate my consciousness with infinite wisdom."

He poured a cup of two hour old coffee and propped his feet up on the desk.

"Okay, Dee. Cut the shit. I don't know about the wisdom part, but I damned sure got some hard information. Estrella Martella, native of Rio de Janeiro. Old Brazilian family, apparently wealthy and privileged. One sister, two years younger, Carlita and a brother that no one seems to know much about. Estrella was an excellent student, Phi Beta Kappa, graduated with high honors. A shoo-in for law school. Beautiful, smart, Hispanic woman. A Human Resources dream. The major firms were slobbering over her."

"So what about the sister?"

"Carlita . . . not so much. Also very beautiful, but not the star that Estrella was. In her junior year something happened. As near as I can figure, the family money dried up. Business, politics . . . who knows? Bottom line. No more dinero. Carlita had to drop out of school. I guess they were rivals, her and Estrella. Some suggestion of bad blood between them according to an advisor I was able to collar. Anyway, Estrella went on to fame and fortune and Carlita went to a pimp. Didn't do much for the family reputation, but, hey, you do what you got to do. I did manage to get a photo of them in happier days from an old Columbia University yearbook."

He handed it across the desk. Carlita was Eleisha, no doubt. Stunning, but stuck in the shadow of her illustrious sister. So Hot Rod had been screwing Martella, the younger. Talk about interesting developments, not to mention motives for murder. Hot Rod and Estrella had just moved up to the Ten Most Wanted list. Maybe the Abaddon thing was a simple scam to lead us away from the real killer, or killers. But why did Rod put us on the case to begin with? The man always did suffer from a serious case of over-confidence, but what's new with politicians?

I told Ricky about the bugs in the car seat.

"Damn it, Dee. If that's not a warning, I don't what is. Maybe we're getting close to something that we shouldn't be involved in. I don't want to ID you at the morgue any time soon. Say the word. We can do without the money. We can drop it. Let Hot Rod clean up his own damned mess. Maybe he's learned to keep his dick in his pants form now on."

"Yeah, we could drop it. But the girls are headless, defiled in a way beyond description. Lana trusted us. We didn't know, but we might have been able to protect her. I can't let it go and I don't think you can, either."

He drummed his fingers on the desk and looked like he wanted to spit.

Then he simply said, "Okay."

I didn't think Rod would talk with Ricky around. I told him about the breakfast meeting, but asked him to stay close . . . but stay away.
Chapter 10

I was at Chico's with a hot cup of coffee and a sausage biscuit in front me when Rod came in.

He looked immaculate and dapper in a silvery sharkskin suit, white starched shirt and a red club tie. You could see your face in his shoes. He looked around to see if there was anyone who recognized him. Satisfied, he took the chair across from me.

"Hello, Dee. I have meetings, "he said, "don't have much time."

I stared for a moment, remembering the shower we'd shared, his arms around me and the way he whispered softly into my ear. I shook my head. I needed to dismiss it. I decided I could deal with that in my own darkness. Now he was client and maybe a murderer. That had to make it all very different.

"Okay, Rod. You were sleeping with Estrella's sister."

He looked around again, leaned forward and spoke with his hand muffling his mouth.

"Yes. I didn't know it at first and Estrella doesn't know it now. You understand client confidentiality. I trust you, Dee. I guess I don't have any choice, but you have a retainer and none of this goes beyond this table."

"So where does it go, Rod? Where does it all start?"

"I think someone doesn't want me to be elected. I think I was set up for blackmail early on. I met Eleisha at the damned grocery store. I think she knew who I was. At first just some harmless conversation. Then she called me at the office promising information on some heavy duty rackets that were threatening to blow Fort Lauderdale into the lead on CNN. I wasn't too keen on meeting Wolf Blitzer in person, so I listened. She was gorgeous, willing. I blew it. I admit it. One thing led to another. You know how it is."

"Yeah, Rod. I know how it is. I damned sure should."

"Okay. I deserved that, but I had no idea she was Estrella's younger sister. There was something almost exotic about her. Thought it would just be a one or two night stand. Obviously it became more complicated. You saw the pictures. Now I need you. To put it bluntly, you have to save my ass. I sent you money. I made some promises. I know people. Get this done and you'll have more work . . . and influence than you could possibly imagine."

"You can take your work and your influence and shove it up your ass. Two girls are dead. Prostitutes . . . yeah. I used to be one, myself. Somebody has to speak for those women. If nobody else will, that person is me."

"Sorry, Dee. I should have known you'd react like that. You're right. Maybe for you, it's a type of retribution, but I am going to call it justice. I like the sound of it a whole lot better."

"So Rod, don't hold out on me again." I drilled his eyes with my own deadly laser.

"I won't. And by the way, Dee, I didn't kill her." He got up and left.

When I got back to office, Ricky was on the phone.

"Captain Sullivan," he said, "nothing new. Unless the press starts howling for results, this one could end up on the back burner."

It sounded too familiar. Nobody cared much about the whores. But I did. I told him about my conversation with Rod. Ricky rubbed his chin and whispered something to himself. Then he turned to me.

"So he says he didn't kill her. Maybe not, but with his contacts, he could have easily found someone who would. He's desperate. Wants to be one of the honorables. Well, good for him. This is the kind of publicity that could destroy him. So he thinks 'why not roll the dice and get the witnesses out of the way?"

I remembered Rod's hands around my waist, the way he had pulled me into him. Could a man I thought I might have been in love with be a killer? I hoped not, but Ricky was right. We couldn't remove him from the Ten Most Wanted list. As much as I wanted to believe Rod, it just didn't make any sense to eliminate him as a suspect at this time. The afternoon drifted into mindless speculation. We simply didn't have enough information. The conversation moved to my encounter with Teeny and Elvis. Ricky got quiet. When he spoke, my favorite pragmatist was definitely present.

"Okay, Dee. Why don't you use the kid? If he's this genius geek, maybe he can turn up something that will get us a little closer. Set him loose. What have we got to lose?"

The answer was 'nothing'. It made sense. A member of the original Skeleton Crew. Teeny said he had helped the FBI solve three cold cases. For us, this one was definitely as cold as ice. Ricky was right, nothing to lose. I went by Publix on the way home to pick up a six-pack of Kalik. I went to the checkout where Elvis was bagging like a man on fire. His Publix shirt was green and crisp, but he was still in the plaid shorts and the Gillette had yet to meet his face. He grinned and called me 'ma'am'. Cute.

"You and Teeny come over for a beer later." I lifted the carton of Kalik and shook the bottles. Then I moved past the counter. He nodded shyly.

I went back to GREAT GESTURE. I was getting behind on my maintenance. I wanted Uncle Teddy to stay proud. I threw some Tide on the deck and ran the brush over the topsides, then waited for the rinse to dry. I got my orbital sander out of the lazarette and went to work on the teak. It was hot as hell, big surprise for Fort Lauderdale in the summer. I decided to put the heatstroke off for another day. I went below and poured a huge mug of ice water and left it within reaching distance. Around four, I was sweating like Niagara Falls and definitely out of juice. I wiped myself down with a towel and collapsed on the settee for a well-deserved nap.

I woke up and opened the companionway. The deck was sparkling like a bowl of fresh milk. The teak would be ready for a coat of Sikkens tomorrow. I reached for the mug. It was tepid and the taste wasn't quite right. Still, I downed it in a gulp or two. Anything wet would work.

Suddenly I felt a little loopy. The heat, I guessed. No cooking tonight. I'd order in. I fell down on the settee again and was out of it almost instantly. I began to dream.

There was a clicking sound. The man in the trench coat was standing over me. He held his right hand close to his side. I could see the sweat oozing out of his forehead and smell the stink of his fetid breath. He smiled, but it was more of a grimace. Out of the haze I heard his voice.

"God commands me. I do his bidding, but first I must render the attention that you have earned."

I felt his hands. They were smooth, but damp. The crawled over my breasts like the locusts. He reached for his zipper. I heard it ease down to his crotch.

That's all I remember until I heard a voice. "Dee . . . Dee. Teeny's on her way. The beer?"

I woke with a start. My shirt was up around my neck and my nipples were red and sore. My shorts were pulled down to my ankles. I put my hand between my legs. It ran with something thick and silky. I felt something crawling up my thighs. I swatted at the brown locusts. They tumbled to the floor and I crushed them with my bare feet. The crunching sound bore into my brain and their guts clung to the naked soles of my feet.

"Hey, Elvis," I spit from below, "I was asleep. Come back on an hour."

"Sure," I heard him say.

I looked at my fingers. They were glossy with a milky substance. I smelled them. It was fresh and earthy. Then I felt a vague aching below my pelvis. I had been raped. Fuck the dream. It was real. I sniffed the mug. Nothing. Probably Rohypnol, the date rape drug preferred by red necks who couldn't persuade the ladies in any other way. Tasteless, colorless, quick and powerful. The sonovabitch screwed me while I was drugged. I heaved and wept. I threw my clothes into the garbage and jumped into the shower. I twisted the red one all the way to the left, but no water was hot enough.

No one ever confused me with a virgin, but the thought of that psycho inside me while he grunted and grinned made me want to puke. I did, but it didn't help. I looked in the mirror. I wanted to see Dee Rabow, the tough detective who could handle anything. But the image staring back at me was ghostly and haunted by fear. She spit and accused. I didn't think she was going away any time soon.

My parched lips mouthed little prayer that the bastard's poison seed didn't leave anything else as a reminder of the horror. My first stop in the morning would be the clinic. I had a morning after pill I'd been saving for a special occasion. I guess this was as special as it got. I choked it down with a shot of Jameson.

I put on a fresh top and some denim cut-offs. That made me feels a little better. I thought about another belt of the Irish, but I didn't want to mix it with anything that might be left in my system. I opted for ice water, but it didn't cool me down. Pure fury plunged into me. It was an electric charge that tingled in my entire body and buried itself in my mind. 'I'll get the asshole and I'll kill him.' That was the promise I made myself.

I heard bare feet padding on the finger pier. I went the companionway and slid the hatch open. On the deck I could see the gray prints of a man's working boots. An hour had passed, but I hadn't noticed. I waved to Elvis and Teeny. They came aboard, Elvis still in his Publix shirt and Teeny looking like a life-size Barbie, bouncing, smiling and ready to be adored by some imaginative little girl, or in this case a willing, but harmless, nerd.

I popped the tops on a couple of cold Kaliks and handed them into the cockpit.

"Hope we didn't disturb you. I saw the guy rushing off of your boat. Boyfriend?"

I gritted my teeth.

"Not exactly. Uninvited guest, you might say. So you saw him?"

"Yeah, I did. Long black hair, sort of slicked back. I couldn't figure out the trench coat. It's so damned hot. He was favoring his right leg."

"What about his car? You see that, too?"

"Yeah, royal blue Dodge Caliber, probably 2010. Need the license? Yeah." He recited the numbers and letters with perfect precision.

"See, "said Teeny, "I told you. Photographic memory. Never misses a darned thing."

"Elvis, Teeny, I need someone I can trust. I think you guys are it. He's a suspect. Had no business on my boat. There's a lot I don't know, but this guy is dangerous, possibly even a murderer." They looked at each other in disbelief.

"Do you think you can use your computer to find out something more about him?"

A shy smile crept across Elvis's face. "Right up my alley," he said.

I didn't tell them any more -- I couldn't -- but I gave him enough info to start the chase. He had the license plate. If Elvis was the hacker that Teeny believed, he could trace it to a name and address. That, in itself, would be huge. I was sure Rod could get Captain Sullivan to run the police files. See if he had any priors, maybe even check for similar cases on the national register.

One beer later, they joined hands and headed back to the Catalina. He was eager to start. "I'll get you something quickly," he said, "and we'll be watching. Won't we, Baby?" She beamed and gave a full nod.

I called Ricky. I didn't tell him I'd been raped. I did tell him that Abaddon had been on GREAT GESTURE and that I had taken his suggestion to use Elvis and Teeny as a potential source of info. He didn't say much. Ricky knows me. He knows I sometimes withhold information. He also knows if he's patient, he'll get it at the right time. But when is the right time to tell someone you've been raped?

I decided to sleep.
Chapter 11

I was in a car that wasn't mine. I don't know where I was going, but I was late. I tried to read the street signs, but they were blank. I looked for familiar landmarks, turning at random. But I was drifting in and out like smoke. Something hellish was in the inky void of the back seat. I could hear them scratching, crawling, creeping up my neck. I swatted, but there was nothing. I slammed on the breaks, desperate to get out of the car. I wanted to run from the nameless terror, but the door was locked. I jerked and writhed in the seat, but the handle only clicked. And the things kept coming.

I woke to the stench of my own sweat. I jumped out of the v berth. The silence pounded into me. I unlocked the companionway and pulled back the hatch. The boats swayed in the moonlight. It was full and almost orange on the horizon. There were stars, but they seemed to dull as I stared at them. I caught a glimpse of the Orion Nebula. It should have been beautiful and breath taking. It wasn't. There was no sign of movement on the docks. It was the silence of the grave.

So this is what it's come to. A girl like me. Maybe they were right. Maybe I was the she-devil . . . finally getting what I had been earning all along. I was Angie, Eleisha, Lana . . . all of them. Dead and defiled. Women whose souls had been lost long before they ceased to breathe. So where to, now? Another place, another job, some sort of salvation? . . . Or just a pathetic attempt at escape? And could I hope to escape that woman who accused me in the mirror?

I locked up and went back below. I grabbed the .38 and stuffed it under my pillow. It really didn't help.

I dressed as soon as the sun came up. No make-up, no coffee, no breakfast. I knew I looked like shit, but I had work to do. There was note clothes pinned to the lifelines when I left. I stuffed it in my pocketbook.

I was at the clinic at 8 A.M. Two tests, one for general STD's and a second one for AIDS. No results for three days. I tried to smile and pretend it was all routine, but the nurse looked at me like I'd been gang banging the New York Knicks. A good rape will do that to you. Fortunately, at the clinic, they don't ask too many questions. That's a good thing. They wouldn't like the answers. I didn't, either, but the last thing I needed was cops. I could see them shaking their heads. "So Diabla, the damned whore, finally had to pay her dues. Aw . . . that's a crying shame."

When I got to the office, I started a pot of coffee. I listened to water draining into the carafe and opened the note.

Orlando Rodriguez. 305 Valencia Court. A small grainy copy of a driver's licence photo. Looked like a thousand other Hispanic guys in Fort Lauderdale. Could have been Antonio Banderas for all I knew. Still there was something feral and lifeless in the eyes. I studied them for a moment, then went back to the info. No moving violations. No credit report. No record of employment. A quickly hand written note at the bottom. "Gotta go bag some groceries. Maybe more later -- Elvis."

At least it was something. I MapQuested the address. It was an apartment complex a couple of miles from the beach. A little visit might be in order.

Ricky came in looking like the hammers of hell had been working on his skull.

"Rough night?" I asked.

"I'm getting too old for this crap," he said, "the lady was needy, damned near wore me out."

"Yeah, well you have my sincerest sympathies."

"Looks like you need some sympathy, yourself. New boyfriend?"

I dodged it and handed him the note.

"So this is our perp? Did you see him?"

"You might say so." I said grimly.

"Come on Dee. You're holding out on me. How can I help if I don't know what is going on?"

"Just shut up, Ricky. I can't talk about it now. You got to trust me. You'll get it when you need it."

"Okay, Diabla. You're the boss. Now, let's go for a ride."

I piled into the Caddy XLR. He left the top up, but I wasn't convinced it would make us less conspicuous. The car was a pure knockout. We followed the map I'd printed and pulled up into a space across from the building. No blue Caliber in the parking lot. The complex was pure Sunshine State schlock. Pale yellow, common catwalks, nothing to distinguish it from a thousand others in South Florida. From the look of the vehicles in the spaces it was populated with servers and secretaries. None of the BMW's and Mercedes that signaled high class tenants. The pool was small. A few young bikini clad bodies lay in lounges chattering and soaking up the rays.

A guy like Orlando might be a local celebrity, especially if he wore the damned trench coat all of the time. Nevertheless, we didn't stop. No questions. It wasn't time to raise any red flags. When we got him, I wanted him alone. He belonged to me and the .38.

We were close to Lu Lu's Bait Shack across from the beach. I hadn't had one of their Philly Cheese Steaks in some time. Ricky found a place on the street and parked. A couple of gorgeous twenty somethings whizzed by us on roller blades as we got out of the Caddy. The girls weren't wearing enough fabric to qualify as underwear. Ricky noticed, but he tried to be casual about it. Unfortunately, he just doesn't do casual very well when it comes to lovely young ladies. I snagged his arm and ushered him roughly across the street.

We sat at the bar and ordered a couple of drafts. The Fat Tire went down easy. I scanned the dining area. The usual collection of locals and tourists enjoying the view of the beach and what breeze there was. I jolted to a stop. He was there in a navy work shirt, sitting at a table near at the rail. I was riveted. He didn't look up for a moment. When he did, I zeroed in on those eyes. The night before leaped into my mind, the aching, the feeling of pure filth I had tried to scrub off of my body and banish from my brain. I placed my hand on Ricky's forearm and squeezed. He followed my eyes. Then he froze.

I shook myself off of the stool and pretended to head for the ladies' room. Then I made a sudden turn and stepped up to his table. A steel rod ran up my back. He faked bewildered. A heavy gold cross gleamed on his chest.

"Orlando," I said, "enjoy yourself last night? Or should I call you Abaddon?" He shook his head.

"Do I know you?"

"Do you mean in the Biblical sense?"

"I am sorry. I don't get your meaning. You are quite attractive, but I do not think I have had the pleasure? I am, indeed, Orlando, and you are?"

"I think you know exactly who I am."

He stared at his sweaty glass for a moment, then looked into my eyes. The smile of a cobra leered at me.

"Ah," he said, "perhaps it is coming back to me. Yes, you are Diabla, the she-devil, the one whose sins will fill the annals of perdition."

My hands locked into fists. I felt the weight of the Smith and Wesson on my ankle. I wanted to shoot the sonovabitch here and now, but it wasn't the time. Patience, I told myself. If I had my way, that time would come soon enough.

"Good trick with the Roofie. Worked exactly like you wanted. Next time I'll be waiting."

"Yes," he hissed, "the pleasure was all mine. I offer you my sincerest assurance, I will be waiting, also."

I went on to the ladies' room. I quickly splashed some water on my face and dried it with a paper towel. I didn't like the look of terror infused with violence in my eyes. I fondled the handle of .38, then slipped the leg of my jeans back over it. When I got back he was gone and so was Ricky.

A few minutes later, Ricky slid onto the stool next to me. "Followed him," he said, "got into a blue Caliber. The license plate matched."

He waited for a response. I sank my teeth into my upper lip. A trickle of warm blood swam down the back of my throat.

"He hurt you, didn't he?"

I nodded, but said nothing. We got up and left Lu Lu's. My sandwich was still on my plate.

We got back to the office. It was a time for quiet, but after a few minutes, Ricky spoke.

"If you're gonna be okay, I'm going to see Sullivan. I'm gonna ask him for help. I'm not so sure we're outgunned. Maybe the Captain can put this case on the priority list. If he can get us more info, we definitely need it. All he can say is 'no'. I can stay if you want."

"I'm okay, Ricky. You're right, we need any leads we can get, but I don't really expect any help from the boys in blue. You know how they feel about Diabla. I'm their favorite bitch."

"Yeah, well they're wrong. I know the good stuff, Dee. Know what's in your mind and what's in your heart. We gotta be cool. We'll get him one way or another."

He was doing his best to make me feel better. That's what partners are supposed to do. Too bad it didn't work. He left. I closed my eyes and a miasma of hellish images danced in my head. Orlando, Eleisha, Lana, the insects and, my God . . . the blood.

I picked up the phone and dialed Rod's private number. No answer. I left a message and got out my notebook.
Chapter 12

I guess I wrote a lot of shit, but I was in a daze. We had a name, an address, and now a positive ID. Teeny and Elvis had signed on. They were watching. He might slip by them, but it was one more card that might protect my back. Sullivan might cooperate. Strength in numbers and all that shit. I wanted to feel relieved, at least to an extent. I should have, but the feral look in Orlando's eyes had paralyzed me. I was sure he'd kill me at his earliest opportunity. I hoped that was all he'd do. The thought of his dick inside me again made my hands shake and my entire body cringe.

Ricky called. Homicide was stacked up. Three gang related murders over the weekend. The SUN-SENTINEL was screaming for police action. Calls from the Mayor. Every homicide detective was working overtime and the cops on the beat had been ordered not to ride the streets without backup. They were pulling every known gang member in for questioning. We would have to take a back seat. He did agree to run the files on our buddy Orlando as soon as he had time. Who the hell knew when that would be?

About five, I went back to Cooley's. I rode the side streets and checked the parking lot for any trace of the blue Caliber. Nothing. I parked. It was still hot as hell, but GREAT GESTURE rocked gracefully in her slip. Silent . . . but proud. I needed to do both of us a favor and take her out for a sail. Just the thought made me feel a little better. I grabbed a couple of slices of stale bread and slathered them with peanut butter. Then I locked the boat from the inside. A couple of glasses of Cabernet and I was asleep.

The next morning was day three. I got up about nine and I called the clinic for the test results. All negative. Hey, thank God for small favors, but this damned sure wasn't so small.

I picked up a newspaper out of the rack on the dock. Local murder and mayhem mixed in with ISIS beheading an American journalist in Iraq; Boko Haram in Nigeria still holding several hundred of the school girls they kidnapped; Israel and Hamas still trying to blow each other to kingdom come; not to mention our buddy Putin invading the Ukraine. Pure joy. Makes you proud to be a human being, if that's what we are. I glanced at the weather forecast. Low 90's and a 60% chance of rain. Same as yesterday and the same as tomorrow. That was the Florida summer for you. I peeked out of the companionway. Dark clouds over to the west. The thunderheads were already building. At least we hadn't had any visits from girls and guys who only got names when they reached tropical storm status.

I was about to go below and fire hose the crud off my body when I noticed a white envelope in the back of the cockpit. It was behind the binnacle just under the wheel. It takes me a while to wake up. I had missed it earlier in my A.M. daze. I picked it up and went below. No name, no address.

"Diabla,

I hope your morning is pleasant. It may be one of your last. You came to me in a vision last night. Your naked breasts were full and shapely. Your thighs glistening with the residue of my fervent desire. Your lips were red and full. I wanted to taste you, couple with you in a wet bond like our last encounter. You see, even I, the Avenging Fist of God can be tempted.

Then I remembered how you disgust me, you and the spiteful witch who must also die. HE came to me in all of his vengeful glory. His voice was strong and clear. I must cleanse the earth of this plague of evil. I know what I must do. You and she must be wiped from this earth and the demons within you must be consigned to the Abyss where they will howl in eternity. You won't see me. You won't hear me. But know that The Appointed One will carry out his God-given mission. There is no escape. Best you give yourself to me and let us enjoy one last taste of Sodom and Gomorrah before you pass through the gates of hell."

Abaddon

The 'Appointed One' left something inside of me, a taste of Sodom and Gomorrah. That's what he called it. Well, I was gonna leave something inside of him. A couple of .357 mags.

Still, I shuddered. The sonovabitch had been on my boat again. Now what the hell? He knew that we had seen him, probably knew that we had his address, knew we could identify his car. He was clever and deadly. Who knows how many girls might have been victims of this demented creature? But he haunted the streets and stalked not only me, but one he called the spiteful witch. I racked my brain, tried to consider all of the possibilities. There weren't many and I kept coming back to just one.

I was still lost in concentration when the phone rang. I had been graced with a call from our future senator. Just the man I needed to talk to.

"Hello, Rod. Hope all is well."

"It might be, if you have some information for me."

"We've turned up some things. I've got a lead on Abaddon. Even saw him . . . up much too close."

"So why didn't you shoot the bastard?"

"I'm planning on it, but I've got to find him first. I need to meet with Estrella, just me and her. Your secrets are safe . . . for now . . . but I need to find out if we're missing something. I can't move forward without some help."

"Sorry, but that's just not possible. She's still in black, heavily sedated. I don't know when . . . or if she'll come completely out of it."

"You don't get it, Rod. This is not a negotiation. Tell her anything you want, but I need to see her as soon as possible. I think she may be in grave danger."

There was an audible sigh on the line.

"Don't go dramatic on me, Dee. Don't think I can't protect the woman I love. You can see her. I'll fix it, but this had better go well. I can't afford to waste any more time. If you blow it, I'll have your ass and that Cuban pretty boy for breakfast, lunch, and dinner."

The sarcasm welled up in me. "Oh, Honey. I love it when you talk dirty."

My ear exploded as his phone slammed down. I'd wait.

I met Ricky at the office. It didn't take long to realize we were thinking the same thing. We had to get into Orlando's apartment. I was sure he was gone by now. I expected an empty warehouse, but he might have left something behind without even knowing it. After all, we were supposed to be the trained investigators. I told Ricky I didn't like the idea of going in after dark. The complex was too compact and it seemed to be well lighted. We'd stand out like the felons we'd be if someone called the cops to report a B and E.

Ricky's told me his idea. I liked it. He left to suit up. An hour later he was back in a blue shirt and slacks that looked like it had just come off the hanger at the cable company. He handed me a matching blue shirt with a name embroidered on the left pocket. It was Audrey, but who cared? We looked pretty damned official. All we needed was a truck, but after discussing it, we figured finesse might just get us by.
Chapter 13

In twenty minutes we were parked a block from the complex. Ricky had a nice little bag of tools, but instead of the cable shit, it contained an assortment of lock picks, not to mention a loaded Glock. I had my S and W strapped to my calf. Better to be safe than sorry.

It was just after 2 P.M. and except for the same couple of girls at the pool, the place was empty. Good news. At least there were some working stiffs living in the units. No blue Caliber in the parking lot. We went up the steps and knocked on the door as protocol would dictate. No answer.

I put my ear to the door hoping I would hear the hellish clicking that announced the presence of the gruesome insects. It was silent. Ricky reached in the black bag and fumbled with the picks. Simple lock. We were inside within a minute. The shades were all drawn and there was a musty smell that overwhelmed us as soon as we were inside. I hit the switch and a lamp flicked on next to a cheap rented sofa. The furniture was early K Mart. The place was littered with the carcasses of dead locusts. I tried to step around them, but the occasional crunch tortured my ears. They had gnawed at the fabric of the sofa and chairs, and the nap of the carpet was bare in places, but nothing moved. A few faded rings on the coffee table, a small galley kitchen that showed no signs of any use. No TV.

It was like a mausoleum. The perfect place for a psycho to plan a few serial murders. There was a single sheet of notebook paper on the table with a black Bic next to it. Printed capital letters, each with a date beside it. That was all. C, L, E, D. The C and the L had been scratched out. I didn't have to guess who the E and the D were. I picked it up and stuffed it in my shirt pocket. The only other things that stood out were a few lousy prints and epigrams that littered the walls.

One was the famous Michelangelo from the Sistine Chapel. God was conveying the spark of life to an eager, but respectful, Adam, his finger outstretched as the spirit radiated between them. Another depicted the St. George of legend slaying the heinous dragon. A sheet of phony papyrus framed the Old Testament words, "Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord." It was all too predictable. The piece de resistance was a large print of "The Garden of Earthly Delights", Hieronymus Bosch's frightening depiction of the torturous fate of the sinners of the earth. It was full of monsters. Orlando should have been the centerpiece.

One thing seemed way out of place. It was a photo perched in a gold frame on one of the end tables. Three smiling teenagers, two younger women and a man a couple of years older. Maybe a birthday party or a family vacation. The photo seemed posed, but there seemed to be love and acceptance in it. The epitome of sibling bonding. I knew the faces. Estrella, Carlita, and Orlando.

We checked the bedroom. Two pairs of blue Dickies work pants and matching shirts hanging in the closet. A pair of black work boots neatly lined up on the floor. I checked the bottoms. The pattern matched what was left on my boat. There was an annotated copy of the Old Testament and a yellow Highlighter on the night table. Several of the pages had been torn out. Next to it was a throw-away camera still in the box and a large envelope. I glanced inside. Several photos. I didn't want to take the time to look at them here. I grabbed both and tucked them in Ricky's bag.

In the tiny bathroom the medicine cabinet held a few generic painkillers next to a plastic container of Thorazine. It was one of the early antipsychotic drugs, once very popular, but mostly replaced in the late '80's by some newer medications thought to be more effective. At one time it was the drug of choice for Delusional Disorder, a serious, but rare, form of schizophrenia. It didn't make much difference for Orlando. He was definitely delusional, but the prescription was dated nine months ago. The prescription was in Spanish. The bottle was full. I couldn't tell that he'd taken the first tablet.

There were two items noticeably missing from the collection of cheap junk and poor taste. The trench coat and the sword. No sabre of any description. Not so much as a steak knife. I'd bet both were in the luggage compartment of the Caliber. He probably never returned to the apartment after our little tete-a-tete at the restaurant. I doubted that he would now.

We rifled a few drawers and cabinets, some socks and underwear. Other than that, it was like the place had been inhabited by a ghost. No traces of anything that suggested the living. We left the door locked and headed for the car. The girls at the pool were still at it, baking and chatting at a deafening rate. No one even seemed to notice us. Just the average visit from your friendly neighborhood cable company.

The message light on the telephone was blinking when we got back to the office. I pushed the button.

"Eleven o'clock tomorrow morning at Chico's. She'll be there. I'm sending another 5 K by courier. Remember, we have a deal."

We did. Despite Rod's rather obvious indiscretions, I still had a soft spot for him. He was a man, and that territory came with a lot of stuff no woman wants to recognize. I would protect him as long as I could. But when I couldn't, we'd all have to deal with the poisoned shit that ensued. Actually I was anxious to meet with Estrella. I wanted to know whether if circumstances had been different, she would have been a worthy rival. I was about to find out.

Ricky and I decided to knock off for the rest of afternoon. Sometimes the best strategy is to relax and let your mind breathe in some fresh salt air. I went back to Cooley's.

I watched GREAT GESTURE straining at the lines. She wanted out. A fine craft like her wasn't designed to sit endlessly at the dock. She needed to stretch her legs, plow through the swells, exercise her power and majesty just like any other noble being. I made a silent promise that she would do just that before long.
Chapter 14

I made a quick trip by the office. Ricky was sitting in his chair counting money. The courier had delivered. This time it was crisp hundreds and my partner was all smiles.

"The Caddy gets her tune up," he said.

I arrived at Chico's fifteen minutes early. She was already there, big Prada sunglasses that she didn't remove. Her hair was tucked up under a white straw hat, a running suit, shiny black with a beige stripe, clinging to her taut body. A few wispy strands of her magnificent mahogany tresses hung about her ears. Despite her feeble attempt at disguise, she was positively stunning.

"Ms. Martella, I am Dee Rabow." I offered my hand. She just glared. I sat.

"I know who you are, Ms. Rabow. Let me get a few things straight. I don't like you. I know of your history with my fiancé and much more. Perhaps I have no right, but I resent it. I don't want to be here. He says I must trust you. I don't know why, but I will grant his request out of respect. Please don't ask me to be cordial, or even polite. Let us do what we must as quickly and as efficiently as we can. Then we can get on with our own personal business."

Nice greeting. At least she was honest. I studied her for a moment. Even the big round lenses couldn't hide the dark pockets beneath her eyes. Through the Brazilian glow of her olive skin was an undertone the color of sickly pewter. She was still mourning and I didn't think it was near over.

Well, if she wanted direct, she'd get it.

"Ms. Martella, my associate and I have done some investigation. Your home is Rio de Janero. I know you and your younger sister, Carlita, both attended Columbia University in New York. You were Estrella, the star. I am aware that your family had financial problems that prevented Carlita from completing her degree. I also know you have an older brother, Orlando."

"You are misinformed about my brother. He is two years older, but his name is Rodrigo."

"Sorry, our mistake," I decided to save big brother for later. "So can you tell me a bit more about your time at the university?"

At first the words were breathless and halting, but I waited and they began to flow.

"It was always easy for me. The concepts and the instruction took root in my mind quickly. The grades were secondary. They just came. Of course, I am not stupid. My appearance always helped, especially with the male professors. They were never crude, but they were decidedly admiring. Make no mistake. Carlita was beautiful and intelligent, but she was always the 'little sister', a step or two behind. She did not like it. This was clear. There was a rivalry between us, but she always came in second. It made her angry. When the money dried up, she felt betrayed. She turned to things that were not good for her."

"I apologize for prying, but what type of 'things' did she turn to?"

She looked at me like I was a dog turd on the sidewalk. Then she took a deep breath.

"My fiancé has assured me that we have client confidentiality. If that is a ruse, the price you pay will be very high."

"Of course," I said tersely. She stared down at the table for a minute and sucked in another shallow breath.

"At first it was simple, a bit of marijuana, a series of questionable associations with men who were no gentlemen. But it got worse. I think the turning point was when she met Ray Renato. He was a bastard, handsome and slick, but a bastard nevertheless. Claimed to know people in the movie business. She could be a star. An old line -- that is certain -- but one that has worked for an eternity. Money, fame, influence. Carlita was the baby of the family, always a bit naïve. She trusted people much more than she should. He was her Svengali and she was his Trilby. The spell grew. Soon school was secondary, no longer important, no longer worth her time and effort. She drifted and sank."

She raised a soft palm as if to say no more. Crystal streaks broke down her cheeks in sad bursts. She dabbed at them with a napkin, but they kept coming.

"I have said enough. I must go. The dead must rest and the living must go on living."

"I see the pain and I know how difficult this is for you, but please, another moment. There is something I haven't told you. There is reason to believe your life is in danger. There are indications that you or I may be the next victims of the monster who killed Carlita, and her friend Lana. They were violated and defiled in a way that no human being deserves. We don't want that to happen again."

Her hand became a fist. I thought I detected a tremor in her shoulders. She shook her head and fought a sob.

"I don't like you, Ms. Rabow. I have told you that, but I don't wish your death. As for myself, despite my grief, I am simply not ready for the grave. I will help you if I can, but please be brief."

At least that was a breakthrough. I had a few more questions.

"So what of your brother, Rodrigo?"

"He is not involved in this. He left home at nineteen, emigrated to the states. Went to Los Angeles, I believe. He left with money. Last I heard he had joined some religious cult. I have not seen him in years. I do not even know if he is still alive."

I did, but a dead sister and a psycho might be too much for one day.

"I may need to contact you again. Your fiancé is right. I know this is difficult, you can trust me. Thanks."

She got up abruptly and left without so much as a goodbye.
Chapter 14

I went back to Cooley's remembering my promise to GREAT GESTURE. Teeny and Elvis were on the Catalina. I walked down the dock and asked them if they wanted to go for a sail. They beamed in unison.

In a few minutes they were on board with a small cooler, both in bathing suits and giddy as a mare and stallion at the starting gate of the Kentucky Derby. I checked the oil and coolant, then fired up the Perkins. She hummed like caged tiger eager for an afternoon hunt. Elvis handled the lines and I backed out of the slip and into the New River. There was a light breeze out of the southeast. As soon as we got into the ICW, we turned off to starboard, hoisted the jib and motor sailed. Elvis and Teeny cooed and pawed each other all the way to Port Everglades inlet. For all they knew I could have been in Wisconsin. Watching them created a little pocket of joy in my breast. Maybe the world wasn't going to hell on a rollercoaster after all.

We hoisted the main and reached out of the inlet. The seas were flat and welcoming. The old Pearson rolled gently in the swells, then kicked up her heels. Suddenly we were making a steady five knots. I grabbed a cold Kalik and hoisted it silently. To Uncle Teddy, this was a day he would have celebrated. His beloved yacht showing her petticoats to the sun and the wind. Gleaming and doing exactly what she was meant to do. The lovers were locked into each other. Knowing smiles and discreet touches. No conversation. Just the feel of the indigo water caressing the hull and the breeze whispering in the canvas.

Still, I couldn't turn my mind off. The ugly things haunted me. The murders, the rape, the missals from a demon consumed and committed to my demise and perhaps that of a woman who might be his own sister. I can deal with the worst of the shit as long as I have a strategy. But that's what I was lacking. A plan, an approach, something that suggested the remote possibility that I was prepared.

We got back to the dock and parked my blessed old chariot. Teeny and Elvis hugged me and went back to the Catalina.

I ordered a delivery from Domino's, extra cheese and peperoni with mushrooms and onions. Calories, transfat, all the good stuff. Hell, I had to eat.

I poured a glass of Cab and plucked Orlando's list from the pocket of the cable shirt. I had taken the photos from Ricky's bag. I spread them on the table.

The images would have made a great snuff video. I felt the bile rise in my throat as I viewed the bodies of the girls. I wanted to burn them immediately, watch the vile atrocities go up in smoke and vanish from a world that was already ugly and violent enough. I couldn't. They were evidence, but more to the point, they were locked in my consciousness. Images that would dance and haunt me until there was some form of justice, be it fair and honest, or as vicious and cruel as the demon that created them.

I pushed aside the photos and buried them in the envelope. Then I looked at the capital letters printed on the white sheet. C, L, E, D. Something was out of whack. C for Carlita, and L for Lana, both crossed out. The dates beside the letters were the dates they had been murdered. It made sense. The next letter E had to stand for Estrella. Her date was actually the night I had been raped by the bastard. The final D had to be for Diabla, but the date didn't match. He had attacked me first. My appointed time was actually a few days away.

Coincidence, a change in plans, simple opportunity? Why the change in order? I knew from my years on the force that despite what the public may think, the crazies are often very well organized. They're clever. They plan meticulously and execute. It makes them harder to track and even harder to catch. So what of the list? Was I supposed to be the last? And more importantly, who was next? I fully expected to meet Orlando again, but I had no idea when or how. And what about Estrella? Would he go back to the timeline he indicated on the paper?

The date next to the D was coming up this Thursday. I looked at the calendar. Nothing special, no holidays or congressional designations like National Kill an Innocent Girl Day. I didn't understand, but in some way I had to be ready. My life or Estrella's might depend on it. I pulled out the .38 and checked the chamber. I'd been doing that a lot lately.

I thought about Estrella in the running suit at Chico's. Her shoes were black Nike's, definitely made for runners. She had the body and the look. Maybe she was a jogger. An idea began to take shape in my mind. Now if I could just get some cooperation. I had to make some calls.
Chapter 15

Ricky didn't like it. He propped his feet up on the desk and locked his arms across his chest.

"Too much risk, Dee. Too much ground to cover. Too much exposure. How the hell can the two of us make that sweep? My God, there's a hundred places to hide, two hundred ways to escape, including the water."

"So what else have we got? We're not going to find the sonovabitch. He may be back in L.A. for all we know. But we do have a timeline. He wants to follow it. We know he's a psycho. We know he's deadly. We think we know who the target is. So what the hell do we do? Wait for him to slaughter another girl, one who may even be our client?"

"Why can't we just tell her to lay low until we can get the cops more involved? Who knows? We may be able to turn up something else on our lunatic of the month. In the meantime, you're safe, she's safe, and everybody's happy until we get the creep. And we will get him."

"Yeah, we'll get him, but I like the idea of sooner rather than later. Let's say we set it up. If it works, it's cool. If not, what have we lost? Maybe a little time, but I think it's worth a shot."

He wasn't convinced, but I think I had worn him out. He shook his head, took a deep breath, then nodded.

"Okay, Boss. Ship it. I'm going out there now, scope things out. All the better to have your back, my dear."

I fired off a smile in his direction as he left, still shaking his head. I made a rough diagram of the area. I'd need some more details before the sting. I decided to swing by the park to do a more thorough job of casing things. On the way I detoured by Walgreen's, then Dick's, and picked up some items for my new look. No need to upset our favorite killer with some deviations that might alert him to our presence.

By late afternoon, everything was in place. Estrella had been true to her word. We all knew our stations and our roles. I just wanted it to work. If not, someone might be joining the angels or the devils, whatever made sense.
Chapter 16

I heard the lock snap behind me. I stepped down the hall and waited for the elevator. The door slid open and I punched the button for the lobby. I glanced at the mirror on the wall. Hell, I looked pretty good. Maybe this was the new me. Living in a high rise on the ICW. Nodding to the doorman on the way out. And just maybe I was secretly born to be a brunette. The big round sunglasses framed my face nicely and the black nylon emphasized the curves in all of the right places. I pulled the baseball cap down over my eyes and smiled. Who knows? There might just be some rich eligible bachelors out there on the trail.

I left the building and crossed the street. I broke into a lazy jog following the sidewalk on the west side of the ICW. The sun was setting to my left. Dusk was upon us and the shadows were coming to life behind the buildings and the oaks. I ran three blocks and turned back toward the water. The orange glow painted the ripples. A few runabouts skirted down the waterway headed for sundowners at one of the endless waterfront bars. Who knows? . . . maybe even home for a night of TV with Kim Kardasian and Kanje West groping each other or "Two Broke Girls" observing their boyfriend's balls. Pure intellectual challenge and stimulation for the masses.

I ambled by the landing where the Water Taxi picked up some tourists eager for exploration of Fort Lauderdale's endless waterfront delights. The marina at Las Olas was quiet. I could see the masts and the shiny towers of the sport fishers rocking gently behind the wall. I went under the bridge, then turned left and back up to A1A. Even The Elbow Room was pretty sedate. A few locals enjoying a late afternoon cocktail, but the music hadn't started yet. There weren't many walkers. School began next week and most of the tourists had left for the long haul between now and the holidays. No familiar faces or cars. I went on down the boulevard past the restaurants and The Beach Place. There were still a few people on the beach. I wasn't completely alone and that felt good. Still I shuddered a bit, but I patted my belly. At least I had one old friend with me, and I knew Ricky was around somewhere.

I turned left down Castillo. From the parking lot across from the Ritz-Carleton I heard a soft call. I stopped and peered back towards the trees. The shadows had created near darkness in far corner.

"Estrella, it is Rodrigo." I started and tried to catch my breath. I scanned the area to my right and there he was. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust. In the fading light I could just make out the glossy black hair, the blue work shirt, the trench coat. His arm was at his side. He attempted a smile, but it came out a leer.

"It has been so long, Estrella. I have missed you. Come closer. I wish to hug my sister."

I waved and crossed the street. I was still in the shadow of the building, but as I got closer, he looked puzzled. I heard a muffled clicking

"Pardon me," he said, "I have mistaken you for someone else. I have the wrong person."

"No, Orlando. You have the right person, but you are in the wrong place and this is the wrong time."

"Ah, Diabla. My, but you have changed. I like the hair." he growled.

He grabbed the lapels of his coat and pulled them aside. One huge locust was perched on the golden crucifix that dangled from his neck. Hundreds of others clung to the lining. They began dropping to the pavement, spreading like a muddy puddle.

He placed his hand on a thick leather hilt topped with a golden skull and withdrew the silvery blade. I had a sick flash of the Samurai I'd seen in an old Tom Cruise movie. The cold metal shimmered and sliced the air like a deadly bird. He stepped forward and slashed at me in a mad sweep.

The script I liked says Ricky comes in behind me, Glock drawn, and tells the monster to drop the weapon and raise his hands above his head. Orlando does so and we complete a seamless citizen's arrest. But he hadn't read that part. I waited, but no Ricky. The whole script had become a horror without warning.

The cold metal danced through the air again. I tried to dodge the swath, but the tip of the blade caught my neck. The blood ran instantly. I felt it slithering through the nylon. A couple of inches closer and I would've been the one joining the angels.

He grinned. "Your blood is red and rich with sin. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord." He set his feet and took a warrior's stance, ready for one more deadly swipe. If it connected, my head would be rolling down the alley like a bowling ball, minus my body.

I dropped to one knee, feeling the crunch of insects beneath it, and reached into the folds of my jacket. I fumbled for the .38 and came up firing. The first shot missed, but the second nailed him in the right shoulder. He dropped the sabre and fell on his back clutching at the wound. His eyes were locked tight and he groaned like a demon. He writhed back and forth on the dirty concrete while the creatures crawled over him. I looked behind me. No one. My mind flashed. Maybe that was good. Then no one would know.

I'd like to tell you that righteousness and respect for the law got the better part of me. I saw no way he could skate with the physical evidence, the photos and this attack. He would go down hard. The boys in the pen would take good care of him. But again, the script became useless, the pages fluttering in the wind.

"The ladies would appreciate this if they could see it. Maybe somehow they can." His eyes grew wide as I aimed the Smith and Wesson directly at his balls.

"Please," he begged.

My finger tightened on the trigger. There was no going back . . . for Eleisha . . . for Lana, and for me. The explosion echoed between the hard brick walls of the alley. I was careful not to kill him. He was alive, but he was crying. The blood pooled thickly, but I knew it wasn't a fatal wound. Just one that he'd never quite get over.

"Dee, you okay? I spotted the Caliber, stopped to check it out. I lost you for a minute."

"Yeah, Ricky. I'm fine, but our buddy here has met with some unfortunate circumstances."

He stared at Orlando while our man squeezed his crotch and loudly begged God to deliver him. But God wasn't taking his calls. Then my partner pulled out his cell and dialed 911. The cops were there within minutes. We went to the station to give our statements. It didn't take long. They just told us to be available. "Yeah," I thought, "Diabla is always available."
Chapter 17

When we got back to the office, I put some peroxide on the cut on my neck. Fortunately, I'd ducked in the right direction. It wasn't deep and the scar, if any, would be hidden by my hair. I pulled the bottle of Jameson out of the bottom drawer. Ricky and I shared a smile and a good, long drink.

Sullivan called early the next morning.

"Detective Rabow. I called to congratulate you on some fine work. I heard the whole story and we have his statement. I think the case is iron-clad and so does the D.A. You certainly acted above and beyond the call of duty. It is sad that the perpetrator incurred some wounds, but an officer also bears the responsibility to defend herself."

"Thank you Captain, but what's all this officer shit?"

"Sorry, Dee. I know you wondered why you haven't heard from me directly. I was working on something and I wasn't ready to talk. You're eligible for reinstatement. You can come back to the force at your previous grade with a clean record and back pay for the time you were out. I'm still working on a commendation, but I won't promise that. You can report on Monday."

"Thanks, Captain, but what about Ricky?"

"That's a different matter. He was formally arrested in the Longstreet case and only a few technicalities saved his ass. He's still on a few people's black lists. I know he's your partner, but it's you they want. You're a woman and a damned good cop. It's your chance, Dee. Take it."

The temptation sat heavily on my breast. It was a chance for redemption, a formal admission by the force that I was a competent, even valuable member of an organization pledged to serve and protect. Dad would be proud. I inhaled deeply while my mind weighed the possibilities. But there was really no choice.

"Part of me would love to say yes, Captain, but Ricky's my partner and I can't leave him hanging. Maybe if it was different, but thanks again."

"I thought you might say that. I'll keep your desk empty for one week. That's about the best I can do. Be safe."

He hung up. I stared at the phone and wondered if it was a decision I'd come to regret. I guess I was ready to roll the damned dice again, but that's nothing new. Hope it wasn't snake eyes this time. For now, I'd try to drum up some business and wait for the next time.

Rodrigo Martella, aka Abaddon, aka Orlando's trial didn't last long. Ricky and I were both called to testify. Rod and Estrella's names never came up. Our pal was sent to a state institution for the criminally insane. He won't get out. I am okay with that. He did go in with a little less physical equipment than he was originally issued. I'm okay with that, too. Maybe I should've warned him not to drop the soap, but he's no dummy. I'm guessing he learned that quickly.

Rod and Estrella got married. Pictures all over the bridal page. My invitation must have got lost in the mail. No huge surprise, but no problem. I kept my word and he kept his. Rod won the primary and seemed likely to be our next senator when the general election came up. The best news is he sent us another 10K in cash with one word typed on a small sheet of paper. "Thanks."

Ricky and I are getting some very interesting calls from people we'd never heard of. Most of them are from places where money is no object, but discretion definitely is. It keeps us pretty busy. We're making the rent regularly and some of the cases are actually quite compelling. Ricky's become a regular at the Armani shop and the Caddy gets a weekly wax job. The ladies keep coming and he doesn't complain about that.

I'm pretty happy at Cooley's on GREAT GESTURE. I miss Uncle Teddy, but Teeny and Elvis are still in love and I've made a few friends. At least I feel safe now. If I could just get laid, things would be just dandy.
