

DIABLA

MAKES

AN

ENTRANCE

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 MAKES AN ENTRANCE

By

Karl Tutt
Chapter One

I'm the tough broad you've all heard about, but weren't sure existed. I'm the real thing. I can assure you of that. I called myself a dancer, but my partner was always a brass pole. I didn't have to spend much on costumes. Four inch acrylic heels and a G string was all it took. I did some part time hooking, graduated to call girl and did things I shouldn't have done. Don't get me wrong. I'm not apologizing. I don't think I hurt anyone and I learned plenty on the way up and on the way down. Now I'm a cop. There are a lot of things I wish I didn't know. Still, they come in handy when you're on the street hoping you can just make the bad guys keep their hands in their own pockets and not shoot any innocent bystanders.

There wasn't any kind of trouble I wasn't in as a kid. Drugs, B and E, assault, resisting arrest. You name it. Thank God I was minor. When I turned eighteen, Dad hired a good attorney and it was all expunged. It's a miracle Dad has any hair left on his head. He lives on his boat in Key West, does computer stuff, got a nice girl friend. I think he's as happy as he'll get. He stuck by me through it all, enlisted his friends, T.K, Chris, and Sunny to bail me out of a situation that had me headed for an early grave. T.K. wrote about it in DEATH OF THE MARKED. It's still hard to believe it was me, but I still got the tattoos if I need a reminder.

I was hooking when I started my degree in criminal justice. It was almost a game at first. Hell, I was pulling five grand a night, and that was one trick. Living in a penthouse on the beach, spending money like it was water. I had regular Johns, but I also had friends. It wasn't all bad. It sounds corny, but something was missing. I hated those bastards that sucked the life out of farm girls who came to the city with dreams of modeling, acting, somehow making it big. Too many of them ended up in crummy dives with needle marks on their arms and diseases they would never shake. They died young. They died fast. And they died dirty.

When I graduated and applied to the Police Academy, a lot of my former adversaries laughed. The boys on the beat knew me from what I will generously call "my misspent youth." Hell, I'd even slept with a couple of them. But thanks to Dad, my record was clean. After calling in a few favors, I got some nice letters of reference about my sterling character and good clean work ethic. Some of the bigwigs were afraid I might know "where the bodies were buried." I did, but they also knew I could keep my mouth shut. I passed with flying colors and was in uniform and on the beat making $37,000 a year to get punched, shot at, called a slut, bullied by some of my superiors and generally having a wonderfully swell time. Shit, I used to make that kind of money in a week. But now I got a reputation as a tough, fair, and honest cop. I have to admit, I kind of like it.

I worked my way up. I'm a Detective now, 2nd grade, Fort Lauderdale PD. Making a little more money. I get to wear normal clothes, even fashionable when I can afford it, and I have access to some delightful unmarked wheels that reek of cigarette smoke, vomit and donut crumbs. So what's to complain about?

When I was stripping, my stage name was Angel. I know you're thinking, "Oh, how original!' But I was born Angelique, so it wasn't much of a stretch. Now I'm Dee Rabow. It used to be Rabowski, but my grand-dad shortened it. I've been told my sky-blue eyes could melt an iceberg, but they can also slice you like a stiletto. When I first went to work for the department, some Hispanic yahoo referred to me rather disdainfully as La Diabla or Spanish for the female devil. It stuck, and now all of the boys simply call me Dee. Actually it suits me just fine. Being a bitch sometimes can be quite useful. Big tits and a tight ass don't hurt either.

Chapter Two

"Got a call. Asked specifically for you. No name," Ricky said. He handed me the phone.

Ricky, that is Enrique Fuenes, is my sidekick, aka partner. Most of the guys in the squad won't work with me. I don't know if they don't trust me, don't think I'm tough enough, resent my past. Shit, who cares? Ricky is my man. Tall, smart, Cuban, drop-dead gorgeous, speaks Spanish, French, Chinese, not to mention damned good English. His family got out before Batista fell in Havana. Rumor has it that his people still have plenty of real estate in Miami. Don't know why he wanted to be a cop, but I'm too polite to ask. Fact is Ricky's handy with a gun and a tough character in a light tussle or an old-fashioned knock-em-down fistfight. He's the guy who inspired the phrase "got your back."

I knew the voice on the other end of the line instantly. It was Angie.

"I got to bother you. I need to see you as soon as possible. I got a package," she said. There was the unmistakable stench of fear oozing out of the receiver.

"So when?"

"Can you come by the condo? I'll have coffee ready and with a little taste of Irish in it just for you, Honey."

"On my way."

I hung up the phone and headed for the garage. I checked out my unmarked Taurus and wheeled into the street. I'd known Angie for several years. In the past we were rivals of a sort. She was one of the top call girls in Miami. Xi Bo Van Diem was her real name. Vietnamese, tall, lanky, hair like black silk and a face that would have shamed the Madonna, not to mention all of the healthy accoutrements that made guys stop on the street when she strutted by. She was a gourmet cook, a published poet, a classically trained pianist, and a tasteful art collector. She knew when to talk, when to listen and when to provide the comforts that a girl like that was famous for. I guessed an evening with her would set you back eight to ten grand and that didn't include the Dom Perignon or Cristal you were expected to have in your hand when your date rang the bell. She lived in a penthouse on the beach where the doorman was discreet and neighbors minded their own business unless you made an ass of yourself. Angie didn't.

Her grandfather had owned one of the hottest brothels in Saigon where they were solicitous and judicious in the care of our boys, both in and out of uniform. Beautiful women and the best dope in Asia. When the city fell, Grandaddy boarded the plane carrying two suitcases crammed with hundred dollar bills. There were rumors he had more stashed in numbered accounts in Switzerland and the Bahamas. His son had upheld the family tradition in Atlanta and a couple of other wide open southern cities. That was Angie's dad. Finally, a huge bust from the Feds laid the family fortune low, and Dad had done some hard time. Angie, just doing what she did best, had branched out on her own. Despite it all, she had the honest demeanor of a church lady and the heart of a saint. We were friends.

I pulled up into the alcove. I could hear the roar of the ocean just a quarter of a mile away. The sweet scent of salt air rushed my nostrils. The valet was clean cut and neatly uniformed. "Yes ma'am, no ma'am. Ms. Van is expecting you." He tried to disguise a stiff-lipped look of disdain at the unmarked. It didn't work. I guess when you're used to parking Bentleys and Maseratis it's hard to be kind to a beat up Taurus.

I pushed twenty on the elevator display and my stomach bounced off my insoles.

She cracked the door immediately, looked up and down the hall and ushered me in. Then she smiled and threw her arms around my neck.

"I knew you'd come," she whispered.

I hadn't been in the place in a while. It was definitely an ARCHETECTURAL DIGEST moment. I'd been there before, but the splashes of color against the stark white, the lush aquamarine carpet, the warmth of the supple leather and the custom mahogany always knocked me out. Very eclectic taste. A signed and numbered piece by Jackson Pollock over the sofa. A few small etchings mixed with some of the well-known Florida artists. I'd been with her at the Vero Beach Art Show when she bought the original Highwayman piece. It was by Alfred Hair, the founder of the group. I remember her telling me, "they sold them on the street \--- reminds me of us in the bad old days." Sad, but funny, I guess.

We walked back to the breakfast nook. The view through the sliding glass doors was breathtaking, the ocean shimmering in a deep blue, gulls and pelicans soaring, a massive cruise ship meandering it's way south. The place had to be a cool five mill and I bet it was paid for.

The coffee mugs were on the table, a bottle of Jameson next to mine.

"I know you're on duty," she said, "so I thought I'd let you pour."

I removed the top and let just a healthy dollop of Irish sink into the steaming, brown liquid.

"You okay?" I asked. "You sounded kind of rattled."

"I am. I received a package. Pretty little box, covered in white silk, with a huge pink bow on it. It was outside the door yesterday morning. No mailing label, no note. It just sat there shining. I figured it was some little treat from one of the johns. I opened it and there was a crystal bottle, like expensive perfume or something. I went to my dressing table to douse a bit on my wrist, but when I removed the top, an acrid smell lurched out of it. I took it to the bathroom and poured a couple of drops on a towel. It steamed and stunk. It ate right through the cotton in seconds. Some kind of acid. Thank God I didn't pour it onto my hands or dab it behind my ears. I checked with the doorman and the building concierge, but no strange visitors, nothing out of the ordinary, no one knew anything. "

The exotic almond eyes were damp, but no tears. At least not yet. I had forgotten how beautiful she was, the olive skin like deep ceramic, the graceful lines of a face that had been crafted in heaven. The image of acid creating a character out a of bad horror movie made me cringe.

"I went back to the box. There was a handwritten note in the bottom underneath the tissue."

She handed it to me. "Be careful of your client list, Angie. Shit happens." Nothing unique about the paper or the script except that it was written with a fountain pen. Nobody much uses them anymore.

I sat and wrinkled my nose. I took another sip of the black coffee. The Irish burned on the way down. The gift's intent was clear. She was screwing someone she shouldn't. If she didn't stop, well . . . shit happens.

"Okay," I said, "any new clients? Arguments with old ones? Anything that seemed odd . . . out of sorts?"

"You know. I have my regulars. Some of them may be a little scary, but none patently dangerous. Nobody who would want to hurt me. Nothing really new, except . . . "

"Except what, Angie?"

"You know the Commandant."

I did. Back in the old days, I even screwed him once. Stuart Longstreet. He was a bigwig in the local Coast Guard. Oversaw all of the drug intervention from Miami through the Keys and up to the Treasure Coast. Well respected, well connected, just a few habits he needed to keep quiet. I'd always wondered how a man on the government dole could afford a girl like Angie, but there were ways. And even the tough girls can be suckers. I had my freebies in my time. It gave you a break, maybe even the suggestion of self-respect. He'd been seeing Angie for two or three years. Maybe twice a week, I suspected. But he was cool and their relationship was graveyard talk as far as I knew.

"It sounds stupid, I know, but I'm getting out of the game. Stuart and I are in love. He's leaving his wife. We're going to be married as soon as his divorce is final."

When you're in my business, not much shocks you, but that one dropped me in the dirt.

"I know it sounds stupid, Dee. I've heard every line a john can dream up. But Stuart loves me. I can see it in his eyes and feel it in his touch. Most of the time we just talk. He knows what I am and who I am . . . and he loves me."

"So what about you? Are you in love with him?"

"I've asked myself that a hundred times. It's like playing the Ouija Board except the answer always comes up the same. 'My sources say yes.' Still, I'm tired. I have to work a little harder at it, but I know I still look good. I've got more damned money than I can ever spend. But I've had enough of playing Beethoven Sonatas for jokers who don't know a C from an A minor. Had enough of listening to a parade of johns whose wives 'don't understand them.' Tired of faking orgasms and giving blowjobs to guys who can't get it up without a truckload of Viagra. I guess I'd just like to be a normal girl, two and a half kids, white picket fence and all that shit."

"Sorry, Kiddo. Girls like us can never be normal. We've seen too much, know too much, have too many secrets that force us into a perpetual darkness. I wish I could tell you different, but it is what it is."

"You're my friend, Dee. I love you and respect you, but it just isn't true. At least not for me. I'm going to marry the Commandant and set the clock back."

I hoped she was right.

"Does he know about your little gift?" I asked.

"Yes. He gave me something just in case."

She got up and went into the bedroom. She came out carrying a small pistol, laid it on the table. I picked it up. Ruger twenty-two semi-automatic. It had a nine shot clip.

"My God, Angie. That thing wouldn't stop a squirrel, much less a man who wanted to hurt you."

"Stu said these would help." She put a twenty-two hollow point slug in my palm. At close range it could do some damage, but probably not enough. Still, it was better than nothing. It was time for me to shut up.
Chapter Three

I told her she needed to file a complaint, but she wouldn't hear of it. She did let me take the perfume bottle and the box. I didn't expect much, but I told her I'd turn it over to forensics. I slogged the last of the black elixir. She hugged me like I was the last friend she had on earth.

"Thanks, Dee. I can't tell you how much better I feel," she whispered.

When I got back to the precinct, my desk was a blizzard of paperwork. I told Ricky about the visit, leaving out most of the incriminating details. He knew all of the working girls. They loved him, called him Cuban Dynamite. He had met Angie when we went out for lunch a couple of months ago.

He pointed at the pile. We were working several cases and the proverbial shit had hit the fan on at least a couple of them. I didn't know where to start with any of it, much less worry about Angie and what was probably just a pissed-off client who wanted to scare her. Ricky sat across from me and we dove into the morass. Lots of case reviews, phone calls, and interviews that needed attention immediately. The only message that really caught my eye was from Rod, one hot assistant D.A. and a recent addition to a long line of paramours who had appeared, been intimidated, disappeared, and whatever. The only difference was Rod seemed to know how to handle Diabla, the incorrigible bitch I was reputed to be.

"Dinner at your place. Saturday at Ten. Homemade lasagna. Please. I'll bring the wine." I was hoping that wasn't all he was bringing. My mouth watered, but maybe not for the lasagna.

It was Thursday. Ricky and I had plenty to do. I sent an intern with the silk box and a note to forensics. Then I forgot about Angie and dove into the cesspool that seemed to be getting deeper by the minute.

Friday and Saturday morning marched on. We were making some progress on a dead pimp who crossed into some mob territory. He ended up with a thirty-eight hollow point in the back of his skull. Risks of the trade. A couple of his girls had lawyered up and were spilling their guts to avoid an unpleasant stay on the state's dime.

There was a slight lull in the fun around four. I bolted. I made a quick trip to the deli and bought homemade pasta, some cheeses, some fresh greens and a couple of bottles of Sterling Cabernet just in case the night went on. Not the best of the grape, I know, but it's good stuff and all I can afford.

I took a shower, washed my hair and did all the girly stuff. Then I slipped into a little black dress that featured cleavage down to China and clung to my ass like it was painted on. I debated the panties, then decided to go for broke.

He was a little early. I was glad. I answered the bell and cracked the door. There he was, all six-three, two hundred pounds of muscle and charm. His black curls tickled his forehead and I thought I smelled Brut. A sweet smile was etched into his granite jaw and his denim eyes twinkled like the fat man in red in the Christmas poem. I couldn't help but laugh. He was wearing a white silk ascot tucked into his shirt under the blue blazer. I hadn't seen one of those since my last date with Sir Laurence Olivier.

His lips brushed me lightly on the cheek and he handed me a fresh yellow-brown bouquet of mums and white baby's breath. I'm a tough broad, but I have to admit it. I'm a sucker for that shit. I threw my arms around him and blew a warm, wine soaked kiss into his ear.

I uncorked the expensive Cab he'd brought and poured him two fingers. I can be classy when I want to. Then I put the lasagna on low. It would have to wait. When I first met him, I nick-named him Hot Rod. It wasn't long before I remembered why. He knew all the right spots. Gentle and sweet, but the finale left me quivering and begging for more.

When the phone rang, I knew it was trouble. Nobody calls me at 3 A.M. unless someone is dead.
Chapter Four

I reached for my cell in the darkness. I recognized Ricky's voice instantly.

"It's Angie. Her place. Quick."

I jumped up and headed for the bathroom. I soaked a washcloth and swabbed the appropriate parts, threw on some deodorant, ran a brush through my hair, and slid into black slacks and a sweater. I grabbed my Glock and checked the clip on the way out. Hot Rod had stirred.

"Have a bagel, if you want. Lock the door on your way out."

I fired up my old Taurus, put the red bubblegum machine on the roof and sped to the beach. The doorman was standing near the entrance looking like the Ghost of Christmas Past. A patrolman with a small notebook had him cornered. Another uniform stood at the elevator and one guarded the twentieth floor when the doors eased open. The coroner was already there. I flashed my ID. Ricky met me at the door.

"You're not going to like this," he said.

She was on the floor near the bedroom door. She wore a black silk kimono emblazoned with golden dragons. Her body was sprawled, but she seemed to be resting, almost comfortably. Her face was gray and still. The crimson stain had soaked the carpet. There was a lacy necklace of red around her neck. She was quite dead.

The garrote had done its work; quietly, efficiently, I suspected. She probably wanted to cry out, but the sounds choked in her throat as she gasped for air and fought the blood flooding into her windpipe. I'd seen it before. Piano wire with small wooden handles at either end. It pierced the flesh and shut off the breath. Someone powerful. Probably a man. When handled with expertise, the wire was quick and deadly.

The uniforms had already questioned the neighbors. Nothing seen or heard. Around three that afternoon, the doorman had admitted a man in brown in a UPS truck. He claimed to have a delivery. Nothing new for Angie. Her clients were always shipping little gifts of appreciation for her considerable talents. The driver was at the penthouse for only 15 minutes. Nothing unusual or suspicious in that, but the doorman said the guy left the truck running. UPS instructs their drivers to shut the truck down when making a delivery. I guess they're afraid someone will go for a joy ride, maybe rifle some of the contents. A liability thing. The driver was probably a shill. The doorman barely took notice of him. No creditable description. He or someone else had gotten access to the penthouse and slammed the gate on Angie and the white picket fence she was longing for.

I went into the bathroom and threw up. The green bile hung in my throat and burned as I tried to force it back down. I looked into the mirror, splashed some water on my face, but it didn't help. The eyes in the looking glass were still mine. I thought about Angie. Maybe some different stitching, but we were cut from the same cloth. She was my friend. She had turned to me when she was lost and scared. Now she was dead and her dreams would haunt me. Sure, she was a hooker, but she was a lot like all of us. I remembered the words of an old buddy who had retired from the force, "We're all whores. It's just the price that's different." Angie did what she had to do to get by for as long as she could, and she wanted something better. We all do. It didn't happen.

There wasn't much I could do at the scene. Forensics was crawling all over the penthouse and I had seen all I could take. I drove back to the precinct. I poured a cup of stale black coffee and collapsed at my desk. It was quiet. All of the dicks were home asleep in their beds, visions of sugarplums and all that shit. My mind simply wasn't working. I scanned my drawers for something to eat, but all I came up with was a packet of cheese crackers that were way beyond their past due date. I heard the slap of leather in the hall. It was Ricky.
Chapter Five

He sat across from me. "Let's find a bar," he said.

We did. A little after hours place off the strip, strictly illegal, but fitting for the filth that clung to me. We stuffed ourselves into a sticky booth in the corner and ordered two shots of Maker's Mark, neat with a water chaser.

"Okay, Dee. Crawl out of your cave. You are Diabla, the tough bitch who never sheds a tear and never leaves a case until it's cracked. I know she was your friend. I know you feel responsible in some way. So quit feeling sorry for your worthless ass. We've got to catch the sonovabitch and send him to be somebody's girlfriend at the state hotel."

"Fuck you, Ricky. You can't know how I feel. She was getting out of the game. New hopes, a real future, a man she loved. It was all just beginning for her. Now she's a corpse. Maybe a pretty one, maybe a rich one, but a dead one. Nevertheless, I might have helped her. I didn't. So now I'm not supposed to feel like shit?"

"Yeah. Feel like shit. Maybe you deserve it. Maybe you could have saved her. Maybe you're the trashy cunt that some of the boys think you are. We can't fix it. But we can damned sure see that the killer rots in his own kind of special hell."

I slogged the last of the bourbon, got up and walked to the gray Taurus.

Rod was gone when I got home. I tried to sleep, but it was no use. Angie's face flashed in and out of my consciousness like a strobe light. At dawn, I fixed myself a cup of coffee and mixed in a strong hit of Irish. Ricky was right. We'd hunt the bastard down even if he'd slithered into the bowels of hell. I went back to the office.

Ricky had pulled an all-nighter. His face was gray and drawn and the wrinkles were deep in his starched white shirt. I could smell him a little as I sat in the chair across the desk. He looked at me and wearily shook his head. Then the phone rang.

"Dee, I knew you'd want the latest." It was my favorite forensics guy, Billy. "First of all, nothing on the silk box. Her place. Found a baggie of cocaine taped behind the toilet in the master bath. A few long blond hairs stuck to the tape. The coke was damned near pure, better than anything on the street right now. She had a .22 caliber Ruger in the drawer next to the bed. Not much else. I guess the maid had been in earlier that day. Everything was spotless. The only prints belonged to the corpse. There were a couple of smudges here and there, but nothing we could make book on. Her computer was clean. Nothing but a few emails and a couple of fashion sites she liked a lot. Anything else comes up. I'll call. Just thought you'd want to know. "

"You're the best, Billy." I hung up and told Ricky how little there was, but something hit me.

"One thing makes no sense. Angie was no doper. Hell, she didn't even drink much more than a little red wine. She wasn't a user, not even any weed, and she had a strict policy. The johns didn't bring that stuff to her place. If they did, they left without any loving, and their names quickly disappeared from the appointment list in her little black book."

Ricky shook his head. "You got any idea who she was seeing? Anyone who might be worried about the pillow talk?"

"I don't know much. Maybe one guy, but I'll bet there were more. Unless we can find her book, I don't know where we start."

I grabbed my notebook and made a quick list. The box, the note, the perfume bottle and the Commandant. I had to see him.
Chapter Six

I called him at his office. I half expected his secretary to tell me he wasn't available. She put me through immediately. His voice was muffled and distant.

"I'll see you, Dee. But not here. You know Bugsy's Last Stand off Las Olas? Four o'clock. I'll be at the table in the back."

I knew Bugsy from my days in the trade. He had been a moderately successful pimp. Pretty decent guy. Sharp dresser. Treated the girls nice and liked to brag about it. Kept them clean, dressed them okay, kept the dope down, regular checks for STD's. When some mob guys tried to muscle in on his territory, he told them to "jump up his ass." They broke his left leg with a sledge hammer. While he was in the hospital, he decided another line of work might be appropriate. Sold the boys his business and bought a quiet little bar away from the beach. He had his regulars and his health. He still walked with a noticeable limp, but he'd learned a lot about keeping his mouth shut.

I didn't tell Ricky about the Commandant. I guess you'd call it professional courtesy. I figured he'd know sooner or later, but I wanted to check some things first. More than one call girl had fallen for the "leaving my wife" line. Angie was smart, but she had a heart. She couldn't pass a homeless person on the sidewalk without dropping a five in the cup. She would have made a great kindergarten teacher if she wasn't a hooker.

It had been cloudy all day and the rain came down in buckets. Ricky had left the precinct to get some sleep. I looked out the window. Why the hell hadn't I brought my foul weather coat or at least an umbrella? I bolted for the Taurus and fought the traffic down to Las Olas. I was running a little late and I didn't want to give the Commandant any excuse to disappear. I pulled into a parking spot. The rain was thick and gray, but I took a deep breath and raced for the door.

I walked in looking like a wet dog, my hair dripping and the cold rivulets running down my neck. The Commandant was at the table in the back, just like he said. He wore jeans and a tattered camo jacket. A green baseball cap was pulled down over his forehead. I nodded at Bugsy. He nodded back and I slipped into the booth. There were two tumblers half full of Irish and a water chaser on the table.

I looked at Angie's paramour. He seemed sick, skin bloodless, dark hollows under the yellow eyes. My Dad, Fritz, had a phrase for that look, "shot at and missed and shit at and hit." It was a perfect fit. His brown hands were folded on the table. They seemed to tremble and twitch with a life of their own.

"Hello Commandant." I said quietly.

"Make it Stu."

"Okay, Stu. Talk to me."

"I can and I will, but this is all off the record. If you can't guarantee me that, this little interview is effectively over. We'll talk about the Dolphins, maybe some politics, finish our drinks and be on our way. I want Angie's killer, but I can't be involved. I got too much to lose, Dee."

"Okay, Stu, but I can only promise so much. I don't know how ugly this will get. I will give it my best shot. She was a friend. You know that. I owe her."

"Okay, I guess I've got to trust you if I want to see the bastard with his balls cut off. But don't forget, Detective, I know people. Some are nice, others can get very nasty."

I know a threat when I hear one. I didn't doubt for a moment that an unfortunate accident could be looming in my future if I screwed up. Still, I needed information. I was sure he knew things I needed to know.

"I got the message loud and clear," I said, "Now talk to me."

He looked down at the table and took a sip of the brown liquid in the shot glass. He followed it with the taste of water and stared for a moment at the glass.

"I loved her. I didn't care about her past. I was only looking to our future. I was going to leave Nancy."

I had met Nancy once at a fundraiser I was trapped into attending. She was a handsome, dark headed diva. Always looked like she just stepped from the pages of VOGUE. She came from money, claimed to be a great, great, grandniece of Henry Flagler, the railroad magnate who opened up Florida and changed it from worthless swampland into a Valhalla for retirees and a playground for the rich, the famous, and the arrogant. Her photo was a mainstay of the society pages. Ms. Longstreet with the Senator. Ms. Longstreet at the Charity Gala. Ms. Longstreet at the Art Auction. All of the places the beautiful people go to be seen. She did some good things, but the thing she was best at was letting you know you just weren't quite up to her standards. Her nose had a permanent lift to it. Easier to look down on you, my dear.

"So did Nancy know about Angie?"

"You kidding me. The bitch had me followed. Some private detective named Callano. Pictures, the whole bit. She didn't care as long as she had me by the balls. 'Have your silly flings, just cover your ass.' That's what she told me. We never discussed it. As a matter of fact, we never discussed anything. She was always planning her 'functions' and I had my life. We were on two different planets. The two of them never shared the same orbit."

"So that's all?"

"Not exactly. I told her I wanted a divorce. Two weeks ago. She went nuts.

"Who the hell do you think you are? You just gonna up and leave me for that slant-eyed cunt?"

"I lost it. Grabbed her by the shoulders. Hell, she hit me with a two-thousand dollar vase. Seven stitches. Luckily my hair covered most of it. She went on. 'Sorry, you low life sonovabitch. I guess you've forgotten who I am, what I know, and who I know. I'll see your ass in hell before you hit the door.' She snatched the keys to the Mercedes and was gone before I could get the blood to stop running. I didn't see her for two days. Don't know where she went or who she was with. When she came back, she was Miss Society Queen all over again. Like it had never happened. I guess she thought she had me. She doesn't."

"So you were going to leave?"

"Damned right. Just waiting for the time. Then . . ." His voice faded.

"Angie?"

The Commandant was a big man, probably 6'3', 220 or so. He shrank down in the booth, now half his size.

"When did you find out?"

"I didn't find out. I saw her. I went by the penthouse around five. We were going to have a drink. No answer at the door. I let myself in with my key. She was on the floor, blood everywhere. Her neck . . . I've seen enough of 'em. I knew she was dead. At first, I couldn't move. Then my guts started to heave. I wiped everything down and got out of there fast."
Chapter Seven

Suddenly the whole game had changed. I asked him why he didn't report it.

"I was scared. It was too much too fast. She was dead. Nothing would change that. My career, my standing in the community. I could see it all going up in smoke. Plus, I didn't want to be suspect number one. I lost the most important thing in my life. I didn't want to lose everything else."

I watched his hands twist. They were big and powerful. He was certainly strong enough to handle a garrote. Angie trusted him. She wouldn't hesitate to turn her back to him, maybe to lead him to the bedroom. A minute or two was all it would take. I filed it away, but only for now.

"So you got to find her killer, Dee. You can turn him over to me if you like. Save you a lot of time and the state a lot of money." His eyes went hard and the hands became bloodless fists of granite.

"Give me some time, Stu. We can make it right. See the bastard swing one way or another."

I sounded good, but I knew it was bullshit. A crummy line out of a cheap detective novel that might buy me some time. I had to be careful. He was definitely connected to people who had very large balls . . . and violence was often their handmaiden. As for Nancy, I didn't want to get within ten miles of that bitch. I've often heard that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. In her case, I'd take heavy odds it was true. Great motive. She might even deserve a lofty ranking on the top ten suspects list.

At the same time, I'd best remember Falstaff's line "discretion is the better part of valor." I could end up in Fairbanks, Alaska back shaking my ass with a brass pole for a partner, if not floating face down in the New River.

He weighed my comment and simply nodded, but there again was the threat not far below the surface of his jaundiced eyes.

He lurched in my direction for a moment, but caught himself. It unnerved me. Something cold crawled up my neck.

On the way back to my apartment, I called Ricky. I had to trust someone. If I was gonna be the Lone Ranger, I needed Tonto beside me . . . real quick. He was standing on the street outside my building next to his waxed Caddy XLR when I got out of the Taurus. He was glorious in his usual finery. Sharkskin gray slacks. You could see your face in his black tassel loafers. The sport coast was pure Cardin. No tie around the neck of the creamy silk shirt. We went up. He sat at the chipped Formica table.

"Red wine?" I asked.

"Do I need something stronger?" I poured him a double of Evan Williams over ice and a whisper of tap water.

"Graveyard talk, Ricky. You and me for now . . . and nobody else."

I told him about my meeting with Stu Longstreet. I left out a few of the details, but the big picture was clear. Unfortunately, the solutions weren't.

"So really, we got next to nothing," he said. "A couple of leads, maybe some half-assed assumptions and we got to handle all of this off the books. At least for now. Hell, we got enough stuff on our desk now to take us into the next century. So what do we do, hire Sam Spade to do our leg work?" It didn't sound like a bad idea.

"I know," I said exhaustedly, "now let me get my notebook and we'll wade into the shit."

He made a snorting sound, kind of like a pissed off rhinoceros. I began to write.

Stu had to be a suspect. Nancy probably wasn't strong enough to handle the garrote and Angie wouldn't have let her in anyway. We knew the lovely Ms. Longstreet had hired Louis Callano to trail Stu. I knew Callano. He was big, fat, and ugly. A first class creep always hungry for a buck and he wasn't very particular about how he got it. He could easily have pulled the piano wire into her neck. I wonder how he looked in UPS brown.

Ricky just listened for a while.

"So did the Commandant know anything about the cocaine?" he said.

"I didn't ask. Maybe I should have, but we need some cards to play if things get tough. I didn't tell him about the driver, either."

Ricky asked me for my impression of Longstreet. Genuine grief or some academy award performance?

"Oh, he was definitely bent out of shape. Big tough guy like that shrinking, slumping, dissolving into a lump. I thought he was going to cry. I think he loved Angie and I think he was really leaving the wicked witch of the north. Doesn't mean he didn't kill her. Maybe Angie had changed her mind. Maybe the grieving wife was going to pay her off. Keep the money and the status, not to mention avoiding being crucified in the gossip columns. And where was sweet Nancy during those two days after their blowup? Plenty of time to find a killer. A nice little retainer and the balance upon delivery of a certain body to the morgue."

"Okay," said Ricky, "I'll work some of my girls on the street, check a few of the snitches, see what I can shake out of the bushes. I don't expect much, but for you, Diabla, little Ricky will perform." I wish he hadn't winked.

"That's why I love you, Baby. I know Callano. I'll spray on a little Lysol and pay the bastard a visit. Hopefully come away with something besides a communicable disease."

He downed the rest of the bourbon, kissed me lightly on the cheek, and left. Thank God there was someone I could trust.
Chapter Eight

The next morning I cleared my desk, ate a bagel and headed toward town. Callano's office was in a dowdy three story walkup a few blocks from the huge edifices of glass and steel that stood at attention for the cognicenti of South Florida and beyond. On the third floor to the right was a scarred wooden door with frosty glass in the panel. PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS was printed in black peel and stick letters, probably from Wal-Mart. The door was cracked slightly. I could hear the rough, throaty tones of his voice. "Yes, ma'am. Strictly confidential. I'll get the pictures. You can make book on that." I shivered, rolled my shoulders, and knocked.

"Dee," he bellowed, "what I did to deserve such a beautiful surprise? Come on in, Honey. Set dat sweet ass on de chair."

A half-eaten meatball sub lay on the desk. The whole place reeked of tomato paste and cheap seasoning. He stuffed a bite into his jowly face and stared at my tits.

"This is a business call, Louie."

"Oh, Honey. I know about your business. Dis is Uncle Louie you talkin' to. What? You missin' de old days when you was rollin' in sweet green and the best whiskey money could buy?"

"Like I said, Louie, business."

I crossed my legs and sat up steel straight. I fired a few daggers with my eyes and hoped they would register on his feeble brain. Louie was a first class creep, but he wasn't dumb. The man was always looking for an edge. I was willing to bet he had one.

"I need some info. You did some work for Ms. Stuart Longstreet. A few indescretions by the Commandant. I know that. Maybe you picked up some other tasty bits while fulfilling your contract obligations. I'd like to know what they are."

"Come on, Dee. You ever hear of client confidentiality? I'd be glad to fill you in, but the judge got prettier words than me. I can't tell you nothin' and you know it. Dey'd have my license in a heartbeat. I'd be on de street, just another hustler . . . kinda like you was."

Good old Louie. Never missed a chance to make you bleed. He came around the desk and sat on the corner. I could see the glint of orange smothering his teeth and smell the crappy sub oozing out of him like red pus.

"Now you know, my memories is kinda hazy. I need something sweet and wet to help me focus. Dis business, you know, sometimes files get misplaced. You let go of something by mistake. But it's a quid pro quo world out there. You got something for me? Maybe I got something for you."

He stared at my crotch and grinned. Then he leaned a little closer and reached for my breast. I grabbed his balls and squeezed 'til my hand ached. Then I buried a fist in his paunch. He rolled onto the floor, gasping and whining.

"We ain't friends no more," I heard him belch.

"Louie, you need to learn how to treat a lady," I said as I slammed the door. The glass rattled in the frame. I took a deep breath and tried to shake the stench off of my body. Then it was back to my rattletrap.

Okay, not much there except wasted time and gasoline. But he had mentioned files. I wondered . . . Maybe it would pay to make a little after hours visit to his office. Strictly illegal, but who's to know?

I hadn't heard from Hot Rod in a few days, but I hadn't had time to miss him. Now I did. I fantasized about the last night at my place when I got all lathered up. The only thing it had cost me was some homemade lasagna and hell, he brought the cabernet. Maybe he was using me, but I was damned sure using him. Just like magic, my cell rang. Oh Rod. I tried to sound nonchalant, but it wasn't working. Dinner? How about casual for a change? I said yes in a short breath that I hoped was sexy enough.

I put on some extra tight jeans and a top that plunged. No bra. The weather was perfect for taut nipples. I definitely wanted my best attributes to be on proud display.

He knocked at seven, gave me one long look and whistled under his breath. Then we got into his Lexus and headed for the strip across from the beach. He parked in the lot behind the Lauderdale Marina. We walked the two blocks up to the corner. The kids were out in force. Laughing, smoking, just hanging out and making nuisances of themselves. The guys wore an assortment of t-shirts with incredibly clever sayings. "Suck This" with an arrow pointing down at the crotch, "If Your Mama had Balls, She'd be your Dad," and the ever popular "Fuck You." You can buy them at any one of the numerous shops on the strip. They did, and it was quite charming. The girls wore next to nothing. Still in bikinis, shorts that crawled up their asses and tank tops three sizes too small. Hell, it could've been me a few years back. Guilty as charged.

The sun was setting behind us in orange and golden hues. Across the street, the goddesses on roller blades were whizzing down the sidewalk. Live music was blaring out of the Elbow Room. Billy Kincaide, the white man's answer to the black man's blues, was strumming and picking to the thumping of a drum machine. Billy's bass man, Raz, was in blues heaven. Probably stoned or at least damned near drunk. Rod grinned at me and we squeezed in. A couple of cold Morettis and we were rocking and swaying to Leadbelly, Big Bill Broonzy and Josh White, seasoned with a little Sonny Boy Williamson and Willie Dixon. One beer led to another, but we finally decided to head down to Lu Lu's Bait Shack. Their shrimp were the size of small bananas, sweet and succulent, and the mugs were coated in frost.

More music. Lion's Mane, a rock band with a flame haired female vocalist. She had the guts of Janis Joplin and the sweet soul lilt of Aretha Franklin. Not the place for quiet conversation. We danced a couple of numbers and when the band went on break, we finally had a chance to talk. Mostly innocuous, cordial stuff. It would have been boring as hell if it had been anyone but Rod. I knew it would turn to work at some point. After all, we were in the same business, catching bad guys.

"So any interesting cases?" he asked.

"Too damned interesting and too damned personal."

I told him about Angie, holding the details close. Still, I kind of thought he already knew, but I sure as hell didn't want to break down. Besides, he had his share of shit on his own plate. I did mention Stuart Longstreet. His brow furrowed and he looked over toward the stage. The band was returning.

"I'm going to put you in touch with a guy. Raoul Marquez, DEA. When he calls, talk to him. You can trust him. By the way, keep Ricky out of this one for now."

No Ricky? I had plenty of questions, but it wasn't the time or the place. I'd know soon enough and tonight I needed to focus on the primary objective. Getting laid.

I am happy to say I wasn't disappointed. The boy was a stallion from the starting gate to the finish. Afterwards, the aching in my thighs was all too welcome.
Chapter Nine

I was at the office a little late, but the shit was still waiting on my desk for me. I shuffled papers, made a few notes and waited. Ricky was doing the same across from me. I finally got my mind off the delightful carnal encounter from the night before, but only after the soreness had faded. Hot Rod had definitely lived up to his nickname.

Raoul Marquez. I knew most of the Feds, DEA, and FBI, who worked South Florida. This name was new. Why had Rod told me to keep Ricky out of this one for now? It was already too late. He was my partner and my confidante. We were two sides of the same coin. I just didn't function as well without his input, his loyalty and his friendship. Anyway, I figured there was a reason and I would know soon.

No call from the mysterious Mr. Marquez throughout the day. I began to plan my nocturnal visit to Louie's office. I knocked off around six, threw a frozen pizza in the microwave, had a glass of the Sterling and went down for a nap. I woke at two A.M., put on my phony black ninja outfit and headed for the Taurus. Glock, lock picks, small flashlight. All the good stuff for a clandestine B and E by an officer operating slightly outside of conventional protocol. Hell, it could cost me my job, but if there was info on Stuart Longstreet in that filing cabinet, I needed it. Client confidentiality be damned.

I parked a couple of blocks away. The street was quiet. I slipped on a pair of latex gloves. The front door lock was candy and the credit card trick opened Louie's office in seconds. I eased in. The shade was pulled. A noxious smell crawled into my nostrils. Probably rotting meatballs. I turned on the flashlight. The top drawer to a gun metal filing cabinet was half open. I went to the S's. Nothing. Louie kept files. He told me that. Something had been removed. I turned the LED to the desk. That's when I realized I wasn't alone.

I was sharing the office with Louie's corpse.

He was sprawled in his chair. Legs spread, the arms falling behind like a puppet whose strings had been sliced. There was a small hole in his forehead centered just above the furry brows. His face was frozen and gray, the mouth slightly open in mock surprise. The blood was almost dry, but had run down his nose and collected on his upper lip. I checked the back of his head. No exit wound. A .22 caliber hollow point had probably scrambled his brain into gray pudding. I backed out of the office, locked the door, and made for the Taurus.

When I got back to the apartment, I phoned in an anonymous tip and bolted into the shower. I wanted to scrub my skin raw until the stink of death was off of me. There wasn't that much soap in all of Fort Lauderdale.

I tried to sleep, but it was no use. My mind spun like some crazed kaleidoscope, but the shapes and colors wouldn't come together. Two murders, one with a garrote, the other a small caliber pistol. Coincidence? Hell no. They were related. Two different MOs. Two killers or just one who liked to mix up his methods? Was he trying to confuse us, or was it simply a matter of convenience? Why take the file? Was there more than a tawdry affair involved? It all pointed to motive. If I knew that, maybe the mystery would begin to unravel.
Chapter Ten

I got to the precinct around eight. I wanted to be in on the take from the investigating officers. I knew I looked like shit, but I hoped no one would notice. Ricky wasn't in yet. I was glad. I wasn't ready to talk until I felt more comfortable with what I didn't know. I wasn't sure what I'd tell him, but I knew I'd need him sooner or later. And probably sooner. I was shuffling files when the phone rang.

"Detective Rabow. Raoul Marquez, DEA. I am told it would be advantageous for us to meet as soon as possible."

"I expected your call Mr. Marquez. I am tied up at the moment, but I can free some time this afternoon."

"I certainly hate to inconvenience you, Detective, but this matter is rather pressing. There is a coffee shop a block south of the station. El Chico's Hot and Fast. I believe you know it. Please be there in twenty minutes."

He hung up. I guess it was more a command than invitation. I decided to roll the dice and be there. In the old days, I was used to do command performances. They made me more money than I'd ever made in this crummy job. One more wouldn't hurt.

He was easy enough to identify. That well-worn black suit, the gray tie flashed FED like a neon sign. He managed a crocodile smile and signaled to the server. I ordered a raspberry croissant and black Columbian.

"I appreciate your promptness," he said lifelessly. "I understand you are conducting a murder investigation."

Probably two, I thought. I nodded.

"Please forgive me," I said, "but I need to see some identification."

He pulled a tattered card from his wallet and handed it across the table. I'd seen them before. It looked legit. He spoke in a whisper.

"Let me assure you, Detective; the DEA has no intention of interfering with your investigation."

Yeah. Right. Then why were we here?

"Nevertheless, there are some sensitive matters that need your attention. I am sorry I am not at liberty to discuss them at this time, but I am sure you understand. Ongoing investigations at a very high level."

He stared at me through dead eyes. If I didn't know these DEA zombies, I'd have thought he just wolfed down a couple of 'ludes.

"I hope you will back off just a bit. Give us time to develop our sources, but at the same time share any information that may seem pertinent."

My God. Typical FED bullshit in its most formal costume. Translation: Don't work the serious shit, but if you stumble on something, make sure we are in a position to get credit for it. Yeah, thanks, pal.

"By the way, Detective, this meeting never took place. Not for you, your partner Mr. Fuenes, or anyone else in the department. You will get updates on a need to know basis."

Sure. I'll bet. He handed me a card. Nothing on it but a telephone number. Then he left a five on the table and walked to the door. Cheap bastard. It didn't even cover the check. I walked back to the office. I didn't know a damned thing now that I didn't know before our little rendezvous. But the FEDS were involved. DEA spelled DOPE. I thought about the cocaine in Angie's condo. "Pure, better than anything on the street." That's what our forensics guy had said.

Well, I certainly had every intention to honor Mr. DEA's tacit instructions to lay low. Well . . . maybe not too low. But the cat was out of the bag and I had work to do. It was time to call in our secret weapon, one Cleopatra Ramparelli.
Chapter Eleven

Cleo was six-two, 240 lbs, built like Hulk Hogan without the moustache. At one time, she held the women's world record for distance in the softball throw, something over the length of a football field. She was our intern from Florida State University. Dad used to say there was a fine line between sheer genius and the idiot savant. I wasn't sure which side she was on.

Cleo could hack the FBI, CIA, and the NSA in the time it took her to finish her Black and Mild, one of those little cigars she sucked up behind the building. Only, of course, when someone in the department hadn't put her to work using those magnificent brains or delivering coffee. Her two word vocabulary consisted of "Yeah and here".

I saw her stomping like Bigfoot through the precinct, that perpetual scowl pasted on her face.

"Hi," I said and smiled.

"Yeah," she grunted.

"I need some help. Full rundown on a guy named Stuart Longstreet, also his wife Nancy, nee Flagler. Credit report, bank records, anything that looks out of the ordinary, legal or illegal. They live in one of those mini mansions on the ICW near the entrance to the New River. Poinciana Drive, I think. Big power yacht out back. Can you get that to me quickly?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks," I said. Seeing her up close made me rethink the moustache. It was light, but it was definitely there.

Ricky came in looking like a Latin cover boy from GENTLEMEN'S QUARTERLY. This time the coat was beige Armani, the shirt a willowy black silk, slacks from Don Johnson's MIAMI VICE closet, and immaculate black alligator loafers. He even had a satiny paisley handkerchief peeking out of his breast pocket. A bit much for a cop, but I whistled when he came in. Miami real estate money, no doubt. He laughed a little, feigned a tip of the hat and fluffed the satin. I had decided to tell him everything. The FEDS could go to hell. They damned sure wouldn't cover my back. Ricky would.

He watched and listened. He didn't seem surprised at anything, but I guess we damned near heard it all at one time or another.

"So we got two murders, the Fort Lauderdale PD, the DEA, maybe the Coast Guard all very interested. The only dicks left out are the FBI and the guys in IA," he said.

IA was internal affairs. I'd rather be strip searched by Homeland Security than deal with those vultures.

"So what else do we know?" he asked.

"Not much, but I sic'd our own female Darth Vader on Longstreet and his lovely bride."

"Oh my God. I pray for them if they've gone over to the dark side."

I laughed and dove into some file folders that were moldering on my desk. He did the same.

It hadn't been an hour when Cleo sauntered up to my desk.

"Here," she growled and slammed a piles of copies on the corner.

First was the credit report. Their score was a less than robust 225. If they weren't Longstreet and Flagler, they couldn't borrow enough for a cup of coffee. Seventeen collections in the last four years. House, $9081 per month plus taxes and insurance. Two months in arrears. Both their Mercedes and Lexus on month to month leases. Also behind. The yacht in the back yard was a Hatteras 48, probably a cool four or five mill floating palace, financed to the hilt. $14000 plus on their VISA card, and several thousand more on a collection of Mastercard, American Express, Neiman Marcus, etc. etc. No liens on any of the property. All of the collections except a couple had been satisfied with cash disbursements. The whole thing was simply weird. These people were living like the king and queen of England and they didn't have two dimes to rub together.

The next item was the real killer. Several bank accounts, but none with a balance over a few hundred dollars. Any cash transaction over $10,000 must be reported to the IRS. It's supposed to identify the bad guys. Dirty money being laundered and all that. Some of the disbursements were over the limit. But like all good laws that apply to the wealthy and powerful, there was a loophole. Wire transfers between banks. The codes told me there were plenty. Cleo had scored.

The obvious question was next. Where had the money come from? Nancy was a Flagler. At one time that family could have bought the entire state of Florida and had enough left to throw in Georgia and maybe South Carolina. Did they still have it? And was sweet Nancy just writing checks and signing the famous Flagler name? Maybe Stuart had a crop of crisp $100 dollar bills growing in the back yard. A lousy bet, but who the hell knows? I wouldn't be able to use any of this in court, but it was damned sure interesting.

I handed the reports to Ricky. He pored through them page by page, make notes on a green steno pad. He nodded and stared at me a couple of times, let out one low whistle, but he didn't say much. When he finished, I stuffed the papers in my file drawer and locked it.

We talked about a few pending cases and did a little leg work. When the battery operated clock on my desk read 6 P.M., I was fried. I needed a hot bath and a cold drink. I looked longingly at the phone. I hadn't heard from Rod in a few days. I sure could have used some of his special kind of physical therapy tonight. I thought about calling him, but I didn't want to be too available.
Chapter Twelve

The old Taurus fired up on cue and I was home in a few minutes. I get kind of blue sometimes. Lonely, beat up. Call it what you want, but it sucks. This was one of those times. No real progress on the case, no Hot Rod, no nothing. I sat on the sofa and contemplated a glass of Cabernet. I could sit here and play poor me all night long, but what the hell. I bounced off the cushions.

I went to the bathroom and washed my face, slapped on a little eye shadow, a bit of blush, painted my lips a pale red. I dabbed some Intrigue in the appropriate places. Then I ran the brush through my luxurious blond locks and looked in the mirror. Guess what? I was still a good looking broad. On the way out, for a final attempt at the femme fatale effect, I grabbed a white silk scarf and saucily wrapped it around my neck. I didn't know how I would come to love that scarf a few hours later. I left the Glock on the table in the kitchen. I didn't feel the need to shoot anyone tonight.

I headed for Bugsy's hoping to meet Brad Pitt or at least the ghost of Paul Newman. I parked my old beast and sauntered into the dim light. Bugsy nodded at me. I sat at the bar and tried to look sophisticated. I needed something heavy, Guinness Stout sounded about right. I sneaked a peak around me. There was a guy with a tall, greasy Mohawk in the last seat. He was tattooed in purple and red sleeves on both arms, mostly naked women in a variety of vulgar poses. Didn't remind me of Brad or Paul one bit. There were few tables with couples deep into themselves. Discussing Keynesian economics, no doubt. Or maybe just feeling each other up. Hey, thank God for cheap thrills.

The first Guinness went down with a sweet darkness, but the second cloyed at my throat. Mohawk looked over and smiled, but he looked too much like a guy I'd arrested a few months back. I was getting a little numb. I laid a ten on the bar, waved at Bugsy and made for the car.

I fumbled the key into the lock on the apartment door and stepped in. I heard a rustle behind me and something thin and cold was tight around my neck. It caught in the scarf, but I was spitting and choking, the piano wire slicing through the fabric into the pink flesh of my neck. Something warm was oozing down my chest. I wanted to snatch the wire and pull it away, but it was no use. I was losing consciousness.

My arms felt like lead, but I raised them behind me and with my palms open and popped them against his ears. There was a loud clap. He grunted, but the wire tightened. I reached back for his eyes, but he was tall and thick. He jerked his head back and my nails slid through his cheek. I lifted my left leg and took a shot at his balls with my heel. I missed and still he held fast. With one final thrust I buried my elbow in his ribs. He grunted again and the wire loosened. Two more quick belts and the wire slithered down my neck. I was free. I went for the Glock. I fired off a wild shot in the darkness. I heard the door bang against the wall. He was gone. I went to the mirror, heaving and gasping. I collapsed on the bathroom floor.

The white scarf was blotched with my blood. The sweet air galloped down my throat and filled my lungs with precious oxygen. I was alive and I made myself a silent promise. I would get that sonovabitch.

When I caught my breath, I switched on all of the lights. A few red spatters dotted the cheap carpet beside a couple of long blond hairs. There was skin under the nails of my right hand and a red smear running down my fingers. I hoped I'd given him something to remember me by. Maybe the prick's DNA was on file. I fastened the chain lock and propped a chair against the door. At least if he came back, I would hear him and offer a noisy greeting with the Glock. I checked the clip. I almost hoped he would.

I talk tough and I can walk the walk when I have to, but I was shaking. Anyone who is never scared is a damned fool. It keeps you alive.
Chapter Thirteen

The knock on the door came early, probably eight or so. I pulled my collar up around my neck and answered. It was Ms. Medford, the kindly old lady who managed the apartment complex. She wasn't so kindly this morning.

"Dee, my dear, there was a report from some of your neighbors that there was a ruckus here last night. One even thought she heard a gun fire. I'm sure it was nothing, but you know how important it is to keep the peace around here. I'm afraid, my dear, that it would be helpful if you would seek other living arrangements. Certainly you may have until the end of the month. Of course, we will refund your deposit in full as soon as the inspection is complete. I am sorry, my dear, but you know how it is."

Yeah, I know how it is. This was the third time this year I had been politely asked to vacate the premises. At least I'd get my money back as long as I could hide the bullet hole in the drywall. Swell. One more thing I had to worry about. What the hell? Put it on the list. Right now I had more pressing matters at hand.

I made some coffee, sat at the kitchen table and pulled my trusty notebook from my jacket pocket.

I needed a strategy. I didn't have one. The only thing to do was keep putting one foot in front of the other and pray I'd stumble over something. Lots of information. All related, but how? Just like last night, I had to shoot in the dark and hope I'd hit something.

I wanted to go over the evidence from Angie's killing again. Question the doorman at her place to see if something was overlooked. Rethink the dubious financial situation of the Longstreets. Find out more about Mr. Mysterious DEA agent Raoul Marquez. And check with Internal Affairs just for the hell of it.

I turned on the shower and got the water to just below scalding temperatures. Then I grabbed my loofah and scrubbed myself raw to get the stink of my midnight caller off my body. The cut in my neck wasn't as deep as I'd thought. Maybe some makeup and another scarf. I was at the office by ten.

Ricky was at his desk, dazzling as usual. I told him about my little adventure form the night before.

"Goddamn it, Dee. You must know something that scares the shit out of somebody. Even the serious thugs don't take killing a cop lightly. Cramps their style. Where are you on this stuff?"

"I don't know. We don't have any solid clues. Just a bunch of things that won't mesh. Right now I'm just marching through Georgia, hoping something will turn up that makes a measure of sense. I've got a list of things to do, but it seems like bullshit. Maybe I just need to stay busy, try to touch all the bases and any other shit I can think of."

"Well you gotta keep me informed. I got a brain, too. It works and it sounds like someone needs to watch your back."

"You de man, Ricky. Thanks."

He went back to his paperwork and I picked up the phone. Mabel was our evidence clerk. She sounded like Mary Tyler Moore when she answered. "Of course, Dee. Baby, you just come on down."

I went to the basement and cleared the security gate. It was damp and dingy in that cave. Mabel was coughing and wheezing, just like always. A new box of Kleenex was close at her right hand. I signed in and requested the boxes on Angie's murder case. There was a list of things that had been taken at the crime scene. Not much, a few blond hairs, some blood samples, the cocaine, the .22 Ruger, a few hollow point shells in a plastic baggie. It should have all been there.

I dug into the bottom. No cocaine and no pistol from Angie's bedroom drawer. I emptied the box and checked the shelf to see if I had missed something. No luck.

Nothing was signed out. I was puzzled, but there were plausible explanations. Maybe a cop on the wrong side had stuck the drugs in his pocket for future sale or consumption. Someone might have grabbed the Ruger to use as a throwdown. With all the crazies on the street, it's hard to blame a cop for covering his ass. Still, I was very curious.

When I checked out of the cage, I glanced at the signatures on the list. Captain Sullivan, my boss and a guy who squeaked when he walked. Ricky Fuenes. That made sense. Review the stuff related to the case, but he hadn't told me. We worked so closely, but maybe he didn't see anything worth mentioning.

I had trouble making out the last signature. It was like the signee had taken pains to scribble something that was illegible. I asked Mabel for a magnifying glass. I studied the letters. No doubt, it was my pal, Raoul Marquez. What the hell was he doing in our evidence room? This was not his case. Or maybe it was. He had warned me to back off. Hinted at involvement from the cops who police the cops. I thanked Mabel and listened to her hack on the way out.

I decided to call an old buddy. He used to come into the club to sample my dubious delights in his drinking days. He was really kind of sweet and he was a damned good tipper. I didn't know at first he was a cop, much less one of the hated Internal Affairs Squad. He kept to himself and was there only for a good time. He liked me and when I joined the department, he wasn't one of those assholes who thought I was the Anti-Christ in a skirt.

He answered on the first ring.

"Harve . . . it's Dee. What's new, buddy?"

"Well if it isn't Detective Dee Rabow. Hope you're doin' okay. 'What's new?' Lemme see. Is that a polite inquiry to find out if I had a nice birthday or a request for info that you know I can't give you. Last time you called, I nearly got my ass in a sling for even talking to you. I'm getting close to a nice, quiet retirement. So give it a rest. Keep it casual and brief."

"Harve, I'm sure you guys know I'm working on this murder case. I'm at a dead end. I had a visit from the DEA. Too many questions, not enough answers. IA sort of came up in the conversation. What's shaking?"

"Nothing. That's all you need to know. But I gotta tell you, Babe, just for old times. Keep it tight. I don't want to see your pretty cheeks clawed by the tigers. Your Uncle Harve is hanging up. Now."

He didn't exactly slam the phone down, but the message was clear. He had done me a favor. Someone was looking at me way too close. I needed to know why.
Chapter Fourteen

I called first. The head doorman was on duty at Angie's place. I hopped in the Taurus and headed for the beach. He shook his head as soon as he saw me. That was happening a lot lately.

"Mr. Lopez, Detective Rabow, Fort Lauderdale P.D." I shoved my badge and ID at him.

"I know who you are, Detective. I told you guys all I know. I wish you'd just leave me alone and let me do my job."

"I can assure you, Mr. Lopez, that we will do just that when we can shed some light on the incident that took place in your building."

He shuddered. "Incident, my ass. She was a nice lady. Remembered me at Christmas. Generous. Always treated me real good. Don't care what she was, she didn't deserve that."

"We know what happened the day of the murder, but I am curious as to frequent visitors. Was there anyone that showed up regularly, possibly even on some kind of schedule?"

"You know, Detective, I get paid to ignore some things and keep my mouth shut. But I'm like you. I want that bastard to fry. Too nice a lady for that kind of thing."

He looked around to make sure there was no one hiding in the bushes. His voice became a whisper.

"You already know about Longstreet. A few others that I recognized as what you call patrons. Then there was Three D. He was here a couple of times."

"Three D?"

"Oh come on. You don't watch pro wrestling? You're missing it, kid. Three D, the Deadly Dutch Destroyer. He was big time. WWF Champion. He'd toy with 'em some, then get 'em in the Choker and it was all she wrote. Guess he's retired now, but he was a flat-out monster. Still big as a damned house."

"Thank you, Mr. Lopez. You may have helped more than you know. If anything else comes to mind, please don't hesitate to call me." I gave him my card and went back to the station.

I met Cleo on the way in. She was covered with the stifling scent of Black and Mild. I asked to check on Three D and maybe try to uncover some info on Raoul Marquez.

"Yeah," she mumbled

An hour later she shoved some papers on my desk.

"Here."

Three D was definitely an impressive character. One Harle Van Leeven, a native of Holland, but now a citizen of the good old USA. Square jawed, long, brassy locks, 6'6", professional weight of 288 lbs. He had held the WWF championship off and on for four years. He was noted for the Deadly Dutch Choker. Damned near killed a couple of guys before the refs were able to pull him off.

There was a nice color picture. The guy was strikingly handsome in a thuggish sort of way. Penetrating blue eyes, skin like pale gold bullion, one muscular ripple after another. But there was something else. I guess it was the mouth. Thin, cruel lips that created more sneer than smile. Even in the publicity shot, he seemed to be saying, "I'll snatch your balls off and hang them over the door of my trophy room."

No record. No known address or contact information in any of the files at our disposal.

It wasn't as much as I'd hoped for, but I knew little escaped Cleo. Just one question. How far was it from the Deadly Dutch Choker to a garrote?

I flipped the page. The next search was Raoul Marquez. There was a rough, printed scrawl. "Doesn't exist."
Chapter Fifteen

I wasn't really surprised. The DEA tried to keep a low profile unless there was a bust they wanted credit for. Then they were all over the newspapers and TV reminding us how they were saving the world from the scourge of drugs and violence. Actually, maybe that wasn't working out so well. Still it made good copy and kept our fine Congress shoveling the bucks. What the hell? Throw the old boys a bone now and then.

Anyway, I didn't have to wait long to personally confirm the existence of my old DEA pal. The phone rang. Guess who? Another meeting. Same coffee shop. Now. I walked the few blocks to El Chico's. Same table, same well-worn black suit. He managed what I thought was a smile as I walked in.

"Detective Rabow. Nice to see you again."

Yeah, I'll bet.

"Let me be brief. We know of your nocturnal visit to the office of one Louis Callano. We also know of his unfortunate demise at the barrel of a .22 caliber Ruger. We know that the weapon collected at the site of the death of your friend is the same weapon used to dispatch Mr. Collano. Your fingerprints were found at the scene. Please don't think that we assume any connection between you and the murder, but it is a matter of interest. Exactly what can you tell me that might assuage my fears that you may be involved in some way?"

Holy shit. Did I need an attorney? Did they think I had offed Louie for some weird reason? I wanted to shout, "not me," but I figured it was best to keep my mouth shut. Very tightly.

"Obviously, Agent Marquez, you know much more than I do about this case. I am not withholding any information that might be pertinent. My involvement is strictly professional. Of course, the department wants an arrest and a conviction. But I can assure you that we have no intention of obscuring any investigation involving the DEA or any other federal agencies."

His eyes honed in on mine. The malice and contempt was thinly veiled. "That is precisely how I expected you to respond. I can only hope you have offered the truth."

He left.

I took a swallow of my latte. It hung in my throat, sweet and sickly like a poison seeping into guts. So now I was a possible murder suspect. The DEA had warned me off again. The murder case had me completely baffled. I didn't see how it could get worse. Unfortunately, I was wrong again. I walked the few blocks back to the precinct. The temperature was hovering in the high 80's, but I felt a chill in my spine. I knew what it was doing there. I left the latte on the table.

I had just settled down at my desk when the phone rang. The voice had a feminine lilt, but it was definitely a man.

"Bogzee's. Nine P.M." I heard the beep of a cell phone being disconnected.

Bogzee's. Where the hell was that? Bogzee's? It didn't take me long. An accent. German, maybe? Bugsy's Last Stand. I'd been spending way too much time there lately.

Ricky looked at me. He must have felt the fear radiating across the desk. "Okay, Dee. What's the scoop?"

He bit his lip as I told him. "Sorry, Miss Diabla, you're not doing this alone. I'll go into Bugsy's an hour or so early, sit at the bar, have a well-earned shot of Jack Black and scope it out. I'll be there if anything goes down. By the way, the Jack is on you."

I nodded my head, "No problem, Ricky." But I didn't mean it. It's like I told you, I was scared. Ricky was my man and he could be very dangerous. I might need that in a pinch.

The rest of the day was quiet and frustrating. No new leads, no direction, the same old dead end.

At nine, I parked the coughing Taurus and went into Bugsy's. Ricky was at the bar, just like he said. He eyed me in the mirror, but didn't speak or acknowledge my presence at all. Bugsy gave me a thin smile and shook his head as if to say, "not this shit again." He pointed towards a table in the back.

There he was. Beige linen suit, custom tailored to hide the bulges. A neon pink tie. He was as big as advertised. I was surprised he had been able to squeeze into the booth. Freshly trimmed golden hair, strictly Vidal Sassoon, hanging casually over his collar. He smiled as I approached, a slender gouge running red over his cheek. He tried to get up, ever the gentleman, but the table held him back. It was the Harle Van Leeven, the Deadly Dutch Destroyer, in the flesh. I didn't want an autograph.

"May I haf de honor of ordering a drink for you? Jameson is yur preference if I make no mistake." The feminine lilt was there, but this guy was a monster, literally and figuratively. He grinned at me through a sparkling set of teeth, but it was more of a leer. Sort of a Christopher Lee in that old Hammer Film, DRACULA, PRINCE OF DARKNESS. Scary shit. When old Chris grinned, the blood was soon to flow.

Bugsy put a tumbler on the table and a water chaser. I took a sip. I was cold, but the rich Irish wasn't helping.

"I see you bring yur friend, Mr. Fuenes, wit you. I watch him carefully. He does vunderful job of being inconspicuous," he pronounced the last word syllable by syllable, mostly getting it right. "But he shud do better at hiding de lump under heez coat."

I was glad for the lump under Ricky's coat. It was pure Glock. I still hadn't said anything, but I didn't need to. Three D wasn't here to listen to the troubles of a failing female detective.

"I assure you dat you are in no danger . . . at least not tonight. But as you know, Ms. Rabow, tings vill alvays change. I luf de expression in yur language, 'last chance'. It is so definitive, so final. I tink dat is vhat you haf . . . 'de last chance.' You shud consider. Perhaps a vacation, another line of verk vud suit you? I know well you haf other talents." Again he grinned and he iced me with those dead eyes.

They were blue as the North Sea, but the sheer malevolence was stormy and threatening. I wanted badly to keep myself under control, but my foot was tapping like a trapped pigeon in a filthy cage.

"Please forgive me dat I rush. Finish yur vhiskey. Perhaps it vill soothe you. It is paid for. Oh, by de way, M sends his varmest regards. "

Something damp and slimy crawled up my back. I ran my fingers through my hair. I wanted to grab a handful and yank it out by the roots. I stared at the brown whiskey. I swirled the last of it in my glass and threw it down.

M . . . God, I thought I'd seen the last of that sonovabitch. I worked for the goddamned pimp. Did the clubs and the other things that buried me in the dirt and made me doubt my very sanity. Kept me so doped up I would have screwed the New York Giants and not known the difference. He'd already tried to kill me once. Came close. Did kill my roommate in Key West. Fed her to the alligators in the pond on that hellish golf course. I still had the shadow of his tattoo on my wrist, the one that marked me as one of "M's girls". So Triple D was his latest recruit. At least they had something in common. They both liked to hurt people.
Chapter 16

I reached for the phone. I wasn't sure she would take my call, but I was out of options. Anything was worth a shot. I dialed the number. She answered on the first ring.

"Ms. Longstreet, this is Detective Dee Rabow, Fort Lauderdale P.D. I was wondering if I might have a few moments of your time today or tomorrow. Just some routine questions concerning a homicide we're investigating."

At first there was no response. I thought maybe we'd been cut off, then I felt the icy breath blowing out of the receiver.

"I must say I've been expecting your call, Detective. At the moment I am very busy. I am hosting a luncheon on Thursday for the members of FSSH. I am sure you are unfamiliar with them, The Florida Supporters of Symphonic Harmonies. It is crucial that we do our part to provide cultural opportunities for some of our residents."

The tone of her voice assured me that the 'some' didn't include me.

Translation: Keep the rich bitches busy inflating their own importance. Just leave the riff-raff out.

"I certainly understand, Ms. Longstreet. I promise not to take too much of your time."

"Well, if we must. I can squeeze you in at 2:30 this afternoon before my meeting with the caterers. But I trust you will be brief. I doubt that you have been in our area. 228 Poinciana Drive. I am sure you can find it. Please be prompt."

"Yes Ma'am. I will be there and I will be brief."

I had some time to kill and my stomach was screaming at me like Audrey, the starving plant, in "The Little Shop of Horrors." "Feed me. Feed me," it demanded.

I hustled down to Pedro's Burrito Bonanza, a favorite of famished cops. Their food was world class and there was plenty of it. I ordered the Sooper Dooper Supreme. It was smothered in sour cream and guacamole. I grabbed extra napkins and slid into a booth hoping I wouldn't leave wearing my lunch.

I didn't really know what to expect from the Queen of Symphonic Harmonies. I did know what I had heard from sources who were decidedly prejudiced. It was in my best interests to go into the interview with no preconceived notions. Cool, logical, and non-judgmental was the best approach. I thought I could pull it off if I was deaf, dumb, and blind, but that probably wouldn't happen unless Three D got hold of me again.

The house was magnificent. Lush lawn trimmed with fingernail scissors, hyacinth and oleander everywhere. Two marble Greek goddesses, Aphrodite and Artemis, welcomed the visitor up the sidewalk and onto the portico. Her Black E-Class Mercedes was immaculate, washed daily, no doubt.

I rang the bell and was surprised to see the lady, herself, answer the door. She wore tailored ivory silk slacks finished off with Jimmy Choo heels. The emerald top hung gracefully over one tanned shoulder. Her hair had a natural insouciance that must have cost her $700. The jewelry dripped from her neck and wrists like icicles from a roof. A discreet touch of eye shadow and a brush of lipstick. She was a Cover Girl's cover girl, the epitome of mature perfection.

She smiled and made a sweeping gesture as if to welcome me into her lair. Tommy Bahama was everywhere. Hey, its South Florida. Mostly originals on the walls mixed with a few signed and numbered lithographs. Phil Capen, Jo Ann Sandborn, Joseph La Pierre, even a Bean Backus, some of the more prominent regional artists. Not a speck of dust anywhere, but looking at her perfect nails, I doubted that Ms. Longstreet was the female incarnation of Mr. Clean.

She showed me to a sofa facing a bamboo coffee table. The diva sat opposite, crossed her legs gracefully, and smiled like a python about to crush a white rat.

"You did promise to be brief."

"Yes Ma'am. Were you aware of your husband's friendship with a lady named Angie . . ." She cut me off like a meat cleaver.

"Friendship? A delicate choice of words, my dear." She paused as the storm gathered.

She leaned toward me and sneered. "Lady, my ass . . ." she snarled. "That tawdry little whore nearly ruined the perfect marriage. I hate Stuart. He hates me, but we live in blissful oblivion of each other for social and financial reasons. It actually worked until that trollop waved her well-worn cunt in his face."

The language was a bit direct coming from one of the doyennes of the Fort Lauderdale social scene, but hell hath no fury . . .

"As you know, she was the victim of a vicious homicide."

"More like the bitch got what she deserved. Actually saved Stuart's worthless ass. I was going to take the sonovabitch for every nickel he has and ever hopes to have. He'd have been lucky to afford a tent and roll of toilet tissue."

"And you discussed this with him?"

"Goddamned right. Believe me, that bastard knew."

"Knew what?"

"Oh come now, my dear . . . that I had his balls in a vice and a firm grip on the handle."

I hesitated for a moment. Where to now?

"Let me move on. Do or did you know a man named Louis Callano?"

"Please Ms. Rabow, do not insult me. Dreary little man, but quite effective. You know as well as I do that he was the pig who nailed my beloved husband for me. Photographs. You would have loved them, perhaps even recalled some fond memories for a girl like you. They would have been quite appropriate on one of those filthy porn sites on the internet. I must admit, the slant-eyed bitch had a rather voluptuous body. But if I had been there, I would have removed Stuart's dick with a rusty meat cleaver, then thrown her nasty Asian ass off the twentieth floor balcony. Now, if you please."

She looked at me like a stray mutt who'd just peed on the rug. Then she pointed to the door.

I stood on the porch a bit dumb-founded. I hadn't heard language like that since my last longshoremen's meeting. And talk about motives. I had them for not one, but two, murders. And there was the serious threat against the dearly beloved Stuart. I should have gone in wired, but hindsight is always 20-20.

Unfortunately, she'd told me nothing I didn't already know. I went back to the precinct with my tail between my legs.
Chapter 17

Ricky was sitting at his desk when I came in.

"Glad to see you, Miss Diabla. Enjoy your meeting with Cruella Deville?"

I feigned sticking my finger down my throat. He got the idea. I gave him a quick rundown. He grinned and shook his head.

"And this is the cream of South Florida society? How charming."

"So what have you been up to, my faithful Indian companion?"

"Make that Cuban companion," he said and smiled like Riccardo Montalban welcoming me to Fantasy Island. "Nothing too exciting. I've been beating the bushes for any of our local vermin who might shed some light on our latest mystery. Not much, but one of my users says there's new snow on the street that's as pure as anything the junkies have seen in a very long time. Snort it, shoot it, whatever. Sends you straight to the moon. Lots of it available, very reasonably priced. Some of it is going up north, probably by truck."

"So where's it coming from?"

"All they know is off shore. Coming in on boats. But there's too damned much of it to be small shipments like we're used to seeing. My guess is that they're moving quantities in bulk. Maybe smuggling it in on containers. Maybe even a larger craft, big commercial fisherman? Running it through Dania Beach? Hell, I don't know."

I shook my head. The cigarette boats were fast, but so obvious. Nevertheless, they didn't draw much, got in and out of all sorts of shallow coves and creeks. Quick off-loading. They were hard to track, but they usually didn't carry much. Just a few kilos could make you a very rich man if you made the run a few times. I doubted any kind of large vessel could evade both the Coasties and the DEA.

"Okay Ricky, maybe it's time to call my old pal Raoul Marquez. He told me to inform him if I had any 'pertinent information'."

"On the other hand, if they don't know about this shit, they should be working at Burger King."

I nodded as I dialed. Generic recording. 'My message was important to him, but he was not available.' The voice assured me he would return my call as soon as he received my message. I had barely put the receiver in the cradle when it sounded insistently.

"Raoul Marquez," he blurted.

I gave him the info Ricky had picked up on the street.

"Really, Detective," thick sarcasm in the voice, "who the hell do you think we are? The Keystone Cops? We've known about the cocaine for a couple of months. Your so-called snitches need to get up to speed and you guys need to get your heads out of your asses and pay attention. I guess someone has to ice one of your favorite whores to wake you up."

"Agent Marquez. Sir . . . go fuck yourself." I hammered the phone down, hoping the sonovabitch would soon need a hearing aid.

Ricky was wide-eyed.

"Dee. I know how you feel, but we may need those bastards at some time."

"Yeah and they can jump right up my ass."

He shook his head and buried his face in a file folder.

I could feel the fire in my cheeks and my stomach began to churn. He got to me, Mr. DEA fucking agent Marquez. I couldn't think. I had to calm down. It's the only way I could help Angie. She was my friend. She'd trusted me. I flashed to the lacy necklace of blood that raced around her neck, the gray pallor in her cheeks, the ice blue lips slightly parted as if to say "why?" I had to get the man with the garrote.
Chapter 18

I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. I went back to my desk. My head was beginning to clear. I was breathing normally again. I picked up a handful of files and began to sift through them. Maybe I had missed something. I heard the door to the precinct squeak open. It needed another shot of WD 40. I pulled the can out of my desk drawer. When I looked up, Harve, my so-called buddy from Internal Affairs, was standing in front of my desk flanked by two stiffs in matching gray suits and identical Peter Lorre leers.

"Dee. I need to talk to you outside." No smile, no "good to see ya", just a voice like the Grim Reaper. I stepped out into the hall.

"Please render your weapon." I checked my Glock to make sure there wasn't a round chambered. I popped the clip and handed the pistol to him butt first.

"So what's up, Harve? You read me my rights, put on the cuffs, slam the cell door behind me?"

"Come on Dee. This is tough enough as it is."

"So I'm supposed to feel sorry for you and the Bobsey twins?"

"Just come on upstairs. A few questions . . . in private. No charges, yet."

"Yet . . . Harve? So what's next? Indictment for first degree murder?"

We went upstairs and sat at a pock-marked table in a 10 x10 room with a two-way mirror on the wall. The air was fetid and the chair smelled of sweat, filth, and guilt.

I wasn't being formally charged, but I was on leave with pay indefinitely. They had my prints on the Ruger, had matched the hollow point slug in Louis's cranium with the gun, had video of me breaking into his office building, and it corresponded closely with his time of death. The Ruger had been found in my apartment. They had obtained a warrant and conducted a perfectly legal search and seizure. Damned tight case if it went before a jury.

I didn't say much. It wouldn't have made any difference. I was now a cop without a badge. No authority, no legal firearm, no resources but myself. And I wasn't sure that was enough.

I had been set up. I remembered that day in the evidence room and mentally kicked myself in the ass. Why didn't I report the gun missing? Stupid strikes again. And who the hell had access to my apartment?

I was escorted out of the building by the twin gray suits. I caught a cab back to the apartment. There was a note on the door from sweet Ms. Medford reminding me that I had two weeks to vacate. Great. I sat down at the kitchen table and poured a belt of Jameson straight up. I thought about calling Ricky, but I was sure they were watching him, too. Just because my ass was in a sling didn't mean he had to join me on the swing set.
Chapter 19

I slogged some of the hot Irish. I gritted my teeth as it fired down my throat. Then I grabbed my spiral notebook, a pen, and began to write.

Someone had made me the fall guy for Callano's murder. Obviously they needed me out of the way. That meant I must be closer than I thought to something big and ugly. I listed the players: Angie, Stuart Longstreet, the lovely Miss Nancy, Triple D, Mustapha, the late Louie Callano. I hesitated a minute, then added Raoul Marquez.

So who had been in my apartment? I called Ms. Medford. If anyone knew it could well be my sweet busy body landlord. She answered and I identified myself.

"Yes, dear. So good to hear from you. Are you moving?" she asked hopefully.

"Well, I am certainly looking," I lied. "By the way, has anyone been in my apartment without my knowledge in the last few days?"

"Only those people with the warrant. Oh . . . and that handsome Cuban boy came by. I forget his name. He said it was police business. I let him in. You know him. He's been here before."

Holy shit . . . it had to be Ricky or some gorgeous Cuban clone.

"Thank you, Ms. Medford."

"Yes, dear, and if you find something, let me know immediately. I am sure we can work it out, possibly pro-rate this month's rent if you can find another place quickly." Strong emphasis on the word "quickly".

Translation: I was serious persona non grata. Get out as fast as you can.

So did I need to put Ricky on my list of potential bad guys? Good God, I hope not. He was the only one I could trust. There had to be a legitimate reason, but why hadn't he told me? Things had been moving so fast. It was probably nothing, but I'm not a big believer in coincidence. Not many cops are.

I went back to my notes. A very wise man once said, "Follow the money". The Longstreets were definitely in over their heads. The house, the boat, the cars . . . all in hock. Cocaine meant lots of cash, especially in the amounts being smuggled in. Mustapha had a long history of involvement in illegal trade in anything that lined his pockets. A few killings along the way . . . what's the dif as long as the big bucks flowed?

I still couldn't put it all together. As the Irish invaded my body, I was suddenly very sleepy. I glanced at the clock. It was only two P.M. What the hell, I was on vacation even if it wasn't planned or wanted. Maybe I'd dream about Hot Rod.

The phone rang about six. Four hours of good sleep, unfortunately, no Hot Rod.

The voice on the other end was cool, but distinctive.

"Detective, I have a great deal of information for you. I know who killed Mr. Callano. I also have the files. Please meet me at that despicable bar you frequent tomorrow afternoon at four. By the way, the luncheon was simply fabulous." She hung up before I could answer.

A killer, the files. She could only mean the files that were stolen from Louie's office. I would damned sure be at Bugsy's at four the next day. Meanwhile, I had some time to smoke it all over for the hundredth time. I wondered if the old Focus I had parked in the lot down the street still started. I had been using the unmarked for a month or so. I walked down the block and the damned thing fired up immediately. I grabbed a burrito and drove for a while just to charge the battery and think. Nothing helped much. About eight, I was back under the covers with a glass of Cabernet and Anderson Cooper bleating some inane chatter about the seriously lousy state of the Middle East. No news there. I slept nearly round the clock.

Not much in the paper. The Taliban had blown up some more women and children at a shopping mall in Kabul. All for the glory of Allah, no doubt. Our magnificent President was doing a two-step on the Syrian rebels and the Supreme Court had decided that the obscenely rich shouldn't have their free speech restricted. Translation: They could buy as many votes as they wanted with huge campaign contributions. Sweet Nancy was on the front page of the society section kissing the cheek of some beneficent supporter of symphonic harmonies. The best part of the paper was the comics, although sometimes it was hard to tell which was which.

No calls the rest of the day. I was nervous and fidgety and I missed my bosom buddy, Mr. Glock. I went to the closet and pulled a shoe box from the floor. I removed the black stilettos and the false bottom. There was another old friend, my Smith and Wesson .38 revolver resting comfortably in the ankle holster. It was oiled and loaded. I pulled back the hammer and tested the weight with my outstretched arm. The cylinder spun like a Swiss watch. I didn't think I'd need it, but it always felt warm strapped to my leg.

I was at Bugsy's at 3:45. I took the table in the back, ordered a double of Jameson with a water chaser, and waited. I checked my watch at 4:30. It looked like my best girlfriend had stood me up. I was debating how much longer to wait when another old buddy sauntered in. I caressed the butt of the S and W at my ankle.

"You vud allow me de pleasure of sitting vid you for a moment. Mrs. Longstreet has been unavoidably detained."

Triple D, always the gentleman. He sat before I could respond. The huge head and shoulders blocked out the sky and his golden hair was perfect, just like Warren Zevon's "Werewolves of London". He placed his massive hands on the table. With the scars, they looked like two gnarled oak roots breaking ground. I knew they'd tried to break me.

"Not to vorry. I stay but a moment. I understand you are no longer active in police investigation. It is gud for you. Enjoy and remember . . . you haf been warned. If we meet again, it vill not be pleasant for you."

I thought about shooting the sonovabitch right there, but I didn't want to mess up Bugsy's fine upholstery and I figured the blood would stain the floor.

He nodded politely and rumbled out the door. I finished the Irish, waved to Bugsy and went home. I scanned the news channels, but nothing remarkable came up. Maybe local at six. I poured a glass of Cab and rooted through the refrigerator for anything that might resemble real food.

What the hell. Cheerios and a half-rotten banana would have to do. Sure enough, Sweet Nancy appeared right on schedule. The gorgeous blond newscaster tried hard to look sad and astonished at the same time.

"Prominent Ft. Lauderdale socialite, Ms. Nancy Longstreet was killed at 3:00 this afternoon in a hit and run at the corner of Las Olas Boulevard and US 1A. Our cameraman was on the scene within moments."

They showed footage of her black Mercedes. It was crushed like a Tonka toy. The rear was smashed almost flat up to the back seat and the driver's side door had crumpled into the front seat.

"According to an eye witness, a white van had rammed her car at high speed from behind, pushing it into the intersection. Then a large blue pickup hit her broadside at full speed, crushing the passenger door. Ms. Longstreet, who reportedly never wore a seatbelt, was killed instantly. Both drivers exited and disappeared in the beach crowd. Police are withholding further information as the crash is currently being investigated as a homicide. Tune in at eleven for further details. Now in other news . . ."

That was all the news I needed. "Unavoidably detained . . ." those words hung in my ears. Yeah . . . it was unavoidable. She was dead and Triple D knew it almost before it happened. I racked my brain trying to think who I could trust at the precinct to funnel me some information. The murder, I was sure that's what it was, happened not far from Bugsy's Last Resort. She might even have been on her way to our meeting. Did she have the files with her? Who had them now? Who had she talked to in the last twenty-four hours? I made a mental list of suspects: Stuart, Stuart, and Stuart. Certainly my wrestling buddy was involved, but he was just under orders. Mustapha. I knew the bastard was involved. I just wasn't sure how. One thing I did know. He was a stone killer whether he was the one actually pulling the trigger or not.
Chapter 20

I was bored shitless. I tried to find things to fiddle away the morning. I checked the TV. Nothing new on the demise of the diva. I swished some Comet through the sinks and the toilets. At least they smelled a little better. I transferred a pile of dirty clothes from the floor to the laundry basket. Satiated my neatness gene. Checked the fridge for any traces of food that was remotely edible. No luck.

Hell, I had to eat. That wasn't going to happen unless I slid out of my stained T-shirt and donned something presentable so the outside world wouldn't mistake me for that dotty old lady who rattled the grocery cart past my building every day.

The sad fact was that without my badge and my gun, I felt like Wonder Woman without the wonder. I was never much for domestic activities. I wasn't spaced out on drugs like the old days. I wasn't a dancer anymore, even though I still had the tits and ass for it. I was a cop and, I hoped, a good one. But my copness had been cut-off with my suspension. I was not only powerless, but I felt damned near useless. I am not big on crying, but I began to feel a little weepy. The "Poor Little Me" syndrome was whining in my breast. I filled my lungs with air. Then the muscles in my face contorted. Was I still the tough broad or a candidate for the Little Sisters of the Poor? I hopped up off the sofa and said out loud, "Shut up, you stupid bitch. Get off your ass and do something."

I threw on a pair of runner's pants and a matching top. Then I dragged a brush through my hair, even slapped on a little lipstick. Hell, I was hungry. A Daily Double of eggs and pancakes at Bruno's Breakfast Spot would bring me back from the dead. At least in theory.

I pulled the door open and a manila envelope fell at my feet. There was no address or label. My curiosity was killing me, but so was my hunger. I locked the door and made for Bruno's. The coffee was hot, thick and rich and so was the packet. Full copies of the police report on Ms. Longstreet's accident and another letter sized envelope with three sheets of folded paper and some candids. On the top, the name Stuart Longstreet printed with a black Sharpie. Names, dates, notes in the margin, even photos. All the work of a private detective who was supposedly murdered by yours truly.

I smiled at the server and probably drooled a bit. "Daily Double," I said politely and smiled.

I looked at the files. It was a tough decision, but I decided to start with the police report. On the top of the first sheet was a note scrawled in pencil. "Still got your back, Babe." No signature and I couldn't recognize the handwriting. Ricky . . . maybe Harve? I didn't know, but it felt good to realize at least someone at the department was still on my side.

There wasn't much in the official report that I didn't already know. It was clear that the boys at the precinct were convinced it was a homicide. Apparently the steering wheel was embedded in Nancy's chest. They had to cut it out to remove her from the vehicle. The lady didn't like seatbelts, but I doubted that would have saved her. Both the pick-up and the van that nailed her had been reported stolen earlier that morning. Forensics was still evaluating the evidence taken from the crime scene. No suspects. Still, I knew who to put my money on.

There were five eyewitnesses, but it had happened so fast and the scene was so horrific that they were damned near in shock. The various descriptions of the driver could have matched a parade of pedestrians on any city street in Florida.

I sipped my coffee and stared out the window. The warmth of the full-bodied scent lay on my cheeks and drifted gently into my nostrils. The plate arrived. Eggs, pancakes, four fat bacon slices and a side of home fries. I guess I gobbled. Bruno's Daily Double had done the trick. My belly was full and my senses were sharp.

The report was thorough, but I still had some things pricking my skin like a bad rash and it all started and ended with Commander Stuart Longstreet. He was the one thing missing from the report. I decided to walk back to my apartment before I opened Callano's file. I wanted to let the info seep into my brain before I dared to make my next move. I reminded myself that someone had tried to kill me. If I hadn't been wearing that damned scarf, he would have pulled it off quite nicely. No more Diabla, no more tough broad. Maybe some wouldn't think that was such a great loss.

I reached home and spread the file out on the kitchen table. One spot glared at me. It reminded me of the neat little hole in Louie's head. Louie was a creep, but he wasn't stupid.

Someone he knew or trusted had gotten close enough to put the barrel within six inches of his head. Maybe the file would help me find out who.

The pages contained several reports of rendezvous between Stuart and Angie. Some at her penthouse, a few at motels just out of the local area and more than one at quiet little restaurants mostly north of Ft. Lauderdale. He was seeing her on a regular schedule, usually Monday and Thursday nights, with the occasional weekend thrown in. Probably when Ms. Longstreet was out of town on some mission of mercy. It all jived with the info I'd gotten from Stuart and from her, before her violent demise.

The photos were underneath the pile of papers. One candlelit supper in a nameless restaurant, Stuart and Angie staring into each other's eyes like something off a 50's movie poster. One somewhat dark encounter, probably in a motel room, their naked bodies entwined like two crazed animals. A few more that would have to qualify as circumstantial evidence.

The one on the bottom of the stack was the shocker. The entrance to Angie's building in the background. Stuart's Mercedes in a lined parking space. Two men exiting the car. One was obviously Stuart. The other was a bit blurred, harder to make out. Still, I knew that shape, and the luxurious blood hair. I didn't need to see the face. I had already seen it much too close, heard the voice, understood that I "had been warned." My old pal, Triple D. I pinched my lip between my thumb and forefinger and shuddered. Noxious poison spit into my spine.

It was still early, but I poured a shot of Jameson. Commander Stuart Longstreet and the Deadly Dutch Destroyer. What the hell were they doing together at Angie's place? I knew they'd both been there before, but together? My mind was like a whirlpool. There was all sorts of debris being swept up into a black maw. Some of it was garbage, but some of it was straining to connect.

The men, the gun, the dope, the spurned wife. It made a crazy kind of sense, but too many pieces of the puzzle were still missing. I made a quick decision.

"I'd like to speak to Commandant Longstreet."

"He is out of the office due to family matters. May I take a message?"

I gave her my home and cell numbers, not expecting any response from the grieving husband, but within a half hour the cell rang.

"Dee, its Stuart. This has to end. I hated her, but I didn't want her dead. They've gone too far. Palm Point. Tonight. Up the New river. Somewhere around two A.M. Bring someone you can trust and make sure you're packing. I'll be there on SUGAR GIRL. Be careful. Your phone is probably tapped. They may know. Hell, they know everything else."

The phone went dead.

They, they, they. Who the hell were 'they'? Why SUGAR GIRL? Who had the juice to tap my phones? I'm supposed to be a pro. Why couldn't I figure this out? I reached for my 38. It was cold and hard in my hand. Would it protect me? Who could I trust?
Chapter 21

I knew Palm Point. It was way up the river past what used to be Summerfield Boatyard, now high rise condos, of course, like everything else in Ft. Lauderdale. There was a dirt road that led to part of an old plantation that grew several varieties of palm trees. No way I could take a car in there. One way in, one way out. I'd be spotted before I made the turn off of the main highway.

I needed a boat. I didn't have one and I doubted that the authorities would be sympathetic to a midnight rendezvous that might involve gunfire from a suspended detective. I racked my brain. Then I remembered Uncle Teddy.

He was a friend of Dad's, another old North Carolina boy with sea salt in his veins. After several bouts with a nasty form of leukemia, he had retired on GREAT GESTURE, his old Pearson 365. He lived aboard at Cooley's Landing, spending what were probably his last days in the Florida sun. I hadn't seen him in a while, but it was time.

I didn't even know if he had a phone, so I hopped into my old Focus and drove along the river through town. I parked in front of his slip. He was topsides sanding the teak toe rail. I glanced at his torso. He was still solid, but the scars on his chest looked like the roadmap to hell. When he heard the car door slam, he looked in my direction. A smile as big as a sunrise broke across his face.

"Angel," he cried, "you're a sweet sight for this old bastard's eyes. Come aboard."

I stepped onto the deck and hugged his sweaty hulk. Sure enough, there was a gray Achilles inflatable with a shiny 8 horse Tohatsu tugging at the painter cleated to his boat.

"Come on below. The AC is cranking out some cool. I might even be able to find an icy beverage for you." He winked and laughed.

It was even chilly below, but the cabin was immaculate. Teak oiled, table white, sink shiny, not a speck of dust anywhere to be seen. The hull strained lightly at her lines. If I knew Uncle Teddy, the engine room looked the same. Another case of beer and GREAT GESTURE could leave for the Bahamas tonight. He popped open a couple of Kaliks and put one in my willing palm.

He asked about Dad, T.K., Chris and all of the other Key West dock rats. I didn't have much, but what I did made his eyes sparkle and his mouth turn up at the corners.

"So what's with you, Angel?"

"Not much, Uncle Teddy, but I do need a favor."

"You name it, you got it," he thundered and grinned.

"Is your dinghy serviceable? I mean running good and all that stuff."

"Honey, you know the answer to that question. If it's on GREAT GESTURE, it works, or I fix it. She's as sound as the day I bought her and she will be until they dump my sorry ass overboard."

"Well I need a boat for a day or so and I think the Achilles would be perfect. Can I pick her up around dark?"

"I'm not gonna ask why you need a dinghy around dark. I figure you'd tell me if I need to know. But I'll double check the Tohatsu and make sure there is plenty of fuel in the tank. I got barbecue and cocktails down the dock with a couple of old bilge rats this evening. You just come on by and take her when it suits you. Bring her back when you finish. You never know. I may have one last cruise in me." He smiled and patted my shoulder with his sweaty hand.

"Thanks, Uncle Teddy, I'll have her back by tomorrow noon."

"You take care of yourself, Miss."

I nodded. He gave me one more hug and I headed back to the apartment.

I took a slight detour and rode down Poinciana. Stuart's Mercedes was in the driveway, but SUGAR GIRL was out of the slip. Fishing trip . . .? Maybe.

Okay, one immediate problem solved, one more to go. Trust . . . a word we all use, but seldom understand. Like a lot of other things, it's more complicated and convoluted than most of us can imagine. It's the eternal skeptic buried deep within us. Maybe not our best part, but one that protects us . . . and sometimes keeps us alive. Dad once told me there was only one thing you could completely trust. People will act in their own self-interest. He was right, but there were times when you had to take your best shot. Mine was Ricky. He'd saved my ass more than once. I had to bet he would again.

I dialed his cell.

"Can you meet me at Cooley's Landing at eight this evening?"

"Anything for you, Babe."

"Wear boat shoes and bring a friend."

I hung up. I knew Ricky's friend would be a Glock.
Chapter 22

About six, I ate a tuna fish sandwich and some stale Saltines. I followed it up with a glass of cheap Cabernet. Nothing like a gourmet meal for the ultimate detective in disgrace.

I slipped into my black jeans and topped them off with a black long sleeved t-shirt. I stuffed my hair up under a black watch cap. Dark brown topsiders completed the costume. I stared into the full-length mirror. Looking back was one of those ninjas from an old Bruce Lee movie. I strapped on my shoulder holster and slid my Smith and Wesson .38 into the supple leather. I was ready. At least that's what I told myself.

I started out the door and then remembered one more item that could come in handy. I went back to the bedroom and pulled open the bottom dresser drawer. I gripped the six-inch switchblade and stared for a moment at the black skull engraved into the pale bone handle. I'd picked it up at a crime scene. Some perp who wanted to carve up a drug dealer who'd crossed him. Not exactly protocol for a by-the-book cop, but it looked handy at close quarters. I tried the release. The blade snapped to attention and flashed a demonic grin. Sharp and deadly. I stuffed it into my bra, just below my left breast. The cold steel gave me a momentary twinge. Nevertheless, it was an extra edge I might need.

There wasn't much of a moon when I pulled into the parking lot. I was glad. I didn't want to be seen or heard unless absolutely necessary. Ricky was right on time. The Cadillac XLR was gleaming as usual. Ricky had followed my lead, all in black with the Glock clipped to his belt.

Uncle Teddy's Achilles was bobbing lazily at the dock. There was no wind and the humidity had to be near 100%. I figured there could be light fog before the morning. That wouldn't be all bad.

I was afraid the play would get rough before the end of the night, but we boarded and fired up the Tohatsu. She purred quietly, eager to get out into the river. Ricky guided the inflatable up past the landing while I sat on the bow. We went under a couple of draw bridges then pulled over in a small basin and tied to a private dock. It was near ten and the mist had begun to set in. We waited. There was still a lot of light from the houses and street lamps, but it had a eerie glow to it in the moist air. We had good cover from the nearby mangroves and a clear view of the river channel.

It was just after midnight when I heard the rumbling of the huge twin diesels. SUGAR GIRL's milk white hull glided past like a determined ghost shimmering in the glow of the ambient light. We waited until she was almost out of sight. We hugged the banks, following her up past the last of the glittering condos. I knew Palm Point was just ahead.

When I turned to motion to Ricky, I saw the dull glint of the Glock shoved right up in my face.
Chapter 23

"Hand over the S&W, butt first."

It wasn't a request. I slipped the .38 out of the holster and followed his instructions. I heard the splash as he threw the revolver into the murky water.

"I'm sorry, Dee," he whispered, "you're too damned close. I wish we could just buy you off and you'd move out of the country, or at least to another state. But I know you too well, Diabla. Once you lock in, you don't let go. You'd have my ass and everyone else in the joint with the really bad guys."

"How about you, Ricky? You sure you're not one of them?"

He didn't answer.

"So you gonna kill me?"

"They want me to, but no. I told them I won't do it. We're partners. I can't forget that. But someone else probably will. I'll ask 'em to make it as quick and painless as it can be."

"Why, Ricky?"

"I wish I could answer that. Maybe the stuff . . . the Armani, the Caddy, the Dom Perignon . . . I got used to it. And Baby, that sweet, fine coke'll give you a high that sets you and the lady of the moment off the planet for days."

"Who's the 'they', Ricky?"

"You've seen my paycheck. Hell . . . for that I work seventy hours a week and get shot at? There's no Miami real estate. Never was. My dad was a shop keeper, barely had two dimes to rub together. All of a sudden here comes Mr. Mustapha. Sends me a gift or two through one of the girls on the street. At first I say no, but when an envelope arrives with five c notes, I keep thinking about those alligator loafers I got my eye on. Next thing I know, Triple D shows up with a message. They got me by the short hairs. I'm trapped. Might as well enjoy it. I gotta tell you, Dee, I have. Life's a merry-go-round and I've got the lead horse. I could still work a deal for you. Please let me bail you out. Give me the word. You always liked the good stuff."

"No, Ricky. I know too much about the real cost of all that shit, the pain, the scars. The girls pay in flesh and blood. It's too damned ugly. Do what you have to do."

"It hurts me, Dee. You gotta believe that. Think about it. I'm giving you a chance. It's your last one. "

He bumped the dinghy into the weathered boards of Palm Point dock. Four burly men were unloading wooden crates from SUGAR GIRL. I didn't have to guess what they contained. Triple D was occupying a large area at the end of the dock. Standing next to him was a short, dark, squat man that resembled a tanned fire hydrant. He smiled when I stepped up onto the wooden platform. I hadn't seen M in quite some time and he sported a shiny gold tooth on the left side of his mouth. New addition, I guess. His eyes bore into me like a dentist's drill.

Ricky had the Glock punched onto the center of my back. Three D looked like a block of granite. He gave me his most charming glare. The scratches I had left on his face were healing, but still pink. I hoped there would be a scar.

"So good to see you again, Detective. I haf vaited for dis moment for long time." He pulled a strand of piano wire out of his pocket. The silver shown in the dim lights on the platform. There was a small dowel attached to either end. All the better to choke you with, my dear. Of course, he'd already tried that once.

Mustapha gave me a courtly nod. Then he spoke, his voice somber like the pastor at a wake.

"Take her. We must remember our promise. Quick and painless . . . perhaps not too painless, but quick nevertheless. I will be there in a moment. I want to watch, smell her fear, and hear her gasp for breath."

Ricky looked at me expectantly. He still wanted the word from me. I couldn't do it. The sweat crawled down my neck and matted to my shirt. Three D clamped down on my arm and shoved me toward a space beyond a shed on the corner of the platform. A sliver of light shown through the dusty window. Beyond it was my final darkness.

"Some vork I like more dan others. This vill be one." Three D sounded almost jovial. His fingers dug into my arm like vise grips.

I had to keep my head. I was seconds from feeling the silver wire slicing into my neck and cutting off the precious air that kept me alive.

At that moment, the door creaked open and Stuart stepped out. He glanced at my terror and shook his head just once. His face was drawn and gray in the dim light, a look of grim resignation in his eyes. I noticed a 45 stuffed in his belt. Coast Guard issue, no doubt.

It was over. I was walking dead. Still, I felt a pinch under my left breast, something cold and lethal, my last shot. I tried to twist my arm away from Three D, but he held me in a death grip. I reached into my shirt and the switch blade found my hand. A quick click and the vicious steel flashed in the light.

"For Angie," I whispered.

I turned and drove the six inch blade low and deep into his gut. He gasped. I jerked the sharp naked edge up until it slammed into his sternum. It was like running a steak knife through prime beef. He staggered and backed away. His hand went to the wound, but it was too big. I could see the pink of his intestines trying to escape his belly. The blood ran in a river and dripped onto the aging timber. He took another giant breath and lunged at me, but he was too slow. I feinted right and broke to the left. He collapsed, whining like a run over dog on the side of the road.

I turned and Stuart was pointing the .45 at my face. Then I heard the blades chopping at the thick night air. Then there was a flash of dancing light. The voice seemed to come from God, himself.

"This is the United States Drug Enforcement Agency. You are surrounded. Lay down your weapons and hit the ground. Place your hands behind your back. I repeat, you are surrounded."

There was scrambling all around. Some of the men unloading the coke broke for the bushes. I heard a few shots and a burst of automatic fire. An outboard fired up. I looked at Stuart. He steadied his aim at my face. A .45 slug would blast my head completely off of my body. He looked at me for a moment. He was weeping. The sad eyes said "not again." Then he raised the semi-automatic and fired two shots into the air. There was the deadly report of an M-16 and he collapsed in a lump not six feet from me. He didn't move.

Raoul Marquez came out of the shadows scanning the area with his Beretta. Next to him was Hot Rod, gun in hand. He came over to me and put his arm around my shoulder.

"You're okay. We got it under control."

I tell myself I don't cry, but I did.

There were a few random gunshots. Then it was eerily quiet. I spotted a few bodies on the ground, some of them alive, waiting for the cuffs. Others quite dead, staining the boards with black blood. Raoul escorted Ricky to me. He was cuffed, a rip exposing his shoulder behind the black silk.

"I'm sorry, Dee. I was gonna try to stop them.That's all I can tell you. I'm sorry."

I stared for a moment and bit my lower lip. Sorry didn't plug the hole in my heart. A moment later, I heard the doors of a police van snap shut.

I scanned the scene. Stuart was dead. Three D was bleeding out. Ricky was in custody. Mustapha was nowhere in sight. Probably gone in the dinghy.

The fog had dropped down on the docks like a shroud.

I heard Hot Rod's voice out of a vacuum. "She's done. I'll take her home. We can debrief in the morning." He took my arm and guided me gently to his car.
Chapter 24

We sat at the kitchen table. I washed out a couple of glasses and poured both of us a generous portion of Jameson. No conversation. Just an abiding sense of terror I couldn't dismiss, and more than a bit of relief.

I made the water as hot as I could stand it and stayed in the shower trying to scrape the crawling hell of death off my skin. I didn't think about Ricky. I wasn't ready for that. The reality of betrayal swelled within me, but I fought to keep it from invading my mind or my spirit.

My skin was nearly raw and it began to burn. I had been in the stall forever. Then I heard the bathroom door ease open.

Through the steamy shower door I saw Hot Rod pull his sweaty shirt over his head and slide out of his jeans. He entered in silence. His body was taut every muscle rippling into the next. A hint of curly hair nestled in the center of his chest. I noticed a jagged scar on his left shoulder that hadn't appeared before. He began to massage my neck, then moved down to the middle of my back. His strong fingers kneaded the tight muscles. He pressed against me and I felt the insistent surge of his manhood against my back. The sweet hint of the Irish permeated his breath as his tongue dove into my mouth. The tension began to melt.

He wanted me, but he was patient. A part of me wanted him, but I couldn't make love. Too many grisly images dominated my consciousness. Nevertheless, I would remember. I'd make him okay, but it couldn't be now.

I slept, but not for long.

We were in the DEA office by nine. I told my story to Raoul Marquez and another agent who was never formally introduced. It was all recorded. They already knew it, but they asked lots of questions I thought I had already answered. They fueled me with coffee that tasted like warm battery acid. The whole process took most of the morning. I was tired and recounting the nightmarish events sent my stomach into a rampage. In my mind, I felt the blade slam into 3 D's sternum and saw the look of emptiness on Stuart's face before he was riddled with rifle fire. The blood engulfed me once again. I kept reminding myself it was over, but I guess I was lying to myself. Those kinds of scars, the ones left by fear, betrayal and brutal violence, don't fade quickly.

There were a couple of questions I needed answered.

"Who murdered Callano?"

Marquez placed his palms together and made a steeple with his fingers.

"We're pretty sure it was Longstreet, but since his 'suicide by cop', we may never nail it. And you want to know about Mustapha. I told you we'd been watching. We knew he was involved, and we had Triple D made early. We now know that he killed your friend, Angie, and Nancy Longstreet. But we had to piece together the rest of the details. Ricky didn't come into the picture until late. I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid it would blow the whole operation. He actually supplied us with some important information, but we never knew which side he would eventually come down on."

I dropped my chin and my guts churned. Ricky? I couldn't get my mind around it. At least he couldn't kill me, but was he going to stand by while Three D did? I couldn't be sure. I sucked in a breath and buried it for the time being.

"So why set me up for the Callano killing?"

"Sorry about that. We needed to get you off the case. You're too damned good at what you do, Detective. You were close enough to potentially screw up our investigation. We also figured it might make the bad guys relax just a bit."

I wasn't sure whether to thank him or throw the crappy coffee in his face.

I told Marquez about the call I got from Stuart.

"Yeah, we had you tapped," he said. "I think Nancy's murder drove him over the edge. He got real crazy after that."

Finally everything began to make sense, but where was the prick that masterminded it all? They found Uncle Teddy's inflatable drifting down river on an outgoing tide. Mustapha had gone ashore somewhere and eluded the search. I couldn't believe that bastard had escaped again, but I had to admit he had a lot more brains than I wanted to give him credit for.

Finally, they released me and I headed back to the precinct to talk to Captain Sullivan, my supervisor. I knocked lightly on the glass. He nodded, but he didn't smile. He motioned me into the office and pointed at a chair.

Sullivan was an old-school Irish cop. Nothing stylish or jaunty about him, just a straight forward by-the-book guy who hated crime and injustice. He looked at me and bit his lip. The last time I'd seen him in this kind of mood, I knew I didn't want to see it again.

"Shut the door."

I did.

"I know why you're here, Detective. I know what happened last night and I know what should happen today. Internal Affairs has dropped their investigation of your connection to the Callano murder. You should be reinstated and your badge and gun should be returned. Maybe even a commendation. I should put you back on the duty roster and all this should be forgotten. But it's not gonna happen."

I hesitated for a moment. I shook my head and looked at this man whom I respected. He tapped his knuckles on the desk. His chair squeaked as he squirmed in the chair. I raised my palms, shrugged my shoulders and waited.

"I tried, Dee. There's not a damned thing I can do. You're a good cop. I know that and so does everyone who's ever worked with you. But you're also a loose cannon. You don't always follow procedure and you damned sure don't ask when you get a wild hair up your ass. The boys upstairs see you as a liability, the incarnation of political incorrectness. They're afraid of you, Dee, no matter how good a cop you are. You're Diabla, the she-devil."

"So no reinstatement?"

"Sorry, Dee. Not even a damned desk job."
Chapter 25

I guess the joke was on me. See the lady detective. Watch her chase her own tail. See her framed for murder. See her partner set her up to be strangled. See her shit out of luck.

No job. No cash. Ms. Medford giving me the evil eye. How the hell could it get any worse?

I was about to find out.

I spent the evening and the next day feeling extremely sorry for myself. Even good Irish whiskey didn't help. I read the paper, spilled coffee on my sleep shirt, ate a raisin bagel infested with green mold, and watched day-time T.V. That was enough to make me contemplate suicide. To add insult to injury, the local news reported that Ricky had been released on bond. Something about his own recognizance because of the outstanding record of a decorated cop and the assistance he had rendered the authorities. Yeah, and I was damned near decorated in blood by Three D's adorable little garrote.

I hadn't even changed my shirt. By late afternoon I was beginning to smell myself. The cops had returned Uncle Teddy's dinghy, but I hadn't had a chance to thank him in person. I figured if I needed more whiskey, a shoulder to cry on, and a healthy dollop of wisdom, he was the man and GREAT GESTURE was the place.

I spilled into the shower and did the scrubbing thing again. I was still shell-shocked, but I did fell a little better. I didn't worry about the makeup, but I did spruce up with a shot of body spray. It was dark by the time I got to Cooley's Landing. I parked my heap and walked over to the graceful old Pearson. The lights were on below and I could hear the soft tone of the Temptations celebrating the sunshine of "My Girl".

I knocked on the hull and heard someone mumble, "Come aboard".

The boat heeled slightly as I stepped up onto the fiberglass deck. I was about to make my way below when I saw the blood. It trailed down Uncle Teddy's face and pooled on the seat cushion. He was slumped, deadly still, in the corner of the settee. I rushed into the cabin and placed my hand on his breast.

Suddenly I felt something hard and cold pressed into my spine.

"Slowly, Detective. Very slowly."

My neck tightened and a trace of sweat slid over my brow.

"It is twice now you have foiled a very efficient and lucrative plan, but it is the last time. You could have been in Brazil at Carnavale or lolling on some beach on the Riviera, your petty financial worries behind you. But you insist on defying Mustapha. It is a bad policy . . . one that is leading to your impending demise. It will be quick, but not very pretty. The water is cold and the crabs are hungry. Consider it your contribution to the ecology."

The hammer clicked and the barrel pressed harder into my back.

"The old man is still alive. I will not shoot him, but you must come with me quietly if you wish him to continue to breathe."

Uncle Teddy was stirring slightly, but he seemed semi-comatose. I glanced around the cabin. Nothing I could use as a weapon even if I was quick enough to escape a bullet from my pal Mr. M. He prodded me back toward the companionway, boring the steel into my kidney. I was leaving Teddy bleeding on the salon, but I had no choice. I knew that once I was in the cockpit, a bullet would find its way into my back and I'd take my last swim.

I took a step up and caught a flicker of movement on the dock. Then GREAT GESTURE rocked slowly. I head a shuffle behind me. Uncle Teddy was pointing a flare gun at Mustapha's back.

He grunted. Mustapha whirled and an emergency flare lit up his belly. He howled and slapped at the hot phosphorus and flames that engulfed him. I bolted up the steps and waited for the burning man to make for the water. He stopped for a moment. His flesh seemed to be melting like hot wax. I thought he smiled. Then in the midst of his agony, he pointed a .45 right at my face.

"How fitting. We go together," he growled as he gasped for breath.

He fingered the trigger. Then there was a loud thud as a shadow buried its shoulder into Mustapha's back. I hit the deck and heard a deafening explosion just above my head. Mustapha and the shadow tumbled over the lifelines and into the darkness. I heard the hissing as the inferno hit the water and watched the orange hell glow as the monster settled into the muddy bottom. The body rose again, still steaming, and floated on the tide up the river.

I rushed below. Uncle Teddy was on his belly unconscious, the flare gun still in his hand. I spoke softly to him and raised him onto the settee. He opened his eyes slowly.

"Hot time in the old town tonight," he mumbled and smiled. His breathing seemed normal. I dialed 911, but I was sure he'd be okay.

I sat down and waited. I heard splashing and the shadow came up the boarding ladder. He shook like a wet dog and stepped to the companionway. His silk shirt was melted over his chest and his hair was slicked back from the water of the ICW. He grinned.

"Couldn't let it happen. Once was enough. I got lucky the first time. This time I made my own luck."

"And mine, too," I whispered.

I stepped forward and hugged the wet shadow.

Chapter 26

I waited for days to hear from Rod. It seemed like months. I was ready to fulfill my promise and make him forget that horrible night I had put him off. Still, I knew he understood. What I didn't understand was why he hadn't taken me up on the rain check. If nothing else, we'd had some damned good sex. The phone finally did ring. I kind of wish it hadn't.

"Dee?" I knew the voice immediately.

I was already breathing hard and there was a longing between my legs.

"I'm sorry, Dee. I didn't want to do this on the phone, but I have to be careful. I just can't . . . I mean it won't work with us. You know what I'm doing in the fall. Everyone will be watching. I've got be ready."

"Yeah, you do. I guess I'm baggage. Very heavy and very dirty."

"No . . . I mean . . . "

"I know what you mean, Rod."

I hung up. The man was ambitious. Maybe our next senator from Florida. Running around with an ex-stripper, call girl and disgraced cop could put us on the cover of THE NATIONAL EQUIRER. We'd be front page news in every grocery store in the country. He couldn't afford the risk. Hell, it's every man . . . and every woman . . . for herself. I cried, but not too much. I remembered Dad's wise words. "The only thing you can trust is that each person will act in his own self-interests". So it goes.

What to do now? I still had to make a buck and keep myself off the streets. At first I had a tough time figuring it out. The only things I was good at were pole dancing and hooking. I sure wasn't going back to the strip clubs and hooking -- at least the kind I was doing -- has a lousy retirement system. I was no longer a cop, at least not the public kind. Actually it didn't take me that long.

The answer was sort of obvious. I'm a hooker again, just a different sort of client. Got my license, rented a small office and looked for someone I could trust. The name's on the door in WalMart stick on letters.

DEE RABOW

PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

I am sitting across the desk from an old friend. You're gonna tell me I'm crazy. But we already knew that, didn't we?

My old friend? His name's on the door, too. Ricky Fuenes, crooked cop, knight in white armor, old partner, new partner, the guy who thought about killing me, the guy who wouldn't let me die. Hey, it makes sense to me.

Now if we can just get a damned case or two.
