A Bullet for Carlos (37 page)

Carlos called on his phone for the driver to pick them up, and Carlos and Mena got in the back seat. “Take us to Mena’s house. And call Tico or Roberto and tell them to pick you up. I will drive home myself.”

Mena shot a questioning glance at him. “You will be staying?”

“I was hoping we could…talk some,” Carlos said. “Is there something wrong with that?”

Her eyes showed panic, perhaps fear. “No…it’s just…never mind.”

Throughout the drive to her house, Carlos remained silent. The driver pulled to the curb in front of her home, a nice ranch house set in a lovely subdivision, and quickly opened the back door for them. He handed the keys to Carlos as he exited.

“Anything else before I go, señor?”

“Tell Tico we’ll meet after breakfast.”

“Si, señor.”

Carlos walked alongside of Mena, holding her wrap as she unlocked the door.

She stepped in, turned on the light in the entrance hall and took her wrap to hang in the closet. “Would you like something to drink?” her voice reflected nervousness.

“Do you live alone?” he asked, looking around the house as he followed her to the kitchen.

“Yes.”

She answered quickly,
he thought.
Perhaps a lie.

She put water in a tea kettle and turned it on. “Would you like coffee or tea?”

“Wine.”

Mena turned off the kettle, crossed the room, and pulled a bottle of Garnacha from a rack next to the refrigerator. “I like this one. I hope you do.” She got the corkscrew, but Carlos took it from her before she could use it.

“I’ll get this while you change.”

“Change?”

“I thought you would want to be more comfortable. You should shower, too.”

Mena glanced at him then left the room.

Carlos poured two glasses of wine, then found his way to the bedroom. Mena was still in the shower. He set the glasses on the counter and undressed, then opened the shower door.

“Oh!” She spun around, startled, her arms folded in front of her to cover herself. “You scared me.”

She reached for the towel, but Carlos took it from her and tossed it back on the shower door. He then took the soap and washcloth from her. “Let me help you.”

They made love for
a long time, though he thought she seemed distracted, and that bothered him. He wondered if she was thinking of someone else. After they were done, and after resting for a while, he went to the bathroom to dress. It had a Jacuzzi, a shower, two double closets and a large dressing area flanked by a sink and vanity on each side. With Mena still in the bed, Carlos took the opportunity to open the closets. One was filled with women’s clothes, but the other had men’s clothes in it, too many men’s clothes.
So someone
is
living here.

Carlos dressed, kissed Mena good night, then walked with her to the front door. “Thank you for a wonderful evening,” he said. “I will see you again. Soon.”

Mr. Perfect watched the
lights go on in the living room, then the bedroom. That’s when he decided to make his move. He walked briskly up the pavement, opened the door and listened before entering. He felt certain she had gone to take a shower but it paid to be cautious. He walked across the tile floor slowly, careful not to make a sound, then tread softly down the hall toward the bedroom. Halfway across the living room he heard the shower running, and her singing.
A pretty voice,
he thought, and moved to a dark spot beside the entrance to the bathroom.

He didn’t have long to wait, only a few minutes, but it was time well spent. She continued her singing, sometimes in Spanish, at other times in English, but all of it beautiful. He pictured her as she dried herself, rubbing the towel between her legs, across her ass. He closed his eyes and thought about it, but had to stop because he couldn’t control himself. The light went off in the bathroom and a few seconds later she stepped through the doorway. The singing had switched to humming, a nice catchy melody that he might find himself repeating tomorrow. Suddenly she stopped, senses alert.

He had not made a sound and he knew she couldn’t see him. She must have sensed him. Some people can do that, know when someone is in the room with them, or watching them. He couldn’t afford to have her sound an alarm of any kind so he acted swiftly, moving from behind the dresser and, just as she turned toward him, he hammered his fist into her face, dropping her to the floor with a short gasp. By the time her knees hit the carpet he wrapped a gag around her mouth, tying it tightly.

Her grunts and moans begged for an explanation, but she would have none tonight. Perhaps in the afterlife. She shouldn’t have embarrassed him. He grabbed her under the arms and lifted her to the bed, tossing her face down, then he shoved her into the headboard. When he had her all the way up, he grabbed hold of both feet and twisted his arms, flipping her onto her back.

She kicked, and tried using her hands to scrabble her way to a position of safety, but he held her ankles firmly and stared into her eyes, big, brown eyes, like a doe caught in the sights of a gun. “If you struggle, I will kill you. Do you understand?”

A kick toward his groin missed, but it infuriated him. He jerked her toward him, then slammed his fist, hammer like, into her stomach. She doubled over, almost threw up. “If you do anything else—anything—I
will
kill you. Do you understand?”

Wild eyes bugged out at him. She nodded.

“Good. Now relax and enjoy this,” he said, and began to undress.

After he entered her, the punishment began. He focused on her ribs, several broken with the first few blows, then her face, ears, tits—and all the while he assaulted her with brutal thrusts. She tried screaming, tried resisting, but nothing worked. Once he had finished, he lay on top of her and rested, listening to her faint breathing.
Too faint.
He couldn’t afford to have her die on him. “Don’t die yet,
puta
.” He jumped up, panicked, and grabbed the knife he brought.

Soon it was all over, lips removed, and her dead. He flipped her over, face down. All that remained was the clean-up, and sometimes that could be the most difficult. He went through the ritual, making sure everything was wiped down, then he vacuumed, twice. At the end, he took the sheets and wrapped miscellaneous items inside them. All of it went into an oversized garbage bag from the kitchen, which he placed next to the vacuum at the front door. When he finished, he went to the computer, checked the calendar—‘Charity ball with Carlos.’ He thought about erasing it, but opted not to. Then he went to the address book, found ‘Carlos Cortes,’ and once again opted to leave it. He did a search through the entire computer, found nothing he wanted to erase, so turned it off and wiped it down. He left the wine bottle in the trash. The glasses he left on the counter. Afterwards, he did a final check then exited, making sure that no one was outside.
This scene will give them something to think about.

On the way home he had an idea, and stopped at a gas station that was closed but had a pay phone outside, one of the few that still existed. He put the money in, making sure to wipe it clean first, and dialed.

Chapter 45

Sex is Best at Night

T
ip drove, I sulked.

“Get your head out of your ass, Gianelli. I think you did damn good. You didn’t shoot him, that was a good start.”

“You know, it’s almost scary, but I swear to God, Tip, when that son-of-a-bitch said that about the Bronx, with that smirk on his face, I could have put a few rounds in him and never thought twice about it.”

“Be careful who you tell that to.”

“Yeah, I know, it’s just…” I rolled the window down. “Never mind. Not worth talking about.”

“On a brighter note, you looked beautiful tonight.”

“Bull.”

“No bull. You’re gorgeous.”

“No matter what you say, I’m not going to bed with you.”

“In that case, you look like shit.”

A moment of silence came and went, then I chuckled, then, “Thanks.”

“So what did you think of Maxwell?”

“Nah.”

“Sexy isn’t he?” Tip said.

“Damned sexy.”

“I thought you might take him home.”

“I wanted to, but he gave me the creeps.”

“Me too,” Tip said.

“You too, what? He gives
you
the creeps?”

“No, I’d like to take him home. He’s got a
great
ass.”

“Go to hell, Denton.” And as I got out of the car, I said, “Thanks for all the fun. See you tomorrow.”

I heard the phone
ringing, looked at the clock, and couldn’t believe it—5:00 A.M. I rolled out of bed and stumbled to the dresser. If this was Tip…

“Hello.”

“Gianelli, it’s Donovan.”

“You know what time it is?”

“Had a nice talk last night with your two best friends—Randall and Green.”

I had to think before it hit me.
Randall and Green? Internal Affairs!
“What did
they
want?”

“They found money that Sean had hidden. Looks like IA was right all along; Sean was dirty, and there are discrepancies in Jerry’s finances that his wife can’t explain.” A long pause followed. “How about you, Gianelli? You clean?”

“Screw you. You know I am.”

Frankie’s voice was harsh. “I
don’t
know. That’s why I’m asking.”

I wanted to lash out at him, but he was right. I’d think the same way if the situation were reversed. “If Sean was dirty…” my voice raised now, “and I’m not saying he was…but
if
he was, that would explain why Carlos is after me. He thinks we took his drugs.”

“Now you’re thinking like a cop.”

“Fuck me.”

“Now you’re thinking like a Brooklyn cop. Good girl.”

“Okay. Let me do some work down here. I’ll get back to you. Call me if you hear anything else.”

“Will do. And by the way, Lou Mazzetti went over those phone records. Somebody played with them. There are definitely calls missing. Four minutes of calls.”

“Son-of-a-bitch.”

“Yeah, you have any idea who could have doctored the records?”

“The only person I know who
could
do it, wouldn’t.”

“I already thought of that option.”

He had me curious now. “Who were the calls to?”

“I’m working on it.”

“All right, Frankie. Thanks. I mean it.”

I made coffee, drank
it, and decided I needed a workout to get ready for the day. I dressed in a jogging suit and headed out. It was a nice enough morning, a little humid and hot already, but good enough to run.
Nothing like working up a good sweat to start the day.

I jogged along the path of a golf course nearby. It was crowded regardless of the weather, which is why I chose it. Not much more dangerous than an isolated jogging path. With my iPod clipped onto my top, and earphones snug in place, I pounded the pavement to some early sixties tunes. I tended to alternate between eighties and sixties, with an occasional mix of modern stuff. Today it was the early sixties girl bands: the Ronettes, Chiffons, Orlons, and one of my favorites—Martha Reeves and the Vandellas, “Nowhere to Run” pulsed in my head. I increased the pace as the beat hammered out, infusing my body with energy.

As I passed the fourth tee, I thought I heard someone calling me. I stopped, removed the headphones and looked around. A man was walking toward me from the tee, dressed in crisp tan slacks and a white shirt.

“Connie!”

Who’s that? Who knows me down here?
I knew it wasn’t Tip, not at this hour on a Sunday. I recognized Jeff Maxwell as he got closer, and that brought a tingling response that I didn’t like. Soon he was within talking distance. “Connie, it’s good to see you. What a coincidence.”

The way he said it made it seem as if we were old friends. A shiver raced through me. “I almost didn’t recognize you without the suit.”

He looked at me as if we were teenagers meeting for the first time. “What are you doing here?”

“Got up early and decided I needed a run.”

“Do you live nearby?”

I pointed toward my place. ”In the apartments down there.”

“I can’t believe you live that close,” Jeff said. “I play here three days a week. Maybe we could get together for lunch sometime.”

“I’d love to.” I had jumped the gun, and I knew it. Must have been my hormones answering for me.

“Max,” someone called from the fairway.

“Come on, Max,” another one yelled.

He waved to them without turning. “Looks like I’m being summoned.” He pulled out a business card. “Take this…” he said, then realized I had no place to put it. “I’ll tell you what, call me at the Maxwell building. Say…Tuesday. We’ll grab lunch. I wanted to talk with you anyway.”

“Come on, we’ve got a game to finish.”

“Looks like you’re being paged,” I said. “I’ll call you.”

“Don’t forget, Tuesday for lunch.” And with that he was gone, half-jogging back to his golf buddies.

I found it difficult to focus on the way home, pissed at myself for saying I’d meet him
.
I laughed as I ran, emotions running wild. No question I was attracted to the guy, but also no question he was married, and that didn’t fit my style. It reminded me of what Dominic always said: ‘If a married man says he loves you, just remember that he tells that to someone else when he’s not with you.’