One of the Wicked: A Mick Callahan Novel (25 page)

As I passed the back bedroom, I smelled something foul either in or under the house. My skin rippled.
Probably just a dead rat, Callahan . . .
I saw no sign of an alarm system in the roof eaves, no notice on the windowpanes or doors. I flattened against the house and eased along the wall, squatted down under the back window just to play it safe. Caught that smell again, rancid even over the air-conditioning.

What came next really shook me. The phone lines had been cut.

Now what?
I considered going back to the car, calling Darlene and turning this one over to the cops. Something or someone was dead. But what if Faber and Toole had somehow killed one another in a fit of greed, and the cash and drugs Bone needed were still inside? Should I try to get them?

I went to the back door. It was glass-paned. I bent over, took my shirt off, and wrapped it around a rock, then got prepared to run like hell if an alarm went off. I knocked out the small pane nearest the knob. Nothing happened. I used my covered hand to open the back door, then shook out my tee shirt and slipped back into it. Stepped inside what turned out to be the kitchen.

Something hissed and rushed at me. I gasped, backed away and threw up my hands just as a large orange feline bounded past my feet and raced off into the yard.
Well, whatever's dead, it wasn't the cat.

The house was freezing cold. The kitchen was filled with empty pizza boxes and plastic garbage sacks full of beer cans and other fast-food containers. I saw several piles of trash, but not enough to account for the stink that was now unmistakable. I didn't need a police background to recognize the stench of rotting meat.

I moved into the dark hallway. The thermostat had been set to the lowest possible point, cold air on round the clock, probably an attempt to hide the evidence for as long as possible. I gagged, could barely breathe. I heard flies buzzing, feasting.

A naked man was in the living room, hands and feet bound behind his back with some kind of thin wire. I coughed and pinched my nostrils, then stepped closer. I recognized the face. It was Frank Toole. He had been cut repeatedly, and some red patches of skin were bubbled and burned. Two of the front teeth had been knocked back into his mouth. This had been an ugly death.
So much blood.
Had his partner killed him and left with the goods?

I backed away, nearly knocked over a stack of newspapers; moved into the bedroom, still breathing through my mouth. Still no sign of the loot or even a sack big enough to hold that much cash. I found two suitcases on the floor, both unlatched. I opened them with my tennis shoe. Each held pants and shirts of different sizes. Were both men still here? I moved back into the hall, nearly vomited but kept myself going. An invisible clock was ticking. I needed to get the hell out.

I entered the pantry, shivering. Almost stepped in what appeared to be a puddle of urine and feces. Then I saw something stretched out on the tiled floor, near the washing machine. It was a second corpse, bound in the same fashion, thin wire, hand and foot.

Joey Faber had managed to stay alive for a while. He'd crawled and rolled into the pantry to get at and consume the dry cat food and water left behind in two plastic dispensers. His body was faceup, mouth wide open, eyes closed. My gorge rose again, but I went down on one knee, touched his neck to search for a pulse. When Faber twitched in response, I almost fell over backwards. His eyes opened.

"Help,"
Faber said weakly.
"Help."

"Easy. I'm going to call for an ambulance."

He coughed blood, licked cracked lips. "Fuck him. Fucking fuck."

"Who, Joey? Pesci?"

Faber reacted to the use of his own name. He appeared confused. Was I a friend? "Listen, just don't let the asshole get there first."

"Okay," I said, trying to ignore the amorality of questioning him further. "Tell me where it is, so I can get there before he does."

"Salt Lick," Faber whispered. "Old house, bomb shelter. ET owns it. Fuck must have told them."

My skin rippled again. "Told ET, or Nicky?"

Faber shook his head. Spat. He tried to move around but the pain made him moan. "My hands."

I patted his arm, forgot and took a deep breath. Gagged.
God, that stench
. "I'll call for help."

I heard something behind me and whirled around in a crouch. Mary Kate stood in the doorway, eyes wide with horror. She was a child again, this time really spooked and chewing on her fingers. I barked at her without thinking, something like, "Don't touch anything, damn it!"

Joey Faber snapped out of it. He looked carefully at my face, and at that moment finally realized that I was a complete stranger. He tried to say something defiant, but grimaced instead. His eyes widened in horror. His body shuddered and went into a spasm. Bound feet drummed the floor, and his bowels loosened, adding to the odor. He was dead.

"Back out of here carefully, Mary. Don't touch anything, don't step in anything that will hold a footprint. When we get back to my house we're dumping these shoes."

"I hear you. Mick, come on. Let's get the hell out of here."

"I'm coming." We eased into the hall, crossed the kitchen, and backed out into the yard. The heat hit us like a fist. I touched her face and whispered. "Whatever you do, don't throw up."

"Who could cut someone up like that?"

I swallowed my own stomach acid.
Good question
. "You'd be surprised what people are capable of when there's a lot of money at stake. Damn it to hell. The question is what do we do now?"

"We run," my sister said softly. "You can't possibly be thinking of doing anything else, right? I mean, come on, Mick. That was bind, torture, kill shit. I don't know about you, but I don't want to meet whoever did it."

"I probably already have met him. Did you leave the car running?"

She nodded. "I was just going to take a peek inside. You were taking so long."

"Let's go."

I left the back door open, figuring one of the neighbors would come looking sooner or later. We made it down the side of the house without being seen. My heart was in my throat all the way across the street, but we got into the car safely. It was all I could do to drive slowly, calmly, instead of gunning the engine. We were at the intersection near the coffee shop before I remembered to check for familiar cars. No brown Taurus in sight, but that didn't prove anything.
Jesus, what a mess.

I pulled out my cell, checked for messages. Bud Stone had called from an unfamiliar number. I hit redial and reached him.

"Bud, we got trouble." I filled him on what happened to Faber and Toole and told him about the old ranch with a bomb shelter. "The stuff is supposed to be there, bro. Don't go it alone."

"Salt Lick is a dump maybe forty minutes outside of Vegas," Bud said coolly. He didn't seem surprised or upset, not even by the extremity of the violence I'd described, and that puzzled me. "Can't be but six spreads out there. I'll find the place."

"Wait, I'm coming along."

"Don't be an idiot, Callahan. I got a warrant out, remember?"

I glanced at Mary Kate. "Lot of that going around."

"So don't go hanging with a lowlife like me. It could be the death of you."

"Does appear that way, doesn't it?"

Mary Kate had her eyes closed as if working to erase a memory. We passed the south end of North Hollywood Park on Riverside. I took Tujunga up to the freeway this time, headed for home. Being in such dense traffic made me claustrophobic. My cell phone cracked and popped.

"Listen," Bud said, "there's a young lawyer in Vegas name of Jacob Mandel. Turns out he's been handling stuff for the bad guys, but I've known him since he was a kid. I told him about you. From now on, contact me through him."

"Why?"

"I'm losing cell phones for a while. I won't be leaving messages, either. You should get extra lines yourself, or at least dump this one. Hell, in fact just promise me you'll have your pal Jerry burn my electrons out of your life, get it like I haven't seen you in years, pretty much the way it was before. That would make my country ass smile."

"You're starting to worry me, Bone."

I gunned the engine and went into freeway traffic. The reception drifted.

"Hey?"

"I'm here."

"Bone, what are you going to do?"

"Get the money back, Mick. I'm tired of being manipulated. I'm taking the fight to them for a change."

He cut out again. "Hello?"

"Be good."

Bone broke the connection. Just then, Mary Kate rolled her window down and put her face out like a collie, most likely to keep from throwing up. I closed my phone and drove home in silence. By the time I pulled up in front of my house, I was on the same page as my friend about taking the fight to them for a change.

Late that same afternoon, The Valley of Fire was living up to its name. The concrete grounds and blacktop driveways of the new resort were blistering hot, almost bubbling after a week of record temperatures. The centerpiece of the central project, the hotel itself, stood nearly complete. Virtually all of the construction crew had vanished for a week's break before resuming work on the resort, except for three panting electricians finishing up one of the lampposts located at the outer rim of the vast, empty parking lot.

Twelve long limousines were parked in a row before the entrance. Their drivers had gathered in the lobby to relax in lightly misted air that streamed over tall, potted ferns and a huge pond filled with koi. One of the drivers wandered too close to the security guard stationed by the gold-plated elevators. The man raised a night stick and ordered the intruder to step back.

The big opening party began with afternoon cocktails on the twentieth floor, near a glass-enclosed office designed for Big Paul Pesci. The floor-to-ceiling windows had been specially treated to darken on demand, and a computer continually adjusted the tint according to the angle of the afternoon sun. Classical music whispered from hidden speakers. Elegant call girls in scant evening gowns circulated carrying trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres.

Eric, the Pesci goon I'd once dubbed Cowboy, was planted near the sealed fire doors with his dim sidekick, Clyde. Their assignment was to watch out for the girls, follow them to the rooms and back again. Someone had to make sure the politicians didn't get carried away and slap the girls around. Well, and to get as many compromising photographs as possible. Never can tell when a few shots of the Mayor with a hooker bobbing his Johnson might come in handy.

Big Paul was standing up straight, still holding forth at the long, wooden conference table. He'd already downed enough vodka to redden his cheeks and paint a thin sheen on his piggy eyes. His mistress, a slender blonde coke whore named Michelle, stayed anchored to his arm and even managed to look enthralled by his discourse. Cowboy watched with detached disdain as Pesci droned on and on about how expensive everything around them was, like some kind of drunken Donald Trump.

"Edie is taking Senator Wenk to four-eleven," Clyde whispered excitedly. "You want I should check on the cameras?"

Cowboy yawned. "By all means, Clyde. Go on down to four-eighteen and be sure the equipment is working properly. Hell, stay and make sure you get both of their faces in the same shot."

Clyde left a happy puppy.
Porn freak
. Cowboy massaged his temples and tried to zone out. He could just see the elevators from an angle, and when they opened it caught his eyes. Little Nicky stepped out. Eric swallowed. There was something about the big man that made his skin crawl.

Nicky moved slowly through the assembled guests like an aircraft carrier, only pausing to respond to a "Hello," and a handshake. His cold, grey eyes remained fixed on Big Paul Pesci. When Michelle saw Nicky coming, the blood left her face and she sat down with a thump. Nicky had that effect on people. Pesci stopped talking, looked at her. "You okay, sweet thing?"

"We need to talk, Paul," Nicky said.

"No business this afternoon, Nicky," Pesci protested, "we're having a party!"

"It's important."

Pesci spread his hands to the assembled politicos and businessmen as if to say, "Hey, what can you do." Relieved to be released from verbal bondage, the men wandered away. Pesci searched the table, found his glass of iced vodka. Nicky promptly pried it from his fingers, set the glass back on a coaster. Sensing the mood, Michelle slid further under the conference table.

"Come with me."

Pesci glowered, glanced over at Eric the Cowboy, who prayed he wouldn't be asked to intervene. Pesci was annoyed, but chose not to make a scene. He followed Nicky through the crowd, across the room and into the next hall. They entered a small, soundproofed room regularly swept for electronic listening devices.

"What's so damned important?"

Nicky knew that was the liquor. He let the impertinence go. "Both Faber and Toole are dead."

Pesci found a padded chair. He sat down heavily. "Any sign of the disc, or my money?"

"No," Nicky said. He slid another plush chair directly across from Big Paul, but remained standing, with one foot on the cushion. The position allowed him to look down, a fact not lost on Pesci. "They were in a rental house near Los Angeles. The police came to investigate a possible burglary and discovered the bodies. A cop we paid off to track the Gordo case saw the report and passed the information on to me."

Pesci shook his head. "Shit. What the hell happened?"

"Happened? They were tortured," Nicky said calmly. "Thus, we can deduce whoever did it must now have the disc."

"We're going to need a new perspective," Pesci said. "We have to think outside the box. Our current plan isn't working. Maybe we should kill Stone and Callahan and go back to square one."