I
t was dark and hot inside Ruth Cajuste's house. All the curtains had been pulled shut, the windows closed. The stench was intense, close to unbearable; even behind their masks and the Vicks ointment they'd rubbed under and in their noses, hints of its extremity wriggled through.
Max closed the door and Joe flicked on the light. They were wearing gloves and plastic covers on their shoes. The scene would be examined by forensics and they didn't want to leave even a hint of their presence.
They saw the first three bodies immediately: still, dark bundles lying very close together, to the right of the door. There were two more bodies about twenty feet away.
They checked the rooms: kitchen on the right, empty; two bedrooms on the left, both empty. Last there was the bathroom. The door had been kicked or bashed clean off its hinges. Another body was in a seated position on the end wall, right under a small rectangular frosted-glass window.
There was no back door. They'd checked before going in the front.
Six bodies.
They went back to the beginning and examined the house.
They were in a wide open-plan space which served as both front room and dining area, tiled pale yellow. The area around the bodies was moving, armies of black beetles scurrying and swarming to get a piece of what palatable flesh was left. This wasn't the orderly disciplined stripping and carting off they'd witnessed at the Lacour house, but a frenzied free-for-all. The beetles sensed that time was running out. The temperature in the house had accelerated the process of decomposition.
'What's the date today?' Max asked.
'Third of June.'
'These look well over a month old. I'd say they were killed on the twenty-sixth of April.'
The five-week-old bodies had passed the bloated stage and were liquefying from the inside. Puddles of shiny translucent slime had formed about the torsos, mingling with the halos, commas and wings of dried and now black blood that had poured out of the wounds; skin was slipping off bone and turning into grey-green mush. Each body had its own cloud of blowflies hovering right above it.
Joe named the ashen-haired woman as Ruth Cajuste, the man two feet away from her as Sauveur Kenscoff, and the girl lying face down in the red and white gingham dress, he initially mistook for Crystal Taino, except that her hair and body type were wrong. She looked more like a teenager. He corrected her identity to Jane Doe.
Ruth Cajuste had been shot in the forehead. A writhing nest of yellowy blowfly maggots filled the hole. She was lying on her back, in the corner, hands folded across her chest. Max and Joe agreed she'd most likely been killed first, way before she could realize that her son Jean Assad had just put a bullet in her brain.
Sauveur had realized what was happening and had tried to fight back. There was a silver.38 Special next to his right hand, but the safety was still on. He'd had just enough time to pull his weapon before being hit in the shoulder, chest and through the left eye. That last shot had voided his cranium and splattered the contents over the wall behind him. He too was lying on his back.
The blood-wipe pattern between the edge of the door and the teenager's head told them her body had been moved post-mortem. There was an upward arc of high-velocity spatter covering the inside of the door; stray spots of blood had hit the wall above and touched the ceiling, indicating that the girl had been close to the door handle when the bullet struck the back of her head. There were shell fragments studding the wood and wall, along with pieces of bone and two teeth. She'd been shot at close range, the circle of singed hair around the entry wound suggesting the barrel had been mere inches away.
'No one heard it,' Joe said.
'Silencer-must've been,' Max suggested. It was the only explanation he could come up with. The house was in the middle of a row of one-floor homes, each about fifteen metres apart. The walls were on the thin side of functional.
Max looked around the scene. He thought he'd seen something unusual about the bodies, but he couldn't find it again.
The two other corpses in the middle of the room were those of Neptune Perrault and Crystal Taino. Neptune's right leg was slung across both of Crystal's, his puffed-up, rotting right-hand fingers were interlocked with those of Crystal's left, and his ruptured head-shot clean through the temple-was leaning into Crystal's neck, as if he'd been nuzzling her when he'd died. Crystal was lying face down, shot through the crown.
Max stared at them a good long while, unable to take his eyes away from the sight, as touching and tender to him as it was grotesque.
'He didn't even try to get away, or resist,' he said to Joe. 'He just lay down and grabbed her hand. He couldn't live without her, but he could die with her. They deserve justice.'
'That's why it's just the two of us here, right?' Joe said, looking at Max quizzically, seeing an altogether new side to him. They'd seen far worse than this-a comparatively clean straight kill and relatively painless for the victims, no signs of torture, no dismemberment-and Max hadn't blinked out of turn. He'd studied the bodies, read the scene, come to initial conclusions. The only thing that upset him was when they found children, but that got nearly all cops. They usually got angry, some cried, some couldn't do their jobs. Max was in the first category. But how he was now was new to Joe. Max looked sad, as if he had known the victims. Joe wondered if this new girl Max had started meeting for lunch hadn't opened up his emotional side, if he wasn't a little bit in love with her. He'd been awful quiet about her, which was really unusual for him. He hadn't even told Joe her name.
There were half a dozen spent shells on the ground near the bodies. The shooter had reloaded. Joe bagged two of them and left the rest for forensics.
Up ahead of them was the bathroom, a mess of smashed tiles and blood stains everywhere. Madeleine Cajuste had been shot at least five times in the torso and once through her right hand. The bathroom door had been dead-bolted from the inside.
The window was unlocked and opened out from the side onto a view of the garden-a small strip of lawn, rose bushes and a palm tree at the end.
Max noticed small scraps of white fabric stuck to splinters at the edge of the sill. He plucked one and showed it to Joe.
'You said she had a baby? I think she dropped it out of the window. When the shooting started she ran in here, bolted the door and put the kid out of the way of the bullets. Maybe she screamed for help too. Either way, they took the baby. Let's take a look at the other rooms.'
Joe went to the kitchen. Dry dishes and cutlery on a rack by the sink, rotting and withered fruit in a large bowl on the counter. Everything in the refrigerator had gone off.
Max looked through the bedrooms. Ruth Cajuste's was nearest the bathroom. She'd slept in a double bed, with a Bible and a wind-up alarm clock at her side. The curtains were drawn. There were bars on the windows. Next door was where the teenage girl had slept. Her name was Farrah Carroll. She was fifteen. He found her Haitian passport and return-flight ticket for 5 June. In two days' time her parents would be expecting her home. By her bedside was a photograph of her, Ruth and Mickey Mouse taken at Disneyland. She had kept her room neat and tidy.
Max made for the front door.
He went and stood where he'd been when they'd first come in and scanned the scene of slaughter one more time, first casually, then body by body, trying to find what he'd missed.
The bugs were crawling up Farrah's right leg but not her left.
He looked at her feet. There was a small pile of dead beetles by her shoe. He bent down and studied the sole. There were white stains on it, absent from the other shoe.
She'd trodden in something, maybe slipped. He turned around and looked behind him.
There, that was it: a small circle a few feet away, clearly defined by the crust of dead black beetles all around it. It was a white splash with scraps of dark green matter in it, shredded leaves or herbs, and something small, shiny and dark brown, but unmistakeably part of a bean.
'I think the shooter puked here,' Max told Joe.
Joe went back to the kitchen, got a knife and spoon which Max used to scrape the dried mess into an evidence bag. Then they left the house, turning off the light as they went.
'I'll call it in from a payphone,' Max said.
'Say you heard gunshots,' Joe suggested. 'Otherwise it'll be another year before they send someone round.'
'
You're a piece a dogshit on wheels.' Carmine sighed as he drove his new ride-a white Crown Victoria-down North West 2nd Avenue. It was a cop car, an honest cop's car; only kind of ride pigs could afford on the minimum wage they made outta bein' pigs. The pigs on the cocaine payola drove flashier autos: fresh-off-the-ramp sports cars and rides they'd seen in James Bond movies.
There was method to his downshifting in the style stakes, because today, and every day until he got a location on Risquee, he, Carmine Desamours, was playing at being a cop. He wasn't just driving this shitty ride, he'd changed his look too. He was wearing ugly straight-off-the-rack clothes from JCPenney-a grey sports coat, shitty black slacks that itched the inside of his thighs, a white shirt and scuffed black wing tips. He had himself an authentic-looking fake ID and a pearl-handled.38 snubnose on his hip. He was a regular Richard Roundtree motherfucker. OK, that wasn't strictly accurate-RR was a private dick not a cop, but he couldn't think of no black cops he wanted to be in the image of, so Shaft did him just fine.
He wasn't the only one out looking for Risquee. He'd put Clyde Beeson on her trail. Beeson said he'd tried every dentist and hospital in Florida and none of them had any record of her. Beeson said he'd asked around on the streets too. He was sure she'd disappeared; most likely left the state. It would've been the sensible thing to do, what he would've done himself if he'd almost been killed, but Carmine didn't buy it. He knew Risquee: when she was pissed any common sense she possessed went out her ears. And she'd be real pissed at him. She'd think he'd sent that creep who'd tried to kidnap her outside the store. If Risquee had read any of the papers, she'd know her attacker's name was Leroy Eckols, out of Atlanta, said he had 'criminal connections'. Eckols had been killed by the driver of the car he'd shot at. She'd want payback. And he didn't blame her, the way things looked.
So, he was out here, searching for her himself too.
He passed a stretch of dismal row houses and had to slow down for an ambulance that was pulling up outside one of them. Looked like a lot of death had happened there. Another ambulance was already in place, doors open, plus three prowlers and a blue version of his own ride with a red light on the hood. The front door was open and medics with masks on were stretchering out a stiff in a bodybag. There was a whole lot of commotion, as a heavy crowd of onlookers jostled for a view. Uniforms told them to stay back.
This kinda shit always happened around O Town. When he made proper money in Nevada, no way would he be living in the nigger towns of this world. No, he was gonna get himself a condo in a fancy high-rise block with white folks for neighbours and security at the door, kind that said 'Good morning' and 'Good evening, sir' and told you who your visitors were.
Today, he might've been a pretend cop, but he still had pimp business to attend to for Solomon. Apart from recruiting and breaking in new Cards, today was when he collected from the two street Suits-the Spades and the Clubs.
He turned onto North East 6th Street and saw a Spade called Frenchie getting out of a tan Olds. He waited until the car had disappeared and let her get a good stride in her step. She had on a red vest, red heels and a pair of Daisy Dukes so small and tight they squeezed her big fat wobbly ass cheeks half down her big fat wobbly thighs. She was forty or fifty, something around that-he didn't properly know because she was full of shit, always lying about the time of day-dark skin, hard face, shitty teeth, shitty reddish brown wig she either wore up or all the way down to her elephantine behind. When she was far enough into her walk, he drove up and hit the brakes hard, squealing to a stop right next to her. She scoped out the car in an instant, turned around and started heading in the opposite direction.
The look was good. She'd made him for a vice cop.
He reversed, winding down the window.
'Hey, Frenchie! Git yo' ass back here!' he called out to her.
She let out breath and smiled at him.
'Shit, Carmine, baby, I thought you was a cop,' she said, hurrying over to him. She had a jamambo pair of titties that were the only reason she ever made money.
'Just testin' yo' reflexes, baby.' Carmine gave her his nicest smile. Bitch smiled back at him. She'd always told him she liked his smile the most, said it reminded her of one of her little boys-or was she the one that had girls?-he couldn't remember and didn't give a fuck either way. 'Get yo' cute lil' ass in here.'
She got in the passenger seat and closed the door.
Lil' ass? My ass! thought Carmine as she took up the whole seat.
'Watcha got for me, baby girl?'
'Bidniss been slow, baby.'
Even if he hadn't seen her getting out of the Olds, he could smell cum and sweat on her.
'That right?' Carmine smiled. 'Whose car was that I saw you gettin' out of? You got a chauffeur now?'
She looked down at her knees, the skin on them all scarred and tough from the amount of time she spent on 'em.
'Like I said, and like I keep on sayin', I got eyes everywhere, kind see round corners, so don't try 'n' play me, baby girl, else I'll send my man Bonbon over to see you.' Carmine enjoyed the fearful look she got in her eyes at the mention of Bonbon's name. He could've used a Bonbon on his payroll to keep his private Cards in line-the likes of Risquee wouldn't've dared go up against him. Sam had suggested it and he'd said, nah, I'll be man enough for them bitches. He was regretting it now.
Frenchie reached down in-between her titties and handed him a thin sweaty roll of green. Thirty bucks. One fuck.
'And whatchu' got up there in yo' pussy bag?' he whispered to her.
She opened her mouth to protest, but he shut her up.
'Don't be makin' me go explorin' up in there, bitch!'
She snapped open her cut-off jeans and unclipped the small cloth bag she kept pinned on the inside, under the waistband, and gave it to him.
He took out the money. Eighty bucks. Two fucks'n' a suck.
'Take off,' he told her, tossing the empty bag in her lap.
She didn't move. Her lower lip trembled. Damn. Bitch was gonna cry.
'What's up witchu? You heard me. Time to get busy.'
'I ain't had nothin' to eat all day but dick, baby. I need me some bread.' She sniffed.
'You need bread, huh?' Carmine looked at her. 'Then go fuck a baker. Vamos! '
She got out the car and he hit the gas, laughing his handsome ass off.
Shit, he was sharp as a tack too-day.
'Go fuck a baker'-ho, ho, ho!
Shit, did he just say 'ho ho ho'?
Man he was double sharp!
He spent the rest of the morning collecting from Cards and going to the kind of places he knew Risquee went to-nail parlours, hair salons, boutiques and a few bars she liked to drink rum and Coke in.
He did the cop thing as good as any Jack Lord or Kojak motherfucker. He'd walk in someplace, go up to someone working there, flash his badge and introduce himself as 'Officer Bentley, Miami PD'. He'd ask his questions. He'd get headshakes and, 'No, ain't seen no one like that.' It was disappointing and might have been a real unproductive way of spending a day, if it hadn't been for the vibe he got off the people he was questioning. They all kind of wilted when they saw his badge, got a scared look in their eye, started trembling. These cats-some of them big overgrown stone-cold niggas and bitches with monuments of attitude-were intimidated by little old him and his big shiny shield. He liked the way that felt. He felt good, powerful, running things, badass. Damned if it didn't even get his dick a little hard. Cops must've got that way too, when they started out. All that power over people. Hell, maybe he should've been a cop instead of a pimp. Sure, the money was shit if you played it by the book, but there were perks a-plenty in what it did for your manhood and self-esteem.
He stopped at a hair salon called Proud Heads, on North West 52nd, near Olinda Park.
Carmine walked inside. A receptionist was opposite the front door, behind her a silhouette of a black woman with a huge afro. The place was full of potentials. Damn! Great late discovery of the day deux: he should be fishin' in this pussy stream, hittin' all-a those places only women went. No way would they suspect what he was. Shit, he could even pretend to be some fag needing a manicure or his hair relaxed. Nothin' some bitches liked more than a fag for a best friend, some guy to go cry over movies and talk lipstick with. It wasn't zactly too late in the day to change up his plan. Maybe he'd do that at his dude ranch in Nevada. OK, the faggot thing bothered him a lot, but hey, business was business.
The receptionist looked up from the Ebony magazine she was flipping through. Girl had a plain face, no older than nineteen. Radio was on. The Pointer Sisters singing 'Betcha Got a Chick on the Side'. He'd always liked that one.
'Good mo'nin',' he said with a smile.
'Can I help you?'
'Officer Bentley, Miami PD.' He showed her his badge. 'Lookin' for a girl mighta been here. Busted-up face. Goes by the name of Risquee.'
'Risss-kayyy?' the girl said. 'Kinda name's that?'
'Kinda name her momma gave her,' Carmine said. 'What name yo' momma give you?'
The girl turned around and yelled out over the hairdryers, radio and general chit-chat in the salon.
'Janet! Poh-lice here to see you.'
Everything stopped a beat in the salon-even the radio, it seemed, though it was still playing-and Carmine felt all eyes turn his way.
He got an uneasy feeling deep in his gut, but he tightened his jaw and stared back at the chicks.
A woman came out from the end, drying her hands. She was short, dark, worried-looking.
'This about Timothy?' she asked.
'No, this ain't about no Timothy,' Carmine said. 'This 'bout somethin' different.'
'So he's cool?'
'This ain't 'bout Timothy. I'm here on different bidniss.'
She frowned and looked at him in a new way that made him uneasy, like she was trying to work out something about him.
'What bizzz-ness?' She pronounced it slowly and carefully, taking Carmine in from his shoes to his hair. Bitch musta been one of them mommas beat their kids over table manners and shit. No wonder Timothy was givin' her problems. Those who got treated the harshest rebelled the hardest, Carmine remembered sumshit he'd heard on TV or the radio or read on a wall somewhere.
'I'm lookin' for a girl mighta come in here. Had a busted-up mouth.'
'Her mouth busted-up she'd need a dentist not a hairdresser.'
'Yeah, I hear that,' Carmine said. The bitch was standing there with hands on her hips. Hips were wide too. He knew tricks who liked that shit though. 'Only she mighta come by get her hair done after her mouth got patched up, you know? Make herself feel better.'
'You got a picture?'
'No.'
'You a cop lookin' for someone and you ain't got a picture?'
Damn! He swore this Janet knew he wasn't for real.
'What does she look like-apart from the mouth?'
'She about your height, slimmer, built.'
She scowled at him angrily now. Damn! Musta been conscious 'bout her weight too. One of them bitches ate when she had problems. He smiled, did the nice one all bitches with kids told him was sweet. Made her madder. She musta thought he was laughing at her.
This was going real wrong.
'What did you say your name was?'
'Officer Bentley.' He held out his badge. She took it from him.
'Badge says Detective.'
'Huh?'
'You ain't an Officer if you're a Detective.' She pointed at the shield.
'Oh, right, yeah, see I just got promoted. Still gettin' my head around the title.' He smiled, but he was nervous as a motherfucker, heart beating crazy voodoo all up in his chest.
'Shaniqua?!!' Janet hollered out over her shoulder. 'I need you up here a second.'
Gottdayum if Shaniqua wasn't a straight up Diamond. Tall, long legs, cafe with a little au lait in her complexion, short hair. Black jeans and a blouse tied in a knot over her bare flat middle.
Janet talked to Shaniqua in a whisper. The receptionist was listening in and kept on looking over at him, smiling more and more. Shaniqua was looking at him too, looking harder at his face.
Carmine started to sweat, hairline leaking and running to his jaw. Time to go, time to go, he thought, but he couldn't make himself move. Couldn't do nothing. The fuck was wrong with him. The fuck was wrong with this?
The receptionist looked straight at him squirming in his shitty wingtips and giggled.
'I do somethin' to make you ha ha?' he said aggressively.
The receptionist was going to answer when hotass Shaniqua spoke to him, 'You after Risquee?'
'You know where she at?'
'You know a virgin called Mary?' Shaniqua answered. She had a deep voice, close to a man's imitating a woman. 'Tell me.' 'Pay me.' 'What?' 'Pay me.' Shaniqua came up to him, hand out. Damn! 'How I know we talkin' 'bout the same Risquee?'
'We are. Now pay me.'
OK, defuse. Cops paid snitches all the time.
'How much?'
'Two hundred.'
'Two hunnret? How 'bout I give you one?'
'How 'bout you kiss my black ass?'
'I know men pay good money to do just that.' Carmine smiled. She got angry. 'OK, OK. Be cool. I'll pay you.' Carmine turned his back on her and took out his roll. Peeled off four fifties, turned back and held them up folded between his fingers.
'Tell me.'
'Uh-uh.' She held her hand out, rubbing her fingers together. 'You pay to play.'
'You a slot machine?' He handed her the money, which she took and passed to the receptionist. He noticed Janet had disappeared.
He looked for her in the salon. He saw her at the end, talking to a man sitting in a chair with a towel around his shoulders.
The man looked over in his direction, took off the towel, got out of the chair and started walking up.
The man was tall and black.
The man was a cop in uniform.
Shit!
'I help you, sir?' the cop said to Carmine.