An hour later, he was stuffing the last remnant of a Sno Ball into his mouth. The bite was oversized and his cheeks bulged as he chewed, savoring the tasty goodness of chocolate and shredded pink coconut.
The phone blared, and Ethan jumped. He wiped his hands on his jeans and swallowed the last bite of dinner before reaching out to answer, but not in time to stop another ringing blast.
He snatched up the receiver, ending the racket. “Yeah.”
“It’s me,” Arthur’s voice came through from the other end.
“Whatcha got?” Ethan sat up and pivoted to face the bedside table, grabbing his notepad and pen.
“I’m still at the station, but I wanted to get this to you before it got much later. I took your old pal Cell Block Juan in and gave him the ‘Hansen Special’. His facts were sparse, but he tipped us in the direction of his cousin, Alejandro Cortez — AKA ‘Smiley’.”
“Okay, so what did Smiles Davis have to say?”
Art grunted. “Well, his corpse wasn’t too talkative. He had several distinguishing tattoos so I got word pretty quick. He was a member of Los Siete Reyes. Before I could even put out the full APB on him, I got a call from the county morgue; GSW and his throat was slit.”
Gun shot wound and a slit throat. This news held Ethan silent for a moment as he pondered the information. “Well, those neck tattoos are hideous, but killing him seems a little unnecessary. All kidding aside, though, it’s too bad you couldn’t get him breathing.”
“I wouldn’t waste too much upset on this guy. He’s been in the drug trafficking business for a long time and murdered more than a handful of innocent women and children. As far as I’m concerned, if it was these Russian guys you’ve been talking about who took him out, they did us a favor.”
“I guess you can consider myself not upset then,” Ethan said.
“I’m more concerned that any information he might have had died with him. So you wanna guess the sixty-four thousand dollar question? Where do you think his body was found?”
“What do I win if I have no clue?”
Art hesitated before saying, “In a back alley near your apartment. Two of his buddies had a set of gunshot wounds as well.”
“I guess they got a little too close to the sun with the Ruskies. Karma will catch up to everyone in the end. So what’s the deal on this Russian epidemic?”
There was another pause before Art spoke. Ethan heard him take a deep breath. “You can’t pretend this isn’t serious. These guys are very close to you. Did you hear what I said? They were practically in your back yard. I sure hope you know what you’re doing.” It wasn’t the wavering tone in Art’s voice that Ethan picked up on, but the genuine concern.
“Trust me Art, I know what I’m doing.”
“Okay, so yes — there is some sort of Red Scare crap on the streets. It looks like they’re on the hunt for a certain someone in particular; there was no mention of them slinging drugs or any arms trafficking.”
“And who exactly is on their radar?” Ethan asked.
Again, a hesitation. “You. But I have this gut feeling that isn’t a surprise.”
“That gut feeling is probably just gas.”
Uncharacteristically, Art didn’t respond to Ethan’s jab. Either he was in no mood for humor, or maybe it really was indigestion.
Ethan reigned himself in. “So was it the guys from uptown at the estate?”
“I can’t be sure, but all my instincts are pointing in that direction.”
“Mine as well. Did they leave tracks at my place?” Ethan began doodling in the notepad.
Art let out a puff of air. “I looked into that, but everything at your place seemed undisturbed.”
Ethan’s pen stilled. “They were there, Art. I wouldn’t lie about that.”
“No, I believe you. Eyewitnesses came forward about the shootout on your street, but don’t even ask who was gunned down. When they got the hell out of Dodge, the body was taken with them — left us nothing but blood on the sidewalk. Also, your buddy Donald admitted that several men came in with IDs saying they needed access to your room and mailbox.”
“What kind of ID?” Ethan frowned and resumed sketching patterns on the page; they didn’t come close to being artistic, but the mindless action helped focus his thoughts.
“He wasn’t one hundred percent sure but he thought F.B.I.”
“Fake?”
“Can’t say. But I did call one of my contacts at the Bureau, and he has no record of any teams being there — or even remotely in the area.”
Ethan mulled this over before asking, “Outsourcing maybe? Any groups off the grid?”
“Listen Ethan, this shit sounds deeper with every phone call — looks like you’re in it up to your ball sack. You need to get yourself somewhere safe.”
“Why the sudden interest in my ball sack? And no one knows where I am except you. As long as I keep moving, and you aren’t sweated for details, I should be fine.”
Art huffed again at Ethan’s blasé response. “OK, but for the record, I don’t like this. And a couple more things: J.B. Wilcox called again. He seems very determined to get in touch with you. He said he’ll need the death certificate to get the paperwork started, and he’d like you to drop it off at his office personally. Speaking of getting sweated, Fredericks has been hounding everyone about you. I’ve managed to dodge him, but I don’t know how long I can keep that up.”
“I figured as much. I’ll be calling him shortly. Do you have his home number?”
There was a shuffling sound as Art searched his Rolodex and then read off the digits.
Ethan jotted them down then said, “Thanks buddy. I’ll call if I need anything else.”
“I’ll be off tomorrow; the wife and I are going shopping.”
“Awww, you guys are picking out coffins — how sweet. Are they going to be a matching set?”
“You’re a dick, Ethan. Leave it to you to never let an old joke slip by.” Art’s words were caustic, but his underlying chuckle was evident.
Ethan grinned. “It’s what I do best.”
“Yeah, well — when the time comes, we’re both going to be cremated. I’d always envisioned having our ashes put in the same urn together because we’re a team and I never want to be without her. Maybe every now and then the kids can give the jar a good shake so we can still get it on in the afterlife.”
“That’s probably the most touching and disturbing thing I’ve ever heard, Art. And for some reason I feel like I need to take a shower now.”
“Just don’t catch an STD in that place.”
“I’ll try to be careful. Anyway, touch base with you tomorrow, okay? And I’m sorry I’ve been such an ass lately. It’s just been a rough couple of days.”
“We’ve all had ‘em. I know what it’s like to be in your shoes.”
The remark left an opening for questions, and Ethan could never help but chase a lead; it seemed that was all he’d been doing lately anyway. “What was your worst day Art? And don’t say when I became your partner or this conversation is over.” He laughed at his own wit, but Art didn’t join in.
“I’m sure word got to you at least once or twice, but it was probably that whole Lewis Martinelli business.”
Oh shit. Ethan knew where this was going. “Yeah, I did hear about that, but I chose not to bring it up.”
“I hope you never know what it feels like to be betrayed like that. Every judgment call I’ve made since that day still gets questioned. I trusted him — for fourteen years. He catches her cheating on him, and does he just divorce her? No. Does he just kill her in a fit of rage? No. He planned and schemed for weeks. That’s just sick.”
Ethan remained silent.
“Here’s something not everyone knows: it was all swept under the rug — as best as possible, anyway — from the rest of the guys and never revealed publicly. Not only did he stage the break-in at his house and murder her, but he also killed four other women before that using the same MO just to keep us off the scent. Then, when the wife showed up dead, he tried to pretend he was just another victim in a long line of others.”