Dewey read the name on the shirt tag and said, “Evening, Sam. I’m Bernie Graham. Met you a couple of evenings last year, but so far this year I’ve only been coming in the daytime.”
“Oh, sure, hi, Bernie,” Sam said, but Dewey was sure the old guy didn’t remember him at all.
“My employees left a van here today, did you see it?”
“Naw,” Sam said, eyes darting back to the ballgame. “I been too busy to make the rounds.”
“I’ll be driving it out in a little while. Might be leaving my car here till tomorrow.”
“No problem, Bernie,” Sam said. “I’ll open the gate when I see you leaving.”
When Dewey got back to the car, Eunice was dozing, but she sat up, looking disoriented when he opened the door.
“You’re at the storage room,” Dewey said, “in case you’re wondering.”
“Oh, shit,” Eunice said. “I was hoping this was only a nightmare.”
“I’ll need some help carrying the plasmas,” Dewey said. “My ribs’re still aching bad.”
“What else?” Eunice said. “I may as well get a back sprain while I’m at it.”
Dewey’s hands were shaking when he pulled open the hasp and pretended to be unlocking the padlock hanging on the door staple. He dropped the key twice before he could complete the charade, causing Eunice to say, “Do you want me to do it? Next time drink Virgin Marys.”
When he opened the door, he said, “I never come here at night. Let’s see, where’s the light switch? Can you strike a match over here?”
Grumbling, she walked inside, and then a meaty hand was clamped over her mouth and she was pulled to the floor onto her belly with a huge weight on top of her while duct tape was wrapped around her ankles.
She heard Dewey cry out, “Owwww! You’re breaking my wrist! Put the gun away, Creole! Why’re you doing this?”
A man whose breath smelled like rank onions and beer said in her ear, “If you make one fuckin’ sound, I’ll bury my knife in your belly and gut you like a pig. Now lay real still.”
Then, while she whimpered, her wrists were duct-taped behind her back, and a cloth blindfold was wrapped around her face and duct-taped in place with barely enough of her nostrils exposed for breathing.
Eunice heard Dewey say, “Okay, I can’t move! You don’t need the gun, Creole! Take the merchandise! Take our money! You can have the goddamn car too!”
Then she heard a smacking sound, like fist striking flesh, and Dewey cried out in pain. And she heard a thud against the metal wall of the storage room and then a low moan from Dewey.
His voice was guttural and choked when he said, “Go ahead and hit me if it makes you feel better, Jerzy. But for God’s sake, don’t hurt my wife!”
To Tristan Hawkins, the man looked like some fucking radio actor in one of those old movies about people performing to a microphone. He was cooking way too much ham here, so Tristan decided to take control.
“Shut the fuck up,” Tristan said. “I’m sick of hearin’ you.”
Unable to surrender the stage, Dewey moaned again and said in a stage whisper, “Okay, I’ll be quiet, but please, please, don’t hurt her! That’s all I ask!”
Then Eunice heard footsteps and knew that one of them had gone out and closed the door behind him. She started crying and had trouble stifling her sobs even when Tristan said, “Lady, you better turn off the faucet, or I’ll tape your mouth shut.”
The next sound Eunice heard was the van pulling up to the storage room. Then the door creaked open and footsteps came near her and she was lifted by the man with the big hands and dragged along the floor. She heard the van door slide open, and the man grunted as he lifted her onto the floor of the van and rolled her to the back of the cargo space.
Then Dewey moaned aloud and said, “Ohhh, my ribs. They hurt!” as he pounded the floor of the van and made sounds that he thought indicated he was also being manhandled.
Tristan was getting really concerned now. He was sure that Bernie’s performance was way over the top, so he jumped into the passenger seat of the van, reached behind him, and grabbed Dewey’s shoulder, saying into the man’s face, “I want… you… to… shut… the… fuck… up. And, dawg, this ain’t a woof, it’s a warnin’. You feel me?”
Dewey seemed to get the message and was silent after the van door was shut. Jerzy got in, dropped it into gear, and drove to the exit gate. Sam didn’t even look out but hit a button and the car gate swung open.
Tristan saw the Polack turn around and grin, his meth-stained donkey teeth glinting in the bluish glow from the security lights. Then they were out onto the street and heading to Frogtown.
The sex crimes detective at West Bureau called from home to Hollywood Station at the same time that Dana Vaughn and Hollywood Nate were enjoying their celebratory pizza with Sergeant Murillo and Sergeant Hermann in the lunchroom.
Dana took her call in the watch commander’s office and was talking to D2 Flo Johnson, whom she knew from her days working narcotics.
“That’s terrific work, Dana,” the detective said. “I’ll run it by my D-three. I think this might be worth some Saturday overtime for my team. I can write a brief search warrant, and after I get a judge to sign it, I’ll fax it to Clark Jones’s cell provider. Then we’ll be in business.”
“You don’t wanna get on it now?” Dana said, disappointed. “It’s kind of personal. In addition to attacking the women, he dumped one of our Hollywood coppers into a swimming pool. You know about that?”
“I did hear something about that,” Flo Johnson said, “but we should wait till tomorrow, when we’re more prepared. If we can’t reach the guy at his billing address, we’ll need to use Major Crimes Division to triangulate from the cell towers. I can’t get all this going tonight.”
“What if he figures the girl may have dimed him and he dumps his cell?”
“Let’s hope he’s home at his billing address on a Saturday. That’d make it easy.”
“We’d like to be there,” Dana said. “If you don’t already have him by tomorrow night, will you call us? We’re Six-X-Seventy-six.”
“Tell you what,” the detective said. “We’ll be on this tomorrow, and if we don’t have the guy in custody by… What time do you clear from roll call?”
“Eighteen hundred.”
“If we’ve got nothing by eighteen hundred, you can come with us to where we’ll be setting up on the billing address. That’s assuming he’s a local boy.”
“I think he is,” Dana said.
“Deal,” said Flo Johnson. “I’ll be in touch with you tomorrow.”
“Roger that,” Dana said. “And thanks for keeping us in the loop.”
“I’m the one who owes you the thanks,” the detective said.
Dana reentered the lunchroom with a smile, until she saw only Sergeant Murillo and Hollywood Nate picking at the remains of the crust.
“Damn, you guys ate all the pizza!” Dana said.
Hollywood Nate pointed toward the empty chair and to the doorway, indicating that the departed Sergeant Hermann was to blame.
“Don’t look at me, Dana. I ordered the super-large,” Sergeant Murillo said apologetically. “You can be sure I’ll be writing you that glowing attagirl as soon as the guy gets popped. In the meantime, can I buy you a burrito?”
Malcolm Rojas had gone to bed very early and was watching TV, as was his mother in the living room, a wine bottle beside her chair. He’d been reliving in his mind this very exciting day, especially the dinner at a real Hollywood restaurant. His rage at Naomi Teller had faded to an annoyance. She wasn’t worthy of his anger. When he made a lot of money with Bernie Graham and bought a new car, he might drive by her house sometime and toot the horn. Then she’d see what she’d missed by being a little bitch.
He was dropping off to sleep when something occurred to him. Naomi had his cell number! Suddenly he was wide awake. He wanted to call her right now. Maybe he could say he was sorry for getting angry on the phone. And maybe she would tell him about the broken window, and of course he would deny knowing anything about it. Or knowing anything about a cop being pushed into a neighbor’s swimming pool.