Are these humps for real? “Shut up already! Save this crap for another time. What’s important right now is to understand that Mota thinks we did Froelich. He thinks we killed his lover to send him a message.”
“He does?”
“Wouldn’t you? We broke his uniform’s legs.”
“But Froelich was one of ours. We wouldn’t do one of ours.”
“What if Froelich and Wu were really on Mota’s side?”
Confused stares all around.
I elaborated. “Mota had something going with Froelich and Wu. They were in business together. Anybody know anything about that?”
They threw one another questioning stares. Nobody had answers, and their bewildered gazes eventually came back to me. It wasn’t surprising Wu and Froelich had frozen out these three. Why cut their share three extra ways?
What pissed me off was Wu and Froelich let me pick a fight with Mota without clueing me in.
“Here’s the deal, boys. While we were suspecting Mota killed Froelich, he was thinking it was us trying to intimidate him into backing down. Mota even threatened me, told me I was going to pay for Froelich.”
“Ironic,” said Deluski.
Lumbela gave him a sour face as if to say, Why the fuck are you bringing big words into this?
“Listen to me,” I said. “We’re exposed on this. If Mota finds out I was at Wu’s crime scene, he will become more certain than ever that I was the killer. The evidence will lead away from us, sure as shit, but the task force might be coaxed out of following the real trail. It all depends on how much sway Mota has over the investigation. The sooner we bring the real killer down, the sooner we clear our names, and if we are the serial’s next targets, the sooner we make ourselves safe.”
Kripsen blew a cloud of smoke. “What’s the plan?”
Ghost pain made me wish I could rub my right hand, my right wrist. The best I could do was keep massaging my shoulder. “I need one of you to write down names of all the people you guys have fucked over. You bastards have done some ugly shit. I need to know who might be looking for retribution. I want that list before I wake up in the morning.”
Lumbela pointed a thumb at himself. “I can do that.”
I turned to Kripsen. “I need you to get down to the Office of Records and pull Froelich and Wu’s case files. You know as well as I do that some things don’t make it into the public record, but it’s a good place to start. Comb through those files and write down anything that could be related.”
I turned to Deluski. His eyes looked older than they had a few days ago. “I need you to go down to the morgue to see Abdul Salaam. You know him?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell him I sent you. Get paper copies of everything he’s got.”
“Paper?”
“I don’t want anything electronic. Until we get the Mota situation under control, I’m too hot to get on the grid. I need you to work up a history on that body with the tattoo. I want to know everything there is to know about him.”
“Got it,” said Deluski before erupting in a broad smile.
“Something funny?”
“No.” His grin turned sheepish. “It’s just-”
“It’s just what?”
“I was just thinking. It’s almost like we’re real police again.”
There was hope for this one. “Like real police,” I acknowledged. “Now get out of here so I can sleep.”
They headed for the door. I lifted my aching arm and swung it back and forth, hoping a little movement might bring some relief.
“You gonna be okay there?” asked Deluski from the doorway.
Damned if I know. “I’m fine.”
“What kind of lizard did he turn into?”
“What does that matter?”
“Monitor? Iguana?”
“He didn’t turn into an actual lizard, you know.”
“More like a man in a lizard mask, I know. But were there any markings? Stripes or ridges?”
“Stripes. Rust red stripes.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know. Two, maybe three. Who cares?”
“Ridges?”
“Fucking quit bothering me with this shit.”
“You sure you don’t need something for that arm?”
“Yes, dammit. Now get the fuck out.”
“Good night, boss.”
The door swung shut. I lay back and let my head rest on the pillow. I stretched my arm out alongside my body. Shit, that hurts. It was going to be a long night.
A knock came on the door. “Yeah?”
Maria poked her head in, more hair than head. “Those drugs wear off yet?”
“Yeah.”
“I got a bottle.”
“Now you’re talking.”
I didn’t want to open my eyes. My hungover head hurt. Same for my arm.
And that smell wasn’t helping. Like somebody was trying to smother me with flowers. Fake flowers. The kind of perfumey shit that comes from a can. I felt something on my chest. It wasn’t one of those straps from the doctor’s. This was warm. An arm.
My eyes opened. I was clothed. Maria was clothed too, her usual-skimpy and slutty. When was she going to learn she wasn’t a hooker anymore?
I remembered waking up when she’d told me she was tired of sleeping in the sex swing. I remembered wanting to object when she squeezed in next to me, but I didn’t object. Not when I felt her warmth against me. Not when I felt her nuzzle into my shoulder.
I was letting this relationship get too cozy. We’d have to have a little talk. She had to know I was a one-woman guy. I put on my shades. Niki’s shades.
I slipped out from under her arm and climbed out of bed. One-handed, I undid my top two buttons and wrestled my shirt over my head. I nabbed a clean one from the pile on the floor and put my arms through the long sleeves. Leaving it unbuttoned, I tucked my piece into my belt and stepped out of the room.
Closing the door behind me, I found a sheet of paper taped to the door frame. I pulled it off and scanned the list of names Lumbela had compiled. Not as long as I thought it would be. I shoved it into my ass pocket and moved down the hall, my left hand working the shirt’s snaps on the way. Lucky for me, it was one of the shirts Niki had modified by substituting snaps for buttons.
Hookers were lined up outside the showers. They looked domestic in their robes, their hair pillow-pressed into all kinds of hair spray horrors. I checked the time. Just past noon. Early morning for a whorehouse.
I snapped the last snap and wondered what to do with my right sleeve. Roll it up? Pin it up? Fuck it. I let it dangle like a limp dick.
I hit the stairs and strode toward the front door. I had to find Maggie, set things straight.
“Juno.”
I stopped. Marek Deluski approached, his uniform starched and pressed, a green folder pinned under his arm, a steaming round of fried dough in his hand. “Hey, I got those papers you wanted.” He held up the bread. “You want some? They’re making these in the kitchen.”
My rumbling stomach said yes. I followed him into the kitchen, the smell of warm bread wafting about magnificently. A pair of hookers worked the fryer. Rounds of golden bread were bubbling inside. The hookers wore aprons over their work clothes-fishnets down low, hairnets up top. Next to the fryer sat a pile of fry breads atop a wire rack. I took one, doused it in honey, set another on top, then folded them up like a taco.
I bit into them. They were crunchy and chewy at the same time. Sweet honey oozed across my tongue. So good! I really should eat more. I should schedule it. Three times a day like a regular person.
“Let’s walk,” I said between bites. “I gotta go see somebody.”
“Who?”
I blew off the question. “Did you go through the files?”
“Yeah.” He took the folder he’d been carrying and tucked it under my half-arm. “I took a cab over here so I could skim through them on my way over.”
“What did you find?”
“The dead guy who had the same tat as Froelich, he was rich.”
“Did you know him? Ever seen him with Froelich?”
“No. But Froelich didn’t make a habit of parading his boy toys around.”