Magic City Blues, page 8
“Put this against your forehead,” I said, and he did so, moving slowly. “When you can talk, tell me where they are.”
Martin looked up at me through dull eyes. There was blood seeping from his nose, and one side of his mouth was puffy.
“Who?”
I breathed out a little and tried to keep the red ball of rage in the pit of my stomach from rising again and taking over my body.
“Abby Doyle and Laura D’Agostino.”
He tried to shake his head, but the pain stopped him.
“I don’t know, man.”
I wanted to grab him, to shake him until he told me what I wanted to know. But if I laid my hands on him again, I wasn’t sure that I could stop myself from killing him. Somewhere deep inside, I knew I wouldn’t mind killing him. But that didn’t get me where I wanted to go; it didn’t get me any closer to finding Abby and Laura.
“Tell me about the deal you’ve got going with Abby’s father,” I said.
This time Martin did manage to shake his head. It was a slow movement, languid and detached. I was pretty sure he’d be diagnosed with a concussion when he got to the hospital.
If I let him get there.
“I can’t,” he said. “He’ll kill me.”
I stood up, my knees popping from the effort. I kicked him lightly in the ribs, drawing a grunt of discomfort. No pain yet. I wanted him to know it was coming.
“Martin,” I said, and my voice was very tired. “What makes you think I won’t? You think I’m some kind of good guy here. I’m not. I will kill you and sleep like a baby tonight. I’ve done it before.”
“Please,” he said. “I can’t. I don’t know anything.”
My breath was ragged in my ears. I wouldn’t have to do much to let the genie out of the bottle. All I had to do was let go just a little. But that wouldn’t get me what I wanted. Martin James cowered on the floor in front of me. I wasn’t sure how much more I could frighten him until he became useless to me. The bigger question, for me, was how much more I could take. I’d beaten people up before. I’d even killed once or twice—good luck finding the bodies—but I wasn’t good at torture. If this went on much longer, I’d end up hating myself.
I would still do it, though. I had to know where D’Agostino and Abby had gone. I needed to find them. It wasn’t professional pride, although that was part of it. I couldn’t let something happen to Abby, or Doyle would put a contract out on me. And I wouldn’t blame him. But D’Agostino was something else. She was a tough, wised-up broad, and I liked her. And I was pretty sure she liked me, too. That was kind of hard to find for a guy like me, and the fact that it was there and unspoken made me happy and scared at the same time.
If something happened to her, it would be my fault. I brought her into this, and she continued helping me off the books, even when she didn’t have to. Sure, she was using me. I was her best lead to figure out who killed Britt Parker. But she’d been in my corner, figured out where Abby had gone all on her own.
I hadn’t lied to Martin James. If I had to kill him to find out where Abby and D’Agostino were, I would do it with a smile on my face, no matter how it felt afterward.
That’s when I heard the door open behind me, and I turned. I thought I was ready for anything, but it turns out that I wasn’t. Laura D’Agostino entered the office with her gun drawn, her right index finger on the trigger. He left hand cupped the butt of the weapon, and her feet were at a ninety-degree angle. She was balanced on the balls of her feet, and she was staring down the barrel of her service weapon, her left eye squinted slightly, her right eye wide open and seeing everything. Her face was scraped raw along one cheekbone, and her hair had fallen around her shoulders, greasy and rancid with sweat. Her hands were filthy with dirt, her nails ringed black with the stuff.
“Get out of the way,” she said to me. “I’m going to shoot the bastard.”
Twelve
Martin James’ eyes widened, and he scrambled to get away from the wall and put the desk between himself and D’Agostino. I got out of the way, managing to keep myself between Martin and the big semi-automatic I’d taken from his desk. Sure, it was unloaded, but if he could manage to get to that bazooka and pick it up, he could still do some damage with it as a projectile.
“What. The. Fuck. Is. Going. On.” D’Agostino said. “You have about two seconds to start talking before you get a third eye, right in the middle of your goddamned forehead.”
Martin put his hands up in front of his face, for all the good that would do him. I’d seen guys shot through the hands before, lying on the ground or on a slab in the morgue. Defensive wounds, they called them. As if a hand raised in the act of begging for your life could ever be a defensive tactic.
I’m not a guy who will die of old age in his bed. Eventually there will be a bullet or a knife blade out there with my name on it, and I hope to God that I go out with more guts than guys like Martin James.
“Don’t shoot,” he said, his voice cracking. “Don’t shoot please for the love of God don’t shoot me.”
D’Agostino kept the pistol leveled at his head. She glanced over at me, then back to Martin. Her trigger finger was fish-belly pale with the effort not to fire a round through Martin’s head.
“What do you have going on with Carlton Doyle?” I asked again. His eyes never left the barrel of D’Agostino’s weapon.
“I’m just — I put the proposal together to buy Carraway Hospital. That’s all. I don’t have anything to do with this — ” he waved his hands at us, at the room in general “ — whatever this is.”
Carraway Hospital is in north Birmingham and its skeletal frame looms like a half-destroyed zombie over the Norwood neighborhood. Its 10-story main building and 52 surrounding acres had been left to fester, die, and decompose over the past decade. The place had a long history in the city as the hospital for Blacks in the city, and during segregation it had even turned away white Freedom Riders who were injured in clashes with racist whites.
Since it closed in 2008, the area had been sold and re-sold as the neighborhood around it stayed mostly working class and very Black. Attempts to gentrify the area had been rebuffed for years by the locals.
“Carlton Doyle owns Carraway?” D’Agostino said, and lowered her weapon a little. “Since when?”
Martin was more at ease when the gun wasn’t pointing directly at his face. He was talking about something he knew, now, Birmingham real estate, and the words poured out like a faucet that’s just been turned on.
“I mean, his name isn’t on it, that’s all shell corporations and bullshit,” he said. “But he owns eighty percent of it. I got ten for putting the deal together, and the other ten went to, you know, grease the wheels with the city. You don’t grease the wheels, they don’t turn.”
“Uh-huh,” D’Agostino said. “Who is involved on the city’s end?”
Now Martin shook his head.
“Are you kidding? Be easier to tell you who isn’t involved. The ones I know about are the obvious ones, like planning and zoning, a couple of commissioners. You could figure that out by yourself. But I got no idea who Doyle’s got on his payroll. I just know everybody’s got their hand out on this one.”
“That’s everywhere,” D’Agostino said. “How is this any different?”
Martin took in a deep breath and blew it out while he thought about how to explain the situation to us.
“It’s mostly a matter of scale,” he said. “It’s fifty-two acres in north Birmingham. First time it sold, it went for six million. This time? A hundred and ten. Folks move to Birmingham, they want to live in the city, they don’t wanna live out in the suburbs. So Carlton figures buy the property, set it up as mixed-use. Restaurants and entertainment, put in some high-end condos, too. Gated, sure, because the white kids who buy will want to keep the Black folks out. But nobody straight will deal with him because he’s a fucking crook, for Christ’s sake. Me? They know me. I helped put together Patton Creek, the Summit, rehabbing Brookwood Mall, I got a good rep for getting deals done and making money.”
“So you helped him?” I said softly.
Martin looked away.
“I got a little cash-flow problem right now. Nothing major, it’s gonna clear up in a couple months. But Carlton solved it for me. I owe him.”
He took a deep breath in, hitched a little, and gently rubbed at the spot where I’d hit him. It was already purpling, and the lump had begun to look like an alien third eye.
“You got a punch like a goddamn mule kick,” he said. I tried to look modest, which is not always an easy thing for me.
D’Agostino made a rolling motion with her finger. She had Martin talking now, and she didn’t want the flow of information to dry up.
“So you helped Carlton Doyle out,” she said, “by being the public face of his deal to buy Carraway.”
“Sure,” he said. “Nothing to it. And you know the thing about developing, right? It’s a good place to put your money if you got, say, some extra sitting around.”
“Uh-huh,” D’Agostino said. “Dirty money goes in, clean money comes out.”
“Changes places and handy-dandy,” I said. “Which is the justice, which is the thief?”
D’Agostino stared at me, puzzlement on her face.
“You are strange,” she said, and then to Martin. “So why kidnap Doyle’s daughter?”
“I never did that.”
“Bullshit. Was he squeezing you too hard?”
But Martin James was adamant. He was already shaking his head before D’Agostino had finished asking her question. And the strange thing is this: I believed him.
“Wasn’t me, I swear. I been here all day. You could ask Jenna, if your gorilla hadn’t scared her away. He wasn’t squeezing me anyway. I got out of my cash-flow problem, he got the hospital deal. I got nothing to do with whatever you two are talking about.”
I put a hand on D’Agostino’s arm. She was safe, so I could see it now. Before, when all I could think of was finding her and Abby, the red haze of rage had clouded my vision. But I understood some things now. Martin was a middleman, a guy looking to profit off of whatever scheme he was involved in. He’d make money with Doyle, but he’d also skim some from whatever contractors they hired to complete the renovation and resuscitate the Carraway property. He wasn’t violent. I’d proven that before D’Agostino had arrived, and the real fear he’d shown when she stuck her weapon in his face was enough to make him fold like a cheap suit when she questioned him.
“He’s right,” I said. “There’s lots of money here. There’s a lot for everybody, right? Mostly for Carlton Doyle, but think about it. Who else would want a piece of the pie?”
It didn’t take her long.
“Shit,” she said, and turned to Martin.
“Has anyone been giving you a hard time? Anybody really pissed about somebody buying Carraway?”
“I mean, sure. Lots of people in Norwood don’t wanna see it get developed. They want their neighborhood hospital back, but that shit’s been gone. It’s gone for good.”
D’Agostino nodded along.
“Yes, but has anyone specific been complaining? Anybody come by to see you?”
James looked at her, his eyes wary. But he’d come too far to back out now. He opened his mouth, and the words came out in a rush.
“Becks Towson sent a couple guys around, tried to muscle in. You know the guy thinks he owns everything from East Lake to Ensley. When I told ‘em Carlton Doyle was involved, they cleared out pretty quick.”
“Becks Towson,” D’Agostino said. Her voice was soft and thoughtful.
“Goddamn,” I said. My breath quickened, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Becks Towson was bad news. If I had known he was involved, I wouldn’t have agreed to watch Abby. Hell, I probably would have saved myself time and just shot myself in the head.
D’Agostino went to Martin’s desk and picked up the receiver to his phone. She kept her body turned toward both myself and Martin as she reached for the keypad.
“Nine to dial out?” She asked, and Martin nodded.
“Hold on,” I said. “What are you doing?”
“Calling the precinct,” she said. “We’ve got a material witness in a money-laundering and bribery scheme. We’ll need forensic accountants to go through Martin’s files, find enough to bring Doyle in. Money-laundering, maybe even a RICO violation.”
I shook my head.
“Don’t do that,” I said. Then, lower, my lips near her ear so that Martin wouldn’t hear. “You’re off the case, remember? They’ve got the skids greased, and that means that some cops are probably involved, too. There’s no way you can know who to trust.”
“You’re talking about people I work with,” she said, and even though her voice was nothing more than a whisper, her tone was sharp. I probably should have walked away, or at least softened my tone of voice. From the floor, Martin watched us carefully as we talked. He had an inkling that he might get out of this situation alive, so he was being smart and staying out of the way, making himself as small as possible.
“You know how easy it is to get a cop to look away? We’re not talking big money here. Just enough. You know there are crooked cops in your department. There are bent cops everywhere.”
“So I’m supposed to trust you instead? You’re a goddamned crook yourself.”
I nodded. She was right about that. I went through life and did what I did, without a whole lot of thought about right or wrong, lawful or unlawful. I had few rules in my life, and I liked it that way. But now her disapproval stung like an angry wasp.
“You’re right,” I said. “But you can trust me. I do what I say I’ll do. I hired on to protect Abby Doyle. And now I’m in this thing, trying to help you figure out who killed Britt Parker, and it keeps spiraling out of control. This is way more than I ever signed up for. But I’m still here.”
“Welcome to police work,” D’Agostino said, and I snorted.
“Look, Abby’s still out there somewhere. You’re probably the only one who can find her. You haven’t even told me what happened when you left Britt’s place.”
“Don’t worry,” D’Agostino said. “Abby’s fine. She’s in the car.” She paused for a second, and a grin played at the corner of her mouth as she watched my jaw drop to my chest.
“What?”
“Downstairs, in the parking lot. I parked in the shade. She’s fine. Although she was kind of mad when I handcuffed her to the oh-shit handle.”
I was already on my way out the door when I heard her voice float over my shoulder.
“It’s a gray Lincoln Town Car,” D’Agostino said. I turned around, and she lofted a set of handcuff keys toward me. I caught them in both hands. “The keys are in it. But be careful. She’s angry, but probably not as mad as the two guys in the trunk.”
Thirteen
The Lincoln wasn’t hard to find. Neither was the buzzsaw named Abby Doyle. She had reversed herself and shimmied out of the open car window so that she was bent over the door frame. I could hear other, more muted thumps coming from the trunk of the car.
“Hey,” I said, and Abby whirled part way around. Her hand was still inside the window, wrist locked to the door.
“You son of a bitch,” she said. “You just let some assholes waltz in and take us?”
“Not on purpose.”
“You’re supposed to be protecting me, not acting like some fucking sidekick cop wannabe.”
The thumps coming from the trunk were louder now. I walked closer, stepping around to the driver’s side door so that I could get access to her wrist.
“What exactly happened?” I asked, opening the door and sliding into the driver’s seat. “When I came back downstairs, you were both just … gone.”
Abby shrugged her shoulders and the handcuffs jingled lightly like an off-key wind chime in a soft breeze. I reached over and unlocked the cuff from her wrist first, then from around the—as D’Agostino had called it—the “oh shit” handle on the front roof support. She held her wrist tightly against her chest and rubbed at the red mark where the cuff had chafed against her skin.
“These two guys came in with their guns drawn,” Abby said. “They got the drop on your friend and grabbed me. One of them held a gun to my head and told her to put hers down or they were gonna shoot me.”
“Got the drop on her?” I said. “You deal with just one pair of kidnappers and suddenly you’re Mickey Spillane.”
“Who’s that?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “But if you tell me they took D’Agastino’s gat, you’re going in the trunk with them.”
Abby looked at me blankly. She had no idea what I was talking about. Why should she be any different?
“How did they end up in the trunk?”
Abby shrugged.
“I really don’t know. One was driving, and the other was in the back with us. Laura—that’s her name, right?—told me to duck down in the floorboard and make myself as small as possible.”
“What happened then?”
“There was a lot of swerving and cussing. I could feel them shoving around above me, but I couldn’t really tell what was going on. It sounded like someone had set a wildcat loose.”
“You didn’t look?”
“I was scared shitless, Kincaid,” she said. “I didn’t want to see her die.”
Now there were tears running down Abby’s cheeks. Red spots the size of fifty-cent pieces had appeared high on her cheeks, and she still held her formerly cuffed wrist between her breasts. She was shaking with fear and fury, and I recognized the signs of both. I held up my hands, palms out, trying to make peace with her.
“The next thing I know, the car’s on the side of the road and the two guys are face-down on the pavement. She put these plastic things on their wrists—”
“Zip ties?”
“Is that what they’re called? I guess so. She made them get in the trunk and lie down. And then we came here.”
