Baby Face, page 5
part #2 of Bubba Mabry Series
"What did you hear?"
"It was like somebody was crying, like a little baby crying, but very low, very loud. I do not know what it was that I was hearing."
Bongo's hands snatched at his clothes, trying to pull them tight around him to protect him from whatever he'd heard.
"So you didn't knock?"
"Sheet, no, Meestah Bubba. I came for you."
We tracked off down the sidewalk, me still in my sock feet, until we reached Room 102. We stood outside the door, braced to run, listening intently, hearing nothing.
I motioned for Bongo to unlock the door. I cocked my pistol and pointed it aloft. Bongo turned the key ever so gently, holding it at arm's length, ready to flee.
I turned the knob and sprang through the door, swinging the gun around. The only person in the room was lying across the bed, her naked legs tangled in the sheets. She wore nothing but white cotton panties, the kind a little girl would wear.
I snapped back to the present and found myself standing outside the door to my room, my keys limp in my hand. Moths flitted around the specked yellow bulb, hammering the supposedly bug-proof light. It was as if they were attracted to the light but repelled at the same time, banging their heads against the bulb then staggering away to recuperate and ask themselves why they keep doing that.
Below the light, transparent packing tape shimmered on the wall. It held my business card, my only advertising besides the yellow pages. The card says "Wilton 'Bubba' Mabry, Confidential Investigations, Central Avenue." I stared at it, my professional emblem, my shingle, and knew exactly how those bugs felt.
I unlocked the door and went inside to pour myself a bourbon.
My hands were shaky, and the whiskey didn't sit well. For a moment I had been back in that room with the pretty, young corpse, her face like a baby's, her neck twisted like a purple rope. I fought to keep from blinking, afraid that closing my eyes, even for an instant, would bring the image back.
Deena had appeared in my dreams like that, lying across the bed limply, one hand trailing off the edge, her hair a tangled fan behind her. The bed had seemed to float in my nightmares, rocking gently in the breeze that blew through the open window.
I'd start awake and kick away the sweaty sheets. Then I'd take deep breaths and listen to my heart slow down, and tell myself nightmares were a normal reaction to finding a murdered corpse. My brain eventually would accept it, would file it away with the other dead people I'd seen over the years. Finding bodies is a hazard of living on the Cruise. You learn to adjust, or you go crazy. Or you pack up your stuff and move someplace where murder is an oddity, something that only happens to bad people. A place where freckled children frolic on green lawns and people brake for animals and a prostitute is something you see on Sixty Minutes.
I poured myself another drink.
CHAPTER FIVE
I awoke early the next morning, a hangover beating a steady samba in my temples. Nothing two cups of coffee and three aspirin couldn't cure, however, and I was soon in the shower, washing away old memories and yesterday's sweat. I shaved, then spent ten minutes in front of the mirror combing my thinning brown hair, trying to cover the bare spots.
I hummed to myself as I selected clean jeans and a blue shirt from my closet. It felt good to have work to do, to be getting an early start on it. If Felicia wanted to play her little games, maybe I'd just rush right out and solve the murders. Teach her a lesson. And maybe get the dreams of Deena to flee my mind.
My first stop was the headquarters of the Albuquerque Police Department. I found a parking space by a curb meter on Tijeras Avenue, plugged in a quarter, and crossed Civic Plaza to reach the entrance to the six-story bunker. Civic Plaza deserves its place in the center of Downtown, truly representative of the Downtown scene with its acres of concrete, withering imported shrubs, and chunky gray fountain, all overseen by quirky postmodern government buildings and the peaked roofs of the two Albuquerque Plaza towers.
I waited in the tiny, video-monitored lobby of the police station while a uniformed guard phoned Homicide and made sure it was okay for me to go upstairs. My old pal Steve Romero must've agreed, because the guard gave me a visitor's badge and jerked his head toward the elevators.
Romero sat at his desk, munching an egg burrito. I could smell the green chile from across the cluttered room. The aroma made my stomach quiver, but I swallowed the hangover bile and weaved between empty desks to reach him.
It figured Romero was the first one at the office. He was probably the last to leave at night, too. The Homicide lieutenant is the one guy in the APD I respect. I've let my admiration show in the past, and I think that's why he's always nice to me. Or as nice as a cop can be. It's hard for them to come down from their daily level of irritability. They take it out on most anyone who crosses them. Sick humor and cussing and chest-thumping. Most cops are rough old boys, and their offices tend to sound – and smell – like locker rooms.
Romero is bigger than all that. He's quiet and strong and, well, shit, dignified. Whenever I'm around him, I always feel loose-jointed and goofy and more gullible than ever.
His desk sagged under the weight of the thick files and wire baskets of reports that covered all but the narrow space in the center. Just room enough for Romero's breakfast and his elbows. I sat on a hard chair beside his desk and said my hellos.
He wagged the burrito at me like a limp penis and said, "Bite?"
"No, thanks. I love chile, but never before lunchtime."
"That's because you're always hung over in the morning."
"Not always." I felt a little green around the gills, and I wondered if it showed. I'd read enough Sherlock Holmes to know a deductive mind like Romero's could pick up any little signal. I work hard to observe that well myself, but I've never been lightning-quick about it like Romero. Usually, by the time I figure out I'm about to step in shit, it's time to clean my shoe.
"So what's going on that you're down here so early in the day? I thought you private eyes slept till noon."
"Well, you know what they say about the early bird and the worm. I think you and I are hunting the same worm."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I've been hired to look into the killings of those hookers."
"Is that so? I'd be interested in who might want to hire you for that."
"I knew you would be, but you know I can't say. I probably wouldn't tell you if I could. I'm not too proud of it."
Romero watched me from underneath his eyebrows, then a grin split his square face.
"Sultan Sweeney? You're working for a pimp?"
I don't know why I don't just write my secrets on my face with a Magic Marker.
"Now, I didn't say that. You're welcome to make all the guesses you want. I'm not saying anything."
Romero chuckled and shook his head. The burrito had to be getting cold in his hand, but he seemed to have forgotten about it. I wished he would go ahead and finish it so I wouldn't have to smell the damned thing.
"I know times must be hard after that Elvis business," he said, "but I didn't think you'd ever end up working for a pimp."
I said nothing, but I could feel my ears burning.
Romero scowled at the cold food in his hand, dumped it onto the foil it had come in, wadded it up and tossed it in the trash. The disposal did nothing to rid the air of the chile stench. I felt queasy, uneasy.
When he turned back to me, Romero said, "You know Sweeney's a prime suspect in those killings, Bubba. He might just be keeping his girls in line."
"I heard you guys don't have anything on him, that you can't even bust him for pimping."
"Where'd you hear that?"
"I can't say."
Romero studied me some more, and it felt like my face was melting before his gaze.
"Some things never change, eh, Bubba? Here you are again, trying to get information from me, but not willing to give me anything in return."
"I know it must seem like that—"
"Because it is like that. Always. I don't know why I ever help you with anything."
I struggled to come up with a plausible answer, and finally said, "Maybe it's because you know the more people snooping around, the more likely something will break."
"I'm not sure I agree with that," he said. "Most cops think private eyes are just publicity-seekers who get in the way."
"You're not most cops."
Romero shrugged, inclined his head toward me, like he couldn't argue with a compliment.
"Look, all I want is whatever you've given the newspapers. I've got those clippings somewhere, but I thought I'd get a more complete picture from you."
"But you've got a contact at the Gazette now, don't you? How's that going?"
"Don't ask."
"That's too bad, Bubba. You need a good woman to shape you up."
"Think I need shaping up?"
"I always have."
"So you just play along with me, waiting to see if I get my act together?"
"Something like that."
"I appreciate you being so understanding." I couldn't keep the sarcasm out of my tone, even though I needed something from him.
"Don't mention it."
He leaned back in his swivel chair, laced his fingers across his wide chest, and let the grin spread across his face. No sense trying to bullshit this guy, I thought, he gets too much of it every day from people on the street, from the other cops who occupy these empty, battered desks.
Just as I was working up to whining, he sat forward suddenly and said, "Okay, Bubba, here it is."
He gave it to me fast and straight, so fast I barely kept up taking notes. He spun it all out from his head: dates, details, descriptions. It was like Evelyn Wood reading the files on his desk aloud.
"The first murder occurred around three o'clock the morning of March thirteenth at a roach palace called the Conquistador Motor Lodge. You know the place? The victim was a Hispanic male named Felix Rodriguez, aged twenty-four, five-foot-five, a hundred and forty pounds."
"Wait a minute. I'm talking about the hookers, not some guy."
"Ah, but Felix was a hooker. See, you come in here thinking about the three girls of Sultan's who've been killed. But you don't know the whole story. There've been four murders on East Central in less than three months."
"Yeah, but the ones I'm interested in are the girls."
"Right. Because they're Sultan's girls and you're working for him."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to. Anyway, I don't think you can overlook young Felix. It might all be connected."
"I don't see how, but, okay, go ahead."
"So, Felix's body is found after somebody is woke up by the noise. Amazing anybody at the Conquistador would bother to check, don't you think?"
"They must be slipping."
"Somebody took it to young Felix pretty good. His face was all caved in, and both arms were broken, and they'd carved on him some with a knife. Cut off his dick and his balls and carefully threw them in the trash can."
That made me squirm on the hard chair. Romero leaned toward me.
"And that's not the sick part."
"There's more?"
"Coroner found semen in the big gash where the guy's dick was supposed to be."
"You mean—"
"Someone made Felix into a girl and fucked him."
"Ah, Jesus—"
"Hey, it was what he always wanted. You didn't know Felix? He was a drag queen, a little beautician who worked weekends in high heels and tight dresses. He liked to surprise the johns with the fact he was a boy. He'd been in the hospital once or twice after johns busted him up, but he kept doing it. He needed the money."
"Drug habit?"
"Naw, Felix was clean. For his operation. Felix really wanted to be a girl, see, and he was saving up his blow-job money."
I was silent for a moment. "So he got his wish."
"Yeah, he was just too dead to know it."
"What makes you think all this is related to Sultan's girls?"
"The semen. Two of the hookers were raped. The coroner got the blood type from the semen and it appears to be the same."
"Could be coincidence."
"Sure could. But, hey, you wanted all the facts. There's Felix's story. You figure out how it fits. All I know is, it counts when the mayor's office calls down here and screams at us about four murders on the Cruise in less than three months."
I nodded. It must've been rough for Romero. His boss, a ruddy old-timer named Morgan, had retired recently, and the new Homicide chief was a dickhead named LeRoy Schulte whose best qualification is that he looks good in a suit. If the mayor's office was pouring heat on the department, Schulte doubtlessly funneled it to Romero. The election-time publicity generated by the Bible-thumpers couldn't be helping.
"Okay," he said, "so the second murder happened sometime the morning of April sixth. One of Sultan's girls, name of Hazel Melton, went by the name Busty. Anglo girl, thirty-two years old, already getting old for the Cruise, and her big tits were beginning to sag.
"She'd been beaten up pretty good, like she'd tried to fight and lost. Broken ribs, broken jawbone. Cut her, too. One of her tits was missing."
"Missing? Like not in the room?"
"Like not anywhere. We don't know where it went. Believe me, we've looked."
"Christ, this fucker's sick."
"If it's the same guy."
"But you said—"
"And you said the blood type could be a coincidence. That's the case. Now shut up and listen."
I nodded, pen poised, mouth shut.
"Third victim was the girl you found, Deena Meyers. I don't suppose you need to hear about her."
I shook my head, swallowed. I'd seen plenty of Deena.
"She was the only one who wasn't raped."
"But she was already dead. What, he wasn't in the mood?"
"Dead or alive doesn't seem to mean much to this dude when he's horny. If it's the same guy. I imagine he heard you coming before he could finish his business, and left by the window."
It had been that close. The guy must've still been in the room when Bongo heard the wailing, must've still been working on her. We'd just missed him.
"Fourth victim was done about four days ago," Romero continued. "Mulatto female went by Angelica. We still don't know her real name. Her prints weren't on file anywhere, so I guess she was new to the Cruise. The boys in Vice never heard of her.
"I say about four days ago because the coroner had trouble pinning it down. Her body was found day before yesterday after her landlord wondered about the smell coming from her room. She was busted up pretty good. Broken collarbone, right arm, skull fractures, the works."
"Not cut up?"
"No, looks like our boy started leaving his knife at home."
"If it's the same guy."
"Right. Look at the M.O.'s. They don't match up. He uses a knife, he doesn't use a knife. He beats them to a pulp, Deena hardly had a mark on her. One's a boy, the rest are girls. Go figure."
Exactly what I intended to do. I had to figure out the connection the police had missed if I was going to solve this before Felicia could.
"They all have one thing in common," Romero said, reading my face. "No sign of forced entry. 'Course, with hookers, getting into the room is rarely the problem."
The gruesome descriptions hadn't made my stomach feel any better, but I managed to stand and thank Romero. He made a show of running me off as another detective arrived for work.
The burrito's aroma hadn't penetrated the elevator shaft, and my stomach steadied as the car hummed downstairs. I turned in my visitor's badge, stepped out into the still-cool morning air and headed back toward my car. Before I reached the corner of the building, someone shouted behind me.
I glanced over my shoulder – you never know what kind of crazies are hanging out around the cop shop – and saw two guys heading in my direction. The burly one had his hand raised, trying to get my attention. I recognized them, but acted like I didn't and hurried my steps.
"Mabry!" I froze, waited for them to catch up.
The burly plainclothes cop was Sergeant Kevin Borkum, a mean-spirited toad of a man with a crooked mustache running along his wide upper lip and an eye that floated off to one side so you could never tell where he was looking. The other was his partner, Officer Bates, a thin guy with a stoop, like his crew cut was too heavy for his skinny neck to hold up. Everybody calls him Norman behind his back.
Borkum and Bates have been working Vice together along the Cruise for six or seven years, long enough to see many sick things, and it's had its effect. They have that perverse us-against-the-world zeal that comes from being too tired too long. They wear matching black windbreakers and the same brand of sneakers and the same sneer. Doesn't matter they're too obvious for undercover. Every hooker in town knows their faces anyway.
I waited near some tall shrubs while Borkum waddled up to face me and Bates circled behind me like an emaciated ghost. Borkum stood too close, so I could smell his cigarette breath, and looked up into my face from the red-rimmed pouches that enclosed both eyes. I tried not to stare at the floater.
"You're Bubba Mabry, right?"
There was no denying it. Our paths had crossed before.
"What were you doing seeing Romero?"
"What do you mean? I was checking on a client."
Borkum stabbed my chest with a thick finger. "Don't bullshit me. I saw your name on the register. It said you were going to see Romero."
"Oh, well, yeah. That's true. Steve Romero is an old friend of mine and – "
He jabbed me again. I bristled, but I held my hands close to my sides and didn't move. Bates was close behind me.
"What Lieutenant Romero and I discuss is probably none of your business, Sergeant. If you want to know about it, ask him."
"I'm asking you, you fuck."
"Now, Sergeant, don't get rude." My mouth was running under its own power. The things that came out made me wince, but there was nothing I could do. When cornered, most people fight or fly or cower. I talk. "And tell Norman to stop breathing down my neck."
