Tequila Dirty Page 3

  Alone in the thickly carpeted elevator, I examined my reflection in the brass doors. Little ol’ Rita Deltone from Lemon Run, headed for the penthouse in a fancy pants hotel. Headed for disaster, was what it was, but I had no idea. Taking deep breaths, I went calm, reassuring myself this was my chance at the big time. Mr. Finestein wasn’t used to hookers, so he was sure to be a gentleman. Ruben would show up in time, and he’d pay me just like he promised.

  I can talk myself into almost anything if I want it bad enough.

  The top floor had just two rooms, both huge suites overlooking the ocean. The west side of the floor was one long wide-open bar, but it was empty of customers. Nobody wanted to sit there drinking, only to look out at the parking lot, the traffic on A1A, the lineup of strip malls with high-end restaurants. Not when there were some very fine outdoor bars on the beach. Tiki bars, dancing bars, karaoke bars, setting right smack on the sand.

  The lone bartender looked up from the magazine she was reading. “Havin’ a ball, hon?” she asked, so I nodded. She looked middle-aged but fit, with pretty copper hair. She said, “Have a good one,” then went back to her People. George Clooney was on the cover, so I sure as hell couldn’t fault her none.

  “Oh, yeah, I’ll have me a goddamn ball, all right,” is what I muttered under my breath. Like I really did belong at the Beach Club, and this really was a date.

  First double door I stopped at, the brass plate said “Butterfly Suite.” Next one down was the one I wanted. I smoothed back my hair with my sweaty hands, licked my dried out lips. Then I knocked on the door to the Dragonfly Suite.

  This is where my story takes a turn for ugly.

  The door swung open to a mostly naked Asian man with a hotel towel wrapped around his narrow waist. “Miss Deltone?” he asked, and I nodded. “Come in, please,” he said, stepping back.

  The entire room was bathed in hot liquid light. Sunshine streamed in through floor-to-ceiling windows. I was so distracted by the enormous view of white sand and turquoise sea that I didn’t notice the mess right off. When I did, the Asian man had already shut the door behind me.

  “Mr. Finestein expecting you. Unfortunately, now he indisposed.”

  The naked man lying on his back in the middle of the wall-to-wall carpet looked bad. And he had to be Finestein. He had a yarmulke on. The guy was overweight, bloated. Foam dripped from his mouth, and his eyes bulged. He was white and rigid, like a figure in a wax museum. I would’ve screamed, but the Asian man told me straight out not to make any noise.

  “No sound, please, or I yank chain,” is what he said. He wasn’t much for small talk. Under different circumstances, I might’ve appreciated that about him. “Swamp Barbie,” he said next and giggled. I felt faintly insulted. “Where your employer, infamous Dr. Drake?” He said it like it was funny.

  I didn’t know what to say. This wasn’t part of my rehearsed script. With a frightened shiver, I glanced away from him and down at the man on the floor. His feet were orange, maybe from wearing leather shoes all the time.

  “Don’t worry about Mr. Finestein,” my surprise host said. “Not your type. Have bedroom failure.” He giggled again.

  Before he walked around me to stand between me and the corpse, I leaned in and took a good hard look. No doubt about it, Mr. Finestein was a goner. He seemed so icy, lying there on the floor. Icy and vulnerable.

  “Can I cover him with a blanket?” I asked without thinking. You know how I do that, talk without figuring what the guy might do to me after. Never have got the hang of that one. “He looks real bad.”

  My host laughed. “Oh, he bad, all right. Mr. Finestein very bad man.”

  When he bent over to retrieve a pack of cigarettes from a low glass coffee table, I couldn’t help it. I caught a glimpse of his ball sack. It did not turn me on, but I’ll admit, I looked anyway.

  He suckled his cigarette, staring out the tall windows at the frothy waves. The surf was high. You could see a row of bronzed surfers catching some gnarly waves. At least, I think they were gnarly. I don’t speak surfer, not fluently. I’m an inlander, remember.

  “Where your boss? He come when you call, right?” He crossed his skinny arms and rocked on his heels. I couldn’t tell if he was a threat or not. He seemed so casual, so slight. His accent threw me, too. Plus, the ball sack sighting was still on my mind. “So, call. You call doctor, maybe he fix this.” He snickered.

  I doubted Ruben could fix much of anything, especially not the dead man on the rug. But I took my phone out of my pocket and pressed one. “He’ll be here any minute,” I said. “Mind if I leave, let you two work out the details?”

  I backed up a step. I was still in the foyer, but the sunlit room and the two men in the center of it were making me sweat. The suite was like a greenhouse. Rivulets slid down my sides toward my hips. My legs were rubbery, weak. I guess I was scared, kind of in shock. “I’m just an extra on this gig. I had nothing to do with—”

  “Come in, sit down, miss,” he said. I looked away this time when he leaned over to crush his cigarette in a big yellow ashtray shaped like a sombrero. “I ask you something. Then you go.”

  I shrugged and took a wide berth around the body to sit on a crushed velvet loveseat. It was sticky. I thought maybe they’d had sex on it, then the Asian man strangled him. That’s what popped into my head, anyway.

  “Got any cold beer on hand?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  I watched him carefully as he crossed the room. He moved swiftly, smoothly. He found a frosty Heineken in the black leather wet bar and returned, handing it to me along with a pilsner glass. His hands were small, pale, the nails buffed. His manicure was much nicer than mine.

  I ignored the glass and swigged half the bottle. Then I eked out a tiny burp.

  “Swamp etiquette,” he said, then sniggered. I was pretty sure he was laughing at me, but I didn’t take offense. Why bother? I know I’m a rural girl, so what?

  “Where’re you from, anyway?” I asked him. Maybe that was a mistake, but the accent was bugging me. I couldn’t tell if he was Japanese, Chinese, or Korean. “Are you—”

  “Your boss has something belong my boss. Mr. Finestein owe money, he tell me Dr. Drake good for it. I ask you question. Your boss carry gun?”

  I glanced down at Finestein. His head was twisted in a weird direction. Maybe my host had broken the guy’s neck. With his nicely manicured hands. The beer sloshed around in my stomach. Sweat streamed down my back and pooled in the crack of my ass. My voice shook when I said, “Your guess’s good as mine. I only met the guy last night.”

  He laughed. “Innocent bystander?” He dropped the towel to show me his flaccid penis. It wasn’t very big, but it grabbed my attention. “We both in same boat, miss. My boss think like your boss.”

  Ruben was taking forever to show up.

  When I said, “So, can I go now?” the Asian guy laughed. His nudity bothered me even more than the giggling. He seemed to be taunting me. “Okay, fuck this. I’m outta here.” I stood up and headed for the door.

  I didn’t even see him pick it up off the table. I heard a whooshing sound behind me and turned to look over my shoulder. The sombrero ashtray was flying like a Frisbee through the air between us. I ducked too late. It hit me offside the head. Right here, where they had to give me twenty-nine stitches. Knocked me out cold. I might have a concussion if they haven’t already told you that. Concussions are serious. I could have brain damage. Or worse, a permanent scar.

  But here’s where I lost track of the rest of the story. I mean it when I say I don’t have a clue how the Asian man died or who shot him. I figure it was Ruben, but how would I know for sure? Before I got whacked on the head, I never did see a lambskin suitcase. I didn’t check the whole suite, I was plenty distracted. So it might’ve been there somewhere, I don’t know. Maybe Ruben came and got it, maybe not. If he did, he didn’t do nothing to help me out. I could’ve bled to death, if the bartender hadn’t called the cops. I don’t know how s
he heard the gunshot from way down the hall, but I guess George Clooney isn’t as riveting as you’d think.

  I didn’t come to until after they brought me here. Woke up to find my head bandaged and, when I gave them some shit about it, they tied my wrists to the goddamn hospital bed. At least they gave me some pain meds. Talk about headaches. This is like a gin hangover on acid. Flashbacks on top of a jackhammer in my skull.

  So your guess’s good as mine, Detective, what happened after I got decked by the goofy-looking, canary yellow ashtray. But know this. I’m the victim here, not some damn criminal. I didn’t do nothing wrong. Never had the chance.

  I know you think I set the whole thing up, had some kinda orgy, and killed the two of them guys. You say the gun was in my hand, and it looks bad for me. But why aren’t you out looking for that dirty mutha, Ruben Drake, in his you-can’t-miss-me classic car? Talk to Sandy, she’ll tell you I worked a double for her that night cuz I’m so nice and all. Ask around about me and Ruben. I barely know the guy. Why aren’t you over at the goddamn Kettle of Fish right now, grilling Chito? He’ll back me up on how it went down that night. The night I took free drinks from a stranger and took a big old wrong turn.

  Listen to me jawing, talking bad, will you? I’ve really gone into a mood now. Telling you my story’s pulled me so far into it again I feel full of myself. Full of you wow, as old Ruben would say. I mean, I know how I sound. I sound like a stupid swamp bimbo. I could kick myself in the ass. I mean, how’d you feel you thought you were gonna get on the superhighway and you ended up here, at the world’s worst dead end? How’d you feel if you were the one with the shackles and the stitches and the tight white sheets? Not too damn smart, right?

  Right. You know, you don’t seem like such a bad guy. You and me should go out for drinks, I ever get out of this mess. I could sure use a Screw Job.

  But maybe I already had one. One too many, I guess.

  Detective Liam Donell

  Chapter Four

  I didn’t want to take on the case, not this one, not alone. But I had no choice. Hendricks was off for a week, sprawled out on a deck chair on one of those Celebration cruises with his wife of twenty-five years. More power to them, as my dad used to say. My marriage was only one-fifth as old, and it was already on the rocks. Meanwhile, my partner’s rock-solid relationship left me, new guy, holding the bag with a double homicide. And with debriefing the woman. The suspect. Or witness. Rita Deltone.

  God, she was pretty. Even before she came to, I knew she’d suck my heart dry. And sure enough, once I came back from the cafeteria, stomach soured from bad coffee, she was sitting up, cute as hell. And looking right at me. Maybe even through me? Giving me the once over, wide awake after a night zonked on tranquilizers. Except for the bandages, you’d never guess she’d been through hell. She looked so perky. And beautiful. I could hardly breathe. Her hair was matted and stood up in funny spikes around the gauze they’d wrapped around her head. I wanted to brush out the long blonde strands with my hands, ease them away from her small, heart-shaped face. But, of course, I couldn’t do that. So I didn’t.

  I introduced myself, and she nodded, her blue-green eyes cool and appraising. Like she got it immediately what it was I needed from her.

  So what could I do? I went to work. Professional cop, man on a mission. I pulled out a small spiral-bound notebook and sat down in an uncomfortable chair. Near the bed, close enough that I could smell her bleachy, slightly spicy aroma. Peppery.

  I told her about her rights. When I suggested legal counsel, she shook her head. “I want to tell you everything that happened to me. I’m the victim of a con, I got nothing to hide.”

  When I asked her if she minded telling me the whole story from A to Z, she said no, not at all. “Glad to help, Detective. I made some mistakes, I know that, but I got victimized. I fucked up, got fucked over,” she added with a wry smile. Her eyes begged me now. “But hey, can you untie my hands, please?”

  I didn’t have permission to touch her, and I told her that. She must have given the staff a hard time. We hadn’t asked for her to be restrained. I shrugged, said I was sorry. I was, too.

  She stared at me with those pretty ocean-colored eyes until I asked her how she ended up in that upscale hotel suite with the two dead males. One old and naked and Jewish, the other young and naked and Asian. Then I sat there like a chunk of petrified wood, let her talk, jotted the occasional note. I will admit my eyes wandered across the crisp white sheets hugging her lanky curves. My mind was wandering around her smooth flesh. Whenever she talked crass, I had to cross my legs. I wondered if she noticed, but she didn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable. For the longest time, she didn’t act seductive or like she knew I lusted. Believe me, a man can appreciate the distant approach from a hot-looking female suspect.

  In addition to her sexy cuteness, the girl was some kind of expert at recalling and recounting visual detail. True or not so true, Rita Deltone sure could tell a story. I’m more of a listener myself. Which is probably why I got promoted up the ranks so fast to detective. Beat cop stint lasted ten long months, the small town streets quiet and dull, with only the occasional domestic squabble and the once a week cat burglary over in the upscale condos. But that was when I had east Dusky duty. Promotion to the violent crime unit in west Dusky changed my life. It proved to be much more of a challenge. The kind I usually liked.

  But not this time. Not this case. Not with Rita Deltone.

  When she finished her story—maybe I should call it a yarn, because with her hicky accent and all the crazy details, that was what I thought of it at the time—I put the notebook back in my sports coat pocket. That’s when she made some suggestive remarks to me. Just a little feeler, but enough that it triggered the usual reaction. I felt the hot sting of a blush. It heated me up as it rose up my neck to my face. I’m a pale guy, and I redden pretty easy with women.

  I wasn’t sure why she suddenly changed toward me. She’d seemed all business before that. Maybe she could tell how little action I’d seen over the last couple years. All work and no play had made Liam a dull boy. Did I reek of desperate? Was it that obvious I wasn’t getting any at home?

  “Ms. Deltone,” I said to her. “I do appreciate your willingness to cooperate fully with us. But, at this point, I’m going to advise you once more that you may want to enlist the services of a local attorney, one familiar with capital cases.”

  I stared at her, smart phone in hand, all ready to make the call for her. Or to suggest a public defender who might advise her on what she should do. I wasn’t about to arrest the girl, not for being in the wrong place at a very wrong time. Besides, it didn’t make sense. She strangled the big guy, shot the little one? And knocked herself out to wait for the police to arrive?

  No, Rita Deltone was not responsible for the killings. But she might easily have been working with someone else, someone who’d gone rogue, tossing her ass under the bus. So her story needed to be confirmed by witnesses. In other words, the young woman in the bed was in quite a bit of trouble, the kind of trouble that typically requires legal counsel.

  She shifted her torso and stared down, joggling her hands against their cloth binds. Then she gave me an imploring look.

  “Now that I told you everything, can’t you at least let me out of these trusses? I’m like a pig on its way to the bacon factory or something over here.” Her grin was wide and wildly attractive.

  I tried not to smile back but my lips moved on their own accord.

  “You know you want to help me,” she added in a low tease of a voice.

  I did.

  But I didn’t. I was no patsy. I knew Rita Deltone was problems with a capital P. I didn’t need any of that in my life, not if I wanted to ever win my wife’s affection again. Not if I wanted to make lieutenant by thirty. But I did believe she wasn’t dangerous. I sure didn’t think she could’ve taken a piano wire to the fat guy and a forty-five to the skinny one, then conked her own skull with an oversized ceramic asht
ray. I was pretty sure she got set up by the Ruben character. Or someone else a lot like him.

  Of course, I did not say this to her. Instead, I called in the description of the classic car. A pale blue vintage Caddy from California would be easy enough to track around town. First, I needed to see what they might come up with for me at the DMV.

  But as soon as I put my phone to my ear, her eyes widened. “Oh, my god, can I use your phone? Just for a second? I don’t want to call a lawyer or nothing, but I do need to text someone and my phone is missing. This is no bullshit, all my stuff’s gone. Is my car still in the hotel lot?” She pointed to the room we were in, bare and white with an off-white linoleum floor. “What is this place, anyway? Jail hospital?”

  I’m making a call, and suddenly she’s full of questions. Her turn, I guess.

  With the phone to my head still ringing on the other end, I said, “Ms. Deltone, you are in a private room in the psych ward of the Dusky Beach Community Hospital. Unless you can show the cashier that you have insurance company hospital plan coverage, you will be paying for this visit out of your own personal funds. The federal government may assist you with this, depending on your average annual income. I don’t know much in the way of helpful about that. But this is the situation you find yourself in.” I took a deep breath. I could talk regulation all night, but it bored both of us. Her half-smile was one of mild amusement. “Your personal belongings are in a locker down at the station. I’d be happy to take you there when your hospital stay has been completed.”

  Now she smirked at me.

  My hands were sweating. I stood up and walked to the doorway, keeping the phone clasped to my ear so she wouldn’t ask me for it again. I needed to complete this call. She could wait to make her connections.

  Outside the room, nurses bustled around in brightly colored scrubs. A motley array of psych patients dragged themselves up and down the hall, some pulling at their messy hair or flapping johnnies, others mumbling darkly to themselves. This wasn’t the nicest place for a sane young woman with a head wound. It was a really bad place to be tied to a bed.