City of Fear

  CITY OF FEAR

  A ROB SOLIZ AND FRANK PIERCE MYSTERY

  Larry Enmon

  ALSO AVAILABLE BY LARRY ENMON

  The Burial Place

  For Betty, Natalie, and Eric

  Acknowledgments

  I am indebted to a number of people who read various drafts of this manuscript and made valuable suggestions. Thank you: Allen Holtz (Ret. DPD-CIU), Kelli Grant, Walt Baty, Melissa Lenhardt, Russell Conner, Natalie Enmon Mobley, and George Goldthwaite.

  To my editors, Leslie Lutz and Jenny Chen for their magic with words.

  To the staff of Crooked Lane Books for being easy to work with.

  And last, but not least, the DFW Writers’ Workshop for their critiques and encouragement.

  1

  Antoine Levern opened the top middle drawer of his desk and felt for the bag taped to the underside. He tore it loose and sprinkled a little coke on a sheet of paper. After dividing it into two lines, he took a short straw and pulled a line into each nostril. He squeezed his nose and shook his head a couple of times. His eyes watered.

  Damn, that’s some good yeyo.

  What he had to do next could only be done if you were a little high. After he tucked the straw back into the plastic bag and re-taped it under the drawer, he sniffed, wiped his nose, and picked up the phone.

  “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

  A moment later Benny strolled in, followed by Tabor. One look at Benny and Levern had second thoughts about what he planned to do. Little Benny, the guy he’d known all his life. Arms and neck tatted up and that stupid, self-confident smirk he always wore. A hustler second to none. Still dressed like a New Orleans gang-banger.

  As he approached, Benny showed his customary grin and extended his hand. Levern didn’t smile or offer to shake. Tabor placed a straight-back chair in front of the desk and directed Benny to sit. As Levern pulled his thoughts together, Benny’s confident smirk faded and he squirmed. Instead of speaking to Benny, Levern spoke to Tabor, behind Benny’s chair.

  “You know how long me and Benny have been friends?” Levern asked.

  Tabor didn’t talk much, preferring instead to roll the toothpick between his lips.

  “Twenty-two years,” Levern said, staring at Benny. “Ain’t that right? About twenty-two years?”

  Benny had an expression that screamed, “What’s wrong?”

  Levern chuckled. “Yeah, since we played in the lower Ninth Ward as kids. And when Katrina broke the Industrial Canal Dam, I even helped his family get out. Didn’t I?” Levern’s gaze bore down on the little man in the chair. The sound of the toothpick in Tabor’s mouth snapping caused Benny to jump. Beads of sweat formed on his brow.

  Benny fidgeted and stared at the floor. “Yeah, sure.”

  Levern massaged his bad knee, and his eyes narrowed. “And after I got established in Dallas, who was the first guy I sent for?”

  Benny looked like he might bolt at any time. “Me … you sent for me, Antoine,” Benny said in a quiet, apologetic voice.

  “That’s right.” Levern jumped up and limped toward the aquarium in the corner, which was draped with black cloth. Benny had gone a shade paler.

  “And I gave you a job with my new organization, didn’t I?”

  Benny couldn’t answer, although he croaked some kind of response. Levern didn’t blame him. Most people lost their voices about this time. Some pissed themselves.

  Levern slid the cloth off. Inside the aquarium, a cottonmouth water moccasin coiled around the tree branch.

  “Check out this bad boy,” Levern said, gazing through the glass.

  Benny kept his eyes glued to the floor, sweat drops the size of dimes skating down his cheeks and forehead.

  “He looks skinny,” Levern said. “You been feeding him?”

  Tabor smirked and spit the two pieces of toothpick on the back of Benny’s neck. Benny jumped, and a whimper escaped his lips.

  “No, wait,” Levern said, slapping his forehead with his palm. “I’m supposed to feed him.”

  The reptile slithered against the glass, watching the group through its malevolent dark eyes, its black tongue sliding in and out as it tasted the air.

  “Well, hell,” Levern muttered, “this is awkward.” He slowly opened the aquarium lid. The snake raised its head. “Easy, boy,” Levern whispered. The snake froze and opened its mouth, showing its creamy white throat. A hiss floated from the aquarium.

  “Easy, boy,” Levern whispered again. He turned to Benny, who wasn’t the blackest guy he’d ever known, but who had just turned another shade whiter. Levern calmed himself. Reptiles know when you’re afraid. “Steady boy,” Levern slowly reached into the aquarium behind the snake. He moved his fingers to within a couple of inches of the thing. Levern kept his breathing even and eyes fixed on the reptile. Some folks said snakes could smell your expended carbon dioxide. Didn’t want to spook him.

  Levern stroked the snake on the back a couple of times and it relaxed. Letting out a shallow breath, he gently lifted the thing from its lair. After a few more strokes on its scaled back, the moccasin relaxed a little more, wrapping all fifty inches around Levern’s arm, resting its head in his palm.

  Grandma would be proud.

  “I guess since he hasn’t been fed in a while, he’s just in an ugly mood,” Levern said, staring at Benny. “You know, since he hasn’t bit anything lately, his venom is probably fully charged.”

  Benny turned his head slightly, watching Levern. “Please don’t.”

  Levern smiled as the reptile’s tongue flicked in and out. “You ever heard any of those stories, Benny?”

  Benny stared at the floor and seemed to find his voice. “What … stories?”

  Levern limped toward him. “You know, the ones about my grandma being a Voodoo priestess?”

  Benny shrugged and attempted to stand. Tabor pushed him back into the chair and held him down. “Sure,” Benny said, his breath coming out in pants. “Everyone’s heard those, but I never believed them, honest.”

  Levern lowered the snake to waist level. “That’s too bad, because they’re all true,” he whispered.

  The snake cast its gaze on Benny. It opened its mouth and an evil hiss filled the air.

  Levern approached the chair and pushed the snake to within a foot of Benny’s hand. He froze with a wide-eyed stare.

  “Speaking of stories,” Levern said, “I heard a bad story about you, Benny.” Levern shook his head and glared. “Real bad. You know the one, right? The one about you stealing from me?”

  Benny leaned back, his lips forming a terrified frown.

  “After all I’ve done for you and knowing you so long. Figured I could trust you.” Levern reached and grabbed Benny’s shaking and sweaty hand. The snake flinched and slithered to the edge of Levern’s palm, inches above Benny’s arm.

  “Don’t move. He hates sudden movements,” Levern whispered.

  The moccasin wiggled a couple of inches closer to Benny, opened its cotton mouth, and hissed again.

  “Now, I’m giving you a warning and a chance to pay me back for skimming off the cargo hijacking.” Levern turned to Tabor. “How much?”

  Tabor produced a slip of paper from his shirt and showed it to Levern, who examined it for a couple of seconds. “Eighteen thousand should just about cover it. Do you agree with my audit?”

  Benny kept his eyes on the snake. Sweat dripped off his nose and chin. He nodded.

  “Good. I’ll expect the money by next week. Try this again and it won’t go so smoothly, understand?”

  Every muscle in Benny’s body relaxed. “Thank you.”

  Levern returned the snake to the aquarium and slid the lid closed. He looked at Tabor. “Get him out of my sight.”

  Tabor grabbed
Benny by the collar and dragged him to the stairs—giving him a good shove. The sound of Benny tumbling down the stairwell floated through the room as Levern wiped his hands on his jeans and reclaimed his chair. Every so often he liked to make an example. Keep the rest on their toes. They’d all tell the story among themselves until it became another legend.

  Tabor returned to Levern’s desk. “What do we do afterward?”

  Levern massaged his knee again. “What, after he pays the money back?”

  Tabor nodded, rolling a new toothpick between his lips.

  “The usual. Benny knows the rules,” Levern said. “Take him frog gigging.”

  Tabor grinned. “My pleasure.”

  2

  Detective Roberto Soliz stared out the car window at the rough neighborhood and sighed. No way to spend a Sunday night.

  Midnight surveillances suck.

  The streets were deserted. Only a siren in the distance and a howling dog in a backyard broke the silence. Working the Criminal Intelligence Unit meant keeping an eye on the known crooks in hopes they might lead you to the unknown ones. The fact that he and his partner sat down the street surveilling a notorious gang leader’s home was bad enough. But working the night shift really pissed him off—they had seniority.

  Rob checked his watch—two o’clock. He looked through the binoculars again at the house—quiet as a cemetery.

  A garbled snore sounded from the passenger seat. His partner, Franklin Pierce, slept peacefully in the full slouch position. Knees on the dash with his head resting against the passenger window.

  May as well have a little fun.

  Rob opened his notebook and removed a feather. He leaned over and lightly touched Frank’s ear with the tip. Frank swatted away the imaginary fly. Rob clasped his hand across his mouth to muffle the laugh, waited a few seconds, and did it again. Frank twisted his head and groaned. Rob eased closer and directed the tip of the feather toward Frank’s nose.

  “If you tickle me with that again, I’ll shoot you,” Frank mumbled, never opening his eyes. He shifted to a different position. “I didn’t think Mexican cowboys even had a sense of humor.”

  Rob laughed. “Rise and shine, cracker. Two o’clock—your shift.”

  Frank opened one eye. “That’s impossible. I just went to sleep.”

  “Yeah, three hours ago.”

  Frank moaned, stretched, and pulled himself to an upright position. He ran his hand through his long hair and looked around. “Anything going on?”

  Rob spit the dip of Copenhagen into the Styrofoam cup and sat it back on the dash. “Not a damn thing. Place is dead. Wake me at five.”

  Rob slumped in the driver’s seat, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes.

  * * *

  Frank yawned and opened the thermos of coffee. One sniff and he made a face. Nothing worse than old coffee, just enough time for all the bad flavors to assemble in one place, ready to assault the unsuspecting drinker. He poured a cup and tasted it. Yup, nasty.

  He rubbed the dull ache on his right side. Sometimes sleeping in a car caused the old knife wound to act up. Frank scanned the gang leader’s house with his binoculars. Just like Rob said—all quiet.

  Movement in the front yard caught his eye. He zoomed in on a woman walking across the lawn in the shadows, approaching the porch. Tall. Bright red hair. Fair complexion. She moved with cat-like ease across the damp grass. The black, almost formal, flowing gown whipped in the light wind.

  What tha …?

  She strolled to the door. After gazing down the street in both directions, a trace of a grin swept across the full red lips. A large bush partially blocked Frank’s view, and he couldn’t tell if she opened the door or if someone opened it for her. She disappeared completely behind the bush and the front porch light went out.

  Frank snatched up the night vision scope and punched Rob. “Someone’s on the porch.”

  Rob sat up. “What?”

  Frank trained the night scope on the gang leader’s house a couple of hundred feet away. He scanned the area, but the woman had disappeared.

  “She’s not there anymore,” Frank said.

  “She?” Rob chuckled and settled back into his sleeping position, crossing his arms again. “Probably some call girl Ricardo ordered. He likes hookers.”

  Frank searched the yard and sides of the house with the infrared scope. Working vice, he’d seen enough hookers to know she wasn’t one. Rob might be right, but Frank still had doubts. “I don’t think she turns tricks.”

  “Did she go inside?” Rob mumbled, keeping his eyes closed.

  “Must have, the light went out. By the time I grabbed the scope, she wasn’t on the porch anymore.”

  Rob turned his head toward the window. “Wake me if she shows up again.”

  Frank spied with the scope for another five minutes, but the woman never reappeared. A lone car cruised down the street toward them. Its bright headlights blinded Frank, but he recognized the silhouette. The Dallas Police patrol car’s spotlight came on, searching the curb and adjacent residences, probably looking for house numbers. When the car stopped at Ricardo’s house, Frank had a bad feeling. He shook Rob.

  “Hey, uniforms just pulled up.”

  “Huh?” Rob sat up and eyed the patrol unit. “Why are they here?”

  “Great question,” Frank said. “Let’s see.”

  Rob cranked their car and rolled up to Ricardo’s. Frank and Rob held up their badges as they exited. Approaching uniforms when driving a “cool car” and in plain clothes had to be done with care—especially at night.

  “Police,” Rob said.

  The closest uniform, the younger of the two, swung his flashlight toward them. His hand rested on his pistol.

  “Dallas Police—Criminal Intelligence,” Frank announced. “What’s going on?”

  Before the officer could answer, a scream came from inside the residence. A dozen gunshots followed. Muzzle flashes lit up a second-story window, and a chorus of barks and howls from neighborhood dogs broke out.

  “They’re shooting at us!” the younger uniform bellowed as he dove behind the patrol cruiser.

  They all took cover and Frank steadied his nerves while checking to see if Rob was all right. Fighting the adrenaline wasn’t easy for Frank—not why he became a policeman.

  Rob gave the okay sign from the other end of the patrol car. He’d bunkered in behind the car’s engine block. Safest place when bullets were flying around.

  The senior officer yelled into his handheld radio. “2416, shots fired at our location—need backup.”

  The dispatch answered. “2416, copy, shots fired at your location. Any unit clear and close for back up?”

  She gave the address. A supervisor came on the air. “Five-nineteen, I’ll also be checking by with 2416.”

  Frank peeked over the trunk of the car, the breeze from the cool October night ruffling his hair. All was quiet again. No lights from inside the place. He ducked back down. “I don’t think they were shooting at us.” He pointed at the second floor. “All the shots were directed inside.”

  Rob popped his head above the hood for a look.

  Frank shifted the pistol to his left hand and ran his sweaty right palm down his pants leg. He didn’t like this part of police work—the shooting part—but just sitting there wasn’t an option. Bad things happened when you waited too long after shots were fired. Victims bled out, suspects fled, and witnesses drifted away.

  “We have to check it out,” Frank said.

  “We’ll take the front.” Rob stood and motioned for the senior guy to follow him.

  Frank sprinted to the side yard with the younger uniform in tow. It was dark, but a light shined from the back, illuminating the side yard. A wooden gate with vines growing over the top looked like the best way in.

  The rookie shined his light over the gate into the yard. His voice had an uneasy edge. “Shouldn’t we wait for backup?”

  Frank reached over the top of the waist-high g
ate, searching for the metal release clasp. “No time.” As he lifted it, a sharp edge sliced into his wrist. He jerked his hand back. Damn. Frank shook off the pain and charged around the house to the backyard. The area was well lit thanks to a light atop a thirty-foot pole in the corner of the yard. No dog in sight. Frank stayed low and eased to the back door. He tried it—not locked.

  Frank turned to the young officer behind him. “Get ready. When we go in, you break to the left, and I’ll take the right.”

  The kid had an excited or frightened look, Frank couldn’t tell which. How long has he been on the streets?

  The rookie keyed his radio. “We’re going in.”

  The voice of the other officer with Rob replied, “We’re already in.”

  Frank rushed through the door and fumbled for a light switch on the dark kitchen wall. He flicked it a couple of times. Nothing. The kitchen smelled of grease and old food. The floors were slippery.

  “Frank, you in?” Rob shouted through the darkness from the opposite end of the house.

  “Yeah, coming to you,” Frank said.

  The younger officer’s flashlight guided the way through the gloom. As he and Frank moved toward Rob’s voice, they kept their guns in the tactical shooter position. When they rounded a corner, Rob and the senior officer stood beside the sofa, shining their light on two Hispanic gangsters slumped back in the cushions. Both were in their twenties.

  “They shot?” Frank asked.

  Rob had his fingers against the neck of the closest one. Rob shook his head and gazed at Frank with a perplexed expression. “Not a scratch on ’em, but they’re out cold.”

  Something bumped upstairs, like an object falling. Everyone crouched and swung their pistols toward the dark staircase. The senior officer toggled the light switch on the wall—nothing.

  “Did we have a complete power failure?” Rob whispered.

  Frank pulled back a curtain. Lights from other houses were on, and people milled in their yards. “If we did, it only affected this house.” He pointed to the senior uniform and motioned up the staircase. “Lead the way.”