Chapter 38
Mitch’s departure was rushed but emotional.
Only half teasing, he told Beth that now wouldn’t be a good time to hatch her chick.
He picked up Andrew and hugged him fiercely. “Who’s my rock star?”
“Me.”
“You betcha. Be a good boy for Daddy.”
Andrew gave him a sullen okay.
Mitch held him close and whispered in his ear, “Your mommy loved you so much. Now I get to love you twice as much. Once for her, once for me. Have I told you that?”
Andrew nodded. Mitch hugged him tightly and kissed his face several times before setting him down. But Andrew, along with Dylan, trailed him to the door, where he pulled on the slicker Beth had worn.
When he looked into Dylan’s watery, anguished eyes, he said, “I told you early on about the vow I’d made to Angela. I’ve got to finish this.”
“How?”
“To be determined. I’ll try to keep you updated, but I forecast a busy day. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
He realized then how empty that assurance must sound to her.
Her late husband would have made a similar pledge when he sent her away, telling her that he would be rejoining her soon.
It was an unfulfilled promise that continued to haunt her.
He looked deeply into her eyes. “I will be back, Dylan. You can bank on it.”
Then he gave her a quick kiss, reached down and ruffled Andrew’s hair, and left.
As he crossed the threshold, he almost yielded to the temptation to go back inside for one last round of hugs.
But as soon as he soundly pulled the door shut behind himself, it was as though a switch was flipped.
A burst of energy surged through him. He was one step closer to nailing Oz.
He plunged into the torrent and jogged all the way to the camo garage, where he retrieved his beat-up pickup, which he was glad to have. It was good cover.
Once he was on the highway and headed for Auclair, he called John’s cell to tell him about Dylan’s revelation. He got John’s voice mail, but he didn’t want to leave a message. John would return his call.
He then called Jim Tucker, who answered with, “I don’t have time for you.”
“It’s pissing rain, and I’m driving in it. You’ll have to speak up.”
“I said, I don’t have—”
“I heard that part. What do you know about Malone?”
“He’s dead as a doornail.”
“That much I know.”
“How’d you hear?”
“Via special delivery.” He told Tucker about receiving the severed finger.
“Jesus,” Tucker said. “I hadn’t heard about the missing finger, only that the crime scene was barf-worthy.”
“Yeah. Makes me wonder what meat is in the restaurant’s Bolognese.”
Tucker said, “NOPD served a search warrant. Lots of incriminating goodies were found in Malone’s office there.”
“What about El Paso?”
“No sign of him, but the search is underway. After the restaurant closed last night, he and Malone left together. Just the two of them.”
“Huh.” Mitch wasn’t surprised. “That young man has a lot to answer for. Has a BOLO been issued for him?”
“Yes, but the PD didn’t consult us before putting it out there.”
Mitch instantly picked up on Tucker’s disgruntlement. “You wish they hadn’t issued it?” When Tucker didn’t answer, Mitch pressed. “Why do you wish they’d waited on the BOLO?”
Nothing.
Mitch figured that something was about to go down, and Tucker would rather El Paso be there when it did, instead of in police custody already lawyering up. “Are you about to ruin our knife-wielding friend’s day?”
Silence.
“Come on, Jim. A simple yes or no.”
He didn’t say either, which meant yes.
“Where and when?” Mitch asked.
“No can tell. I’m relying on my pension.”
“Can you at least—”
“No. Nada. I gotta go.”
Nada. The Spanish word was a clue. El Paso had a foot in both cartel camps, the Mexican Caballeros and Oz’s. His capture would be a shiny trophy for the DEA.
Mitch guessed that Tucker hoped to catch him preventing Oz’s people from receiving the haul they had stolen from the Caballeros. Or perhaps El Paso had seen that the grass was greener on Oz’s side and would be there to take delivery of the payload on behalf of him.
Either way, that handover would make for some party, and the timing for federal agents to crash it would have to be perfect. Even if they went in at precisely the right time, there were still about a million ways that a raid of that magnitude could go FUBAR.
Mitch understood why Tucker was wound up and closemouthed. He felt for him, but this might be their last opportunity to talk for a while. “I know you’re in a hurry, Jim, but one more thing.”
“I gotta go.”
“One sec. Months back, you told me you had a snitch tucked away. A felon who’d bartered lesser charges in exchange for testifying against Malone if you ever got enough on Malone to indict.”
“Marvin Davis. Given that Malone is dead, he’s no good to us now.”
“He might be. Is he still under lock and key?”
“Guest of the US Marshals service.”
“Give me a phone number.”
“What for?”
“I need to know if this guy ever heard Malone talking about Allen Busby.”
“That jerk-off lawyer on TV?”
“He’s Oz.” He could tell that had knocked Tucker for a loop. His silence now was one of shock. Mitch envisioned him processing this new information at ninety miles a minute. Ultimately, he said, “That’s crazy.”
“I know.”
“Where the hell did you come by—”
“From the Dish. It’s a bedtime story I’ll tell you later. In the meantime, you’ve got a raid to organize, and I’ve got a call to make to a US marshal who’s guarding a felonious star witness. Now give me a fucking phone number!” He took a breath. “Please.”
By the time Tucker came back on the phone, Mitch feared he’d decided he needed to be institutionalized and had cut him off. But Tucker rattled off a phone number, which Mitch memorized. “Thanks, Jim.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“If I’m right, you’ll be thanking me later.”
“Big if.”
“Do some digging on Busby. And tell your agents to leave El Paso alive if they can. If he’s captured, I want a crack at that runty piece of shit.”
“For cutting you?”
“For killing Malone. He robbed me of the pleasure.”
“Hear ya.” Tucker then disconnected.
Two hours ago, Barbara Nix had arrived at work as usual. But the sight that had greeted her was anything but normal. Almost everyone in the CAP unit had been clustered around Mitch Haskell’s desk.
“What’s going on?” she’d asked Clarence, who’d been standing off to the side, looking fidgety and green around the gills.
“You might not want to look.”
That had only enticed her to see what had everyone’s attention. She’d elbowed her way through those congregated and moved up beside Bowie, who’d shot her a warning glance before she looked down at the desktop.
She’d recoiled, not so much in horror at the severed finger itself as in knowing whose finger it was. Trying to sound like her strident self, she’d asked, “Besides formerly being attached to a right hand, where’d that come from?”
“It was delivered by a courier service based in Houma,” Bowie had told her.
“We questioned the lady who drove it over here. She said the package had been left on their doorstep before they opened for business. Since the destination was our PD and it was addressed to Mitch Haskell, she figured it was important and rushed it over.”
“Lucky us.” That from Lear, who had moved up behind Nix and was peering over her shoulder at the gory sight.
Coolly, she’d asked, “Has the previous owner been identified?”
Although she’d known the answer, of course, she hadn’t been entirely braced for Bowie’s reply. “The late Roland Malone.”
The late Roland Malone? Malone was dead? Her knees had gone weak.
“Obvious homicide,” Bowie said. “He owned a restaurant but was reputed to have some shady business dealings, including illegal drug trafficking. Too slippery ever to be indicted.”
He’d then gone on to describe the crime scene, which had made her both physically ill and deeply disturbed. Someone had wanted Malone not merely dead, but dead in a way that sent a warning. What did this portend for her future?
Having heard the juicy details, everyone else besides her and Lear began dispersing. Still playing dumb, she’d asked Bowie why anyone would send Mitch Haskell a restaurant owner’s pinkie finger, ring and all.
“I intend to put that question to Mitch myself. That is, as soon as I can locate him,” he’d said, his annoyance plain. “All I know is that Mitch has had Malone in his sights for a while.”
“For what?”
“He attributed Randy Nelson’s execution to Malone.”
“Ahh,” Lear had said. “So Mitch thinks it was Malone who killed the two found in Bayou Coeur this week?”
“Yes, but keep that under your hat. DEA is trying to connect Malone to a local drug cartel. They’re after a bigger fish than Malone.”
“Has Darcy been told about this?” Lear had asked.
“Yes. I’ve filled him in.”
Bowie had then taken a picture of the grisly package with his cell phone, assigned one of their crime scene techs to preserve it for evidence to be turned over to the New Orleans PD, then had announced that he would be gone for a while but wanted to be kept informed of any developments.
He’d left, Nix assumed to search for the elusive Mitch Haskell.
For the past two hours, she had tried to look busy at her desk, behaving as though Malone’s ghastly murder had been of no importance to her. In reality, she was in turmoil. Her only line to Oz’s cartel had been cut, leaving her adrift in turbulent waters.
Now, while reviewing open cases that didn’t require her review, her cell phone rang.
She didn’t recognize the number, but from the day that Malone had placed her in this position as his mole, she had grown accustomed to seeing “Unknown Caller” in her phone’s readout. But who would be calling her now?
She was unsure it was even safe to answer. The call could be a trap. Did the police have Malone’s cell phone? Had they found her number in it?
Don’t borrow trouble until you have to. Tamping down her misgivings, she answered with her customary brusqueness. “This is Nix.”
“Barbara, isn’t it?”