Chapter 55
DIANGELO
Present
“Hey, you can’t just barge in here.” A curvy woman in a hot-pink tube top glares at me, hands on her hips.
I ignore her and survey the small room tucked away at the back of the building where I entered from the alley.
If they didn’t want people coming in this way, they should have locked the door.
Now that my eyes are adjusting to the dim light, I can see the walls are painted black.
It’s an entry room, only big enough for a bistro-sized table and one chair. Each of the four walls contains a door.
“Whatta you deaf?” the woman calls even louder. “This ain’t no public restroom or somethin’. You’s gotta get out.”
“I’m here to see Billy Ikes.”
Her eyes narrow as she crosses her arms over her chest. “Never heard of him.”
The door behind her swings open, revealing a middle-aged man with a mustache and the beginning of a mullet. And to top it off, he’s wearing a blue tracksuit with a thick silver chain.
Honest to God, I didn’t know they made assholes like this anymore.
“There a problem out here?” he asks, puffing out his chest. The dude doesn’t weigh one fifty soaking wet. His posturing in front of me is laughable, but I let it go.
“I have a couple of questions for Billy Ikes—that you?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Name’s DiAngelo. I’m with the Morettis. I understand Billy works for Fat Joe, and we had a couple of questions.”
The guy eyes me warily. “Whatdoya wanna know?”
“You Billy Ikes?”
He sniffs, looking briefly at the woman before stepping back. “Let’s talk in here.”
Excellent.
I follow him into a small office lined with seventies-era wood paneling.
The man truly is a relic from the past. Behind his desk is a credenza with two monitors, one showing an empty room with a twin bed in it.
If I had to guess, I’d say one of the other doors leads to that room, which is where Miss Pink Tube Top would be working if she had a client.
We both sit. I don’t want him getting trigger-happy, so I decide to concede some ground and see where it gets me.
“It’s my understanding Billy had a customer named Craig Kirkland about five years ago.”
He huffs. “Five years is a long-ass time. You expect a man to remember some rando junkie from that long ago?”
“This rando ended up stabbed five times with a roll of quarters down his throat. That ring a bell?”
Feigned concentration forms an exaggerated frown on his face. “Billy might remember that from the news, but I doubt he knows more than that.”
The man across from me is Billy fucking Ikes, and his insistence on playing this little game is grating on my nerves.
“Look, I don’t give a fuck about why the guy was killed or who killed him. I want to know what the guy was into—what was his drug of choice and what sort of bets he was making.”
“How about this? You let me talk to Billy. Come back another day, and I’ll let you know what he has to say.”
I sigh with a nod and begin to stand, making sure before I do so that Billy’s hands are visible, but instead of turning for the door, I reach across the small desk and slam his face into the wooden surface.
I round the desk and fist his hair, only to come away with a toupee in my hand.
I curse and grab the man by his throat instead.
“My patience has dried up, Billy,” I growl through clenched teeth. “Tell me what the fuck you know about Kirkland.”
“Tool,” he sputters. “Dude was a tool. One of those finance guys—the kind that toyed with addy and blow—nothing hard-core.” He tugs at my hand with manicured nails. I squeeze harder.
“And the gambling?”
“You know the type—always thought the next bet would be his big break. Ended up down several hundred k. That’s all I know.”
None of this is unexpected. I was hoping for something that might give me insight into who the guy was or how he went from NYU graduate to deadbeat in such a short time.
“How’d he end up buying from you? Who introduced you?”
“His ma … she brought him when he was in school.”
Jesus, that woman is even more vile than I realized. She got her own son into drugs and then had the gall to blame Terina.
My hand clenches in fury.
“C’mon, man … told you … what I know.” His breathless rasp reminds me I don’t actually want to kill the man.
I let him go and head out the door while he devolves into a coughing fit. He only has himself to blame. Fucking moron. I’ll have to call Fat Joe to smooth things over, but it shouldn’t be a problem. I can do it on my way to Kristi Kirkland’s apartment. It’s time she and I had a few words.
I let myself into Kristi’s place when no one answers the door—the building’s old enough that cameras aren’t a problem. She’s got a deadbolt, but that doesn’t stop me. I wouldn’t be any good at tracking if I hadn’t mastered how to get in and out of places undetected.
The apartment would have been stylish back in the late nineties. Ceramic tile countertops with stained oak cabinetry in the kitchen. Floral wallpaper in the living room. Brass fixtures and forest-green carpeting.
Fast-forward twenty-five years, and it’s not only dated but dirty.
She’s a smoker, so a thin coating of nicotine film mars the windows and mirrors.
Every surface is cluttered with crap—magazines and food wrappers and random toiletries strewn about.
She even has knickknacks like little troll dolls and stuffed bears wedged between dishes in her china cabinet.
None of it looks like it’s been cleaned in this century.
I’m going to need to fucking disinfect myself after being here.
I do my best to poke around without touching anything and find several surveillance-type printed pictures of couples having sex, along with a package of manila envelopes.
They’re piled on her dresser, and judging by the looks of it, I’d say she’s running a blackmail operation.
The couples are all different, but the room is the same.
She’s got a camera somewhere. Maybe even an accomplice, but I’m not worried about that.
The other noteworthy find is a veritable pharmacy of drugs. Prescription and illicit—she’s got them all like some warped collector. Most of the bottles and baggies don’t have much in them, but the assortment is vast.
What I don’t see anywhere are photos of her son. In fact, there are no noticeable signs of his existence. No baby pictures. No wedding portrait. Nothing.
People process grief differently. I get that. But after everything I’ve learned, I think this soulless bitch simply doesn’t care.
Every second I spend in this vacuum of humanity makes my skin crawl. I’m actually relieved when I hear the lock click over, announcing her return home.
I wait to make sure she’s locked inside before I round the corner. I don’t want her trying to run, though I should know better. This sort of evil doesn’t know fear.
“Well, if it isn’t the Jolly Green Giant,” she sneers while dropping a tote bag on the sofa. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you steroids shrink your dick?”
“Better than all that Botox eating away at my brain.” My jab strikes a nerve. At least, I think it does. It’s hard to tell when her face is so immobile from botulism.
“What the fuck are you doing in my house? That bitch send you? She thinks she can ignore my texts, but it’s not like I can’t find her.”
Easy, D. You’re not here to kill the woman.
I force my body to relax, which isn’t easy. She’s got me pissed right the fuck off.
“Terina isn’t getting your texts because your number is blocked.”
She scoffs. “Little chickenshit can’t run from reality.”
“And what reality is that? You getting your son hooked on drugs and gambling? Sounds like a you problem,” I point out evenly.
“He graduated with honors because of me,” she spits angrily. “Besides, it never would have been a problem if it wasn’t for you people.” She jabs a bony finger in my direction.
My head tilts a fraction. “I know you don’t believe that.”
“I know he would have run if it wasn’t for her. Got his passport and everything. He wouldn’t ever get on a plane because of her.”
So that’s it. “You torture her with blame because in the end, he chose her.”
The way she glares at me tells me everything I need to know. I shake my head slowly and start for the door.
She lifts her chin haughtily as I walk past. “He was my son. He wouldn’t have been alive if it wasn’t for me.
I laid down my life for him, and he was so sickeningly infatuated, he threw it all away for someone who was utterly worthless.
I could see it coming, too. Unlike her, I’m smart enough to read between the lines.
I even took out a life insurance policy on him because I knew he’d end up dead because of that whore.
If she’s tortured with guilt, then good. She deserves it.”
And there it is.
My breaking point.
Not only has she inflicted horrific pain on innocent lives but she has also profited from it with zero conscience. This sorry excuse for a human does not deserve to take up space in this world.
Fuck the consequences.
My hands shoot out lightning fast and pull her back against my front. With my left arm across her front to hold her in place, I use my right hand to whip her head around and snap the fragile bones in her neck.
Kristi Kirkland is mid-shriek when her body goes slack.
Killing someone has never been so easy or guilt-free. Because fuck her.
She’s lucky I didn’t draw it out. She’s not worthy of the time it would take. I don’t even do her the dignity of setting her down gently. Her bony body collapses to the floor, hitting the coffee table on her way down. Good.
I get out my phone and dial Grisha.
“You know I hate phones,” he says in greeting.
“Yeah, but you answered.” I fight back a smirk.
“What do you want?”
Now I’m full-on grinning. “I wanted to know if your boat is going out in the morning.”
“It goes out most mornings,” he says noncommittally. “You looking to fish?”
“I have a donation if you’re looking for chum.”
“Aren’t you thoughtful.” His amusement carries across the phone line.
“I’ll have someone bring it by tonight.”
“Next time, you should come with me.”
My smile flattens. “You know I’m not a fan of boats.”
“Eh, one day. I’ll keep trying.”
“You do that.” I hang up. We don’t do goodbyes. It’s an unusual relationship between us, but it works.
Next, I call my guys.
“I’m going to need you to bring me a suitcase—bigger than a carry-on, but it doesn’t have to be huge.
” I give them the address and instructions to come through the back.
They can get cunty Kristi over to Grisha for me so that I can get back to Terina.
She’s still in danger from Pasha, but at least the Kirklands are out of her life forever.
Hopefully, tomorrow’s meeting with the Genoveses will get us that much closer to putting Pasha’s head on a spike. He’s drawn this out so damn long, there’s no way he’s getting off easy. I won’t allow it. If Renzo disagrees, we’re going to have a real problem.