A Garden of Vipers (14 page)

“You sure I can say anything in the free space, not get in trouble?”

“You got it,” I said.

Dinkins said, “You fuckers are flat-out goofy.”

“Don't press your luck, Leroy,” Harry said.

Of the two Hooley brothers, Harry said Darryl was the one to work on, a goofed-out stoner. Darryl lived in a single-story ranch in mid-Mobile, an aging suburb of expressionless boxes, anonymity with a mailing address. Harry parked a block away, lifted the binocs to his face.

“Oh my,” Harry grinned. “There is a God.”

“What?”

“Darryl Hooley, all by his lonesome. Sitting on the porch and toking on reefer. Let's park in the alley, come around from behind.”

We crept through the backyard, snaked around the side of the house. I jumped up over the porch rail, grabbed up a baggie of pot, tossed it to Harry. Hooley tried to stand but my hand encouraged him to remain sitting. Hooley was a small guy, bony shoulders, soft eyes. He wore faded jeans and a black KISS T-shirt, the band that wouldn't die.

Harry held the bag delicately, his pinkie sticking out, like he was sipping tea. “Lord have mercy, Darryl, what's this greenish substance?”

“It's fuckin' pot, what the hell do you…Hey, Harry Nautilus! Been years. You're looking good, dude, few extra pounds…”

Harry reached to the back of his belt for handcuffs. He shook them in Hooley's eyes like he was ringing a bell. “Let's go Darryl, you know the routine.”

“Huh? You serious?”

“This is an illegal substance, Darryl. A no-no.”

“We both know that bag's not going to be heavy enough to get me on trafficking. This is a roust.”

Harry rattled the cuffs. “Hands on the house and spread 'em, Darryl. Time for some hooking and booking.”

“You're Homicide now, right? Why are you doin' this to me? It's harassment.” Darryl had a nasal voice and sounded like a kid whining about being fed spinach.

“It's a night in the bag, Darryl,” I said. “And a court appearance. And a shyster to warm your side at morning court. It's pissant bullshit, I know, but it's also a pain in your ass and a drain on your wallet.”

“You're right, Darryl,” Harry said, “it's harassment. I've got a couple of new hobbies, and harassing you is one of them.”

The curtains parted in Hooley's cannabis intoxication. He sighed.

“You want something. Right, Harry? You always wanted something.”

Harry laid his hand on Darryl Hooley's shoulder, leaned close.

“You got a guy just started boosting for your operation. Has or had Wookiee genes, hairy everything. Am I correct?”

Hooley stared at his shoes, mute. Harry stood back and jangled the cuffs. “Damn, I love a new hobby. The thrill of repeating something over and over until you get good at it. Did I ever tell you how long it took me to learn to play tambourine? Don't think in days, Darryl. Months either.”

Hooley shot a glance over his shoulder. His voice became contemplative.

“I'm in a kind of gray area here, Harry, admissions and all that. Might be best to just take the misdemeanor, my man. Don't want to have any translation problems here, find out you're saying one thing, but I'm not catching the meaning, y'know?”

It was the ready-to-deal voice, one I'd heard a hundred times. I winked at Harry.

“You remember me ever lying, Darryl?” Harry said.

“You were always straight, Harry. Hard, but straight.”

“Here's the deal: You get a pass on the pot this time around. And anything you say is dust the minute we leave. Guaranteed.”

Hooley nodded. “Good enough for me, Harry. Can I sit down, get comfortable? Finish my doob?”

“You get two outta three, Darryl,” Harry said. “Guess which two?”

Hooley sighed, turned and sat in the chair, pushed his hippie hair back behind his ears.

“Harry, the guy you're looking for is crazy.”

“How about starting on page one, Darryl?”

“It was last week. Guy came by our, uh, establishment. My brother said, ‘What you want, my man?' The guy said, ‘I want to schedule a presentation.' My brother said, ‘A fucking what?' The guy said, ‘I think we can work together, a limited partnership.' I thought to myself,
This fucker's crazy.
Danny said, ‘Here's how we work together, partner, you bring us merchandise limited to just high-end stuff, we give you money.'”

“You and Danny didn't think he was a setup, a cop?” Harry interrupted.

“The guy was too fuckin' crazy, like I said. Talked weird, used ten-foot words. And he didn't look like a plant. You guys stand out like parrots on a shit pile.”

“What happened?”

Darryl Hooley shook his head, a dreamy pot smile on his face. “He came by the next day in a '58 Mercedes, a classic. Handed me the keys.”

“What'd he do next?”

Hooley clapped his hands in delight. “Got on a fucking bus. Comes back an hour later with a 2004 Beamer seven series. Does it again and brings in a '97 Porsche turbo. The man had a gift.”

“Where is he now?” I asked.

Hooley's face dropped. “He dropped off the turbo, tossed the keys, and grabbed thirty-five big ones. I said, ‘What's next?' He said that was it, he was done.”

“Done?” Harry asked.

“I said, ‘Brother, we can put you on staff, you got a natural talent.' You know what that crazy fuck told me?”

“What?”

“Said he'd made all the money he needed. Who in their right mind has all they need, Harry? See what I mean about the guy being crazy?”

 

The next stop in our blind passage was Crimes Against Property, Vehicle Theft Division, one floor down. Vince Raines ran the squad, but Vince was out of town and we spoke with Mitch Burdon, second in command.

“Nineteen ninety-seven Porsche turbo, 1958 M-B Roadster, a 2004 Beamer seven?” Mitch said, pecking at his computer. He shook his head. “No hits on those models. Got a few Lexuses, Infinitis, upscale SUVs, Caddys. All gone in the same week you're talking about.”

Another dead end. Harry said, “Word is the Hooleys were on the receiving end. That do anything?”

“All that means is efficiency. The Hooleys only take high-end and keep it in hand for less time than it takes most people to sneeze.”

“We're sure the cars came from town,” Harry said.

Mitch nodded. “A few ways it could happen. Your thief got them from a stash of previously stolen vehicles, from a place where they're stored and not yet missed, or from long-term parking at an airport, and no one knows they're gone yet. I'll stay in touch, guys.”

 

We headed upstairs. Harry stopped to pull a drink from the water cooler and I headed to my desk. There were just a few detectives in attendance. Roy Trent was on the phone asking someone about credit card purchases, following a trail. Larry Barnes sat at his desk with fluorescent-pink diver's plugs in his ears, staring at the ceiling and squeezing a tennis ball, his deep-thought mode.

I passed the Logan-Shuttles cube. Logan was at his desk, Shuttles behind him, looking down at Logan's desk. They were studying an 8 x 10 photo. I couldn't make out the subject.

Logan said, “She don't look sexy, but she looks hot, don't she, Tyree?”

“Jesus, Pace,” Shuttles said. “That's sick.”

“Keep you warm on a cold night, I'll bet. Smokin'!” Logan laughed, a wet gurgle.

I poked my head over the divider.

“What's up, guys?”

Shuttles shook his head. “Pace is losing it.”

“Have you seen our latest case, Ryder?” Logan grinned. “Take a look, it's my dear old mummy.”

He held up the photo. It was a charred corpse, looking mummified, if that's the way you wanted to see things. It was a morgue photo, after the body had been transported.

“The victim from the apartment fire on Corcoran,” I said. “I was there when they brought her out.”

“You saw the cuffs?” Shuttles asked.

I nodded. “Find anything out?”

Logan interrupted. “We found out she looked better as bread than toast.”

He flipped open a file folder, pulled out another photo, spun it my way. A good-looking woman wearing a theatrical pout, fishnet hose, spike heels, a leather G-string, and little else. She held a riding crop. A superimposed URL suggested the photo had been pulled from a Web site. I hope my mouth didn't drop open like a cartoon character's, but I think it did.

“I know her,” I said, as Harry walked up. He looked at the picture, muttered an expletive, shook his head.

“I know her, too,” he said. “Carole Ann Hibney.”

“I found out she went by the name of Mistress Sonia,” Logan smirked. “You guys clients of hers?”

In less time than a finger snap, Harry was in the cubicle, his hand pulling Logan upward by his shirtfront.

“Harry!” I barked, jumping between them, dodging Logan's hands as he tried to get them around my partner's neck. There was thumping around, files tumbling from a desk, a chair skittering into the wall, but between Shuttles and me, we separated Harry and Logan.

“You're a head case, Nautilus,” Logan snarled over Shuttles's shoulder.

“And you're the world's shittiest detective, Logan,” Harry returned over mine. “You got no respect for anything.”

“I got no respect for you. You were a decent street cop, but ever since you got the gold you act like Mister Stinkless Shit.”

“Shut up, Logan,” I said. “Harry and I seem to have some connections with the victim. How about acting like a detective and making your next question along those lines?”

I heard Shuttles whispering to Logan, telling him to sit, relax, it was all over. Across the room I saw Trent look our way with moderate interest, then go back to his calls. Personality clashes weren't unknown in a detectives' room. Larry Barnes was oblivious, squeezing his tennis ball, studying the ceiling tiles.

Harry and Logan shot each other knife eyes until Logan returned to his chair and Harry retreated to the opening of the cubicle.

Shuttles took the lead. “She was a call girl, is what Pace is saying. A dominatrix type. You really know her, Carson?”

“Bad choice of words,” I said. “I saw her at a party at the Shrine Temple last Saturday night, a business banquet sponsored by Channel 14. We spoke maybe four words.”

I replayed the memory. The woman in the cobalt dress arriving via the kitchen, asking me to get her a drink, then standing beside a column and scoping the room while banging down the liquor. I recalled her practicing a big, bright smile, like preparing to play a role. Then the lights went dark and I lost track of her.

“Who was she with?” Shuttles asked.

“No one. Now that I know her occupation, I think she was sneaking into the party.”

Shuttles said, “How about you, Harry? How did you know Ms. Hibney?”

“Or Mistress Sonia,” Logan said, his standard sneer back in place.

Harry ignored Logan, spoke to Shuttles and me.

“I met her about ten years back. Carole Ann was maybe twenty-three, showed up in Mobile after leaving an abusive boyfriend. She was from some hick town in Mississippi. She was basically bright, y'know? But ignorant, a dropout in eighth grade. She landed in the Greyhound station with a black eye and a suitcase.”

“Bad news,” I said. Pimps and perverts cruised bus stations like sharks, salivating for the Carole Ann Hibneys of the world.

“One guy got his meat hooks into her, pimp named Sleet Bemis. Nicknamed Sleet because he was so slick. He turned her out three weeks later. Bemis beat her, too. Carole Ann and I met in the hospital after one of these beatings. I had a talk with Bemis, who vacated town shortly thereafter. Then I convinced Carole Ann she was bright enough to go back to school, get her GED, maybe go to a juco, but…”

Harry shook his head.

“But she was lazy,” Logan said, clapping his hands and leaning into the conversation. “Right, Nautilus? I seen it a dozen times. Girl grew up in some white-trash trailer park, never saw anyone get up and go to work. When she found out she could make easy money from the old jelly jar, all that studying and school stuff was just too much work.”

Harry glared. Logan shrugged, held his hands palms up.

“Am I right here?”

Harry looked away, sighed. “You're right, Logan. She bagged the school bit. Last I'd heard, Carole Ann was in New Orleans. Guess she got washed back here.”

“I wonder what she was doing at the Shrine,” I said.

Shuttles said, “I remember a case from a class I took—”

“Oh, Jesus, here we go with the class crap,” Logan said, rolling his eyes.

Shuttles continued. “There was a ring of prostitutes, good-looking, expensive. They kept hotel workers on their payrolls. The workers told the prostitutes when a convention was coming up, or a corporate wingding. The girls would put on party clothes and show up, spread the good word, so to speak.”