Don't Say a Word (19 page)

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Authors: Beverly Barton

Tags: #romantic thriller

BOOK: Don't Say a Word
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“This sucks so bad. It just sucks, sucks, sucks.”
Okay, it sucks, we get it
, Julia thought, in no good mood, but the child obviously didn’t speak standard English. Julia tried to mollify her. “Yes, it sucks big-time. I know it’s shocking to you, but Special Agent Brannock and I are here to find out who did this to Mr. VanVeter.”
The girl wiped tears off her cheeks with impressively ringed fingers. Heavily ringed—twenty, thirty perhaps. “Did they really, like, really, like, cut out his tongue?” Her hands flew up to cover her mouth, and huge blue eyes, outlined in black kohl like Cleopatra’s, stared at Julia in true horror.
Like, yes
, Julia thought, but she did feel some sympathy for the girl. She seemed like such a child, and she had to work closely with Roc VanVeter. What could be worse than that? “We really can’t get into the details of the case, Gigi.”
“How old are you, Gigi?” Will asked, obviously riding the same train of thought that Julia was. That was happening more and more lately. Julia wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. The two of them on the same wavelength all the time. He was certainly growing on her, although his Jekyll and Hyde routine was still throwing her for a loop. This morning he was Will Jekyll. Now he was Will Hyde. So there you go.
“Eighteen. I have to be, if I’m gonna work here on the show. I promise, I am.”
That indicated to Julia that Gigi might be sixteen and fudging on her job application. Probably with Roc’s approval and encouragement. Everyone they’d interviewed at the radio station thus far looked like high school sophomores. Certainly no older than Zoe.
“Do you know anyone who might have wanted Mr. VanVeter dead?” Will asked the weeping girl.
Both Julia and Gigi gave him incredulous looks. Gigi answered, “Is that a joke? Everybody hated him except for all of us guys who work here.”
Julia said, “He means is there anyone who threatened him lately or showed up here angry and demanding to be let in. You know, somebody throwing around ugly threats.”
“Jeez, that happens near, like, every day. But we got big guys out in the lobby that keep ’em out. You know, like, security guys.”
“But Roc didn’t have a personal bodyguard?” Will asked.
“Yeah, he did. Clark Sorensen. But sometimes he let the guy go home and see his kids. You know, Clark didn’t live at the penthouse. They thought Roc was safe up there.”
“Why?”
“Because there was that big doorman and the elevator. How could any bad guys get past all that?”
How indeed
, Julia thought. That was the pertinent question, to be sure. One that she and Will were going to have to figure out ASAP. The doorman hadn’t seen anyone unusual, but there were lots of apartments with lots of visitors and friends and deliverymen coming in and out. The burly doorman had intimated that at busy times, crowds came through the door, more than he could check out. And there were a couple of freight entrances in the back. The perp could have entered anytime that day and hidden out somewhere in the building. Will already had task force members reviewing the security tapes.
Will’s eyes were intent on Gigi’s face. “Have you ever heard of a club called Studio Zero?”
Gigi nodded but looked guilty about it. “Yeah, why?”
“Did Mr. VanVeter frequent the place?”
“What d’you mean, frequent the place? I don’t know what that means.”
Julia took over. She and Will had turned into a tag team worthy of the WWE. “Did he like to go there? You know, get down, party, and all that kind of thing?”
“Sure, it’s an awesome place. That’s where he met me. I did some dancing.”
Will frowned. “You worked at Studio Zero?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What kind of dancing?”
“Any kind I wanted. Latin dances—you know, the kind they do on
Dancing with the Stars
on ABC. You know, like, the ones where those girls really shake their booty and have on those sexy dresses with lots of fringe that shakes around. It’d be bad news, like, if those little straps ever broke.”
“You ever seen any gangbangers down at that club, Gigi?” asked Will.
Gigi immediately lowered her eyes, obviously knowing who she could safely squeal on and who might cut her tongue out if she talked about them.
“Nobody will know you’ve talked to us, Gigi. You can speak freely,” Julia told her. “This is strictly confidential.”
The teenager licked her ruby-red lips and darted her big eyes around, nervous as the devil in a cathedral. “Well, okay, yeah, they like it there. Yeah, they show up all the time. It’s got a lot of salsa dancing, and all that.”
Will said, “Roc enjoyed it?”
“Yeah, he sure did. He knows the guy who owns the place.”
Julia said, “Who’s that?”
“Everybody calls him Hap—you know, short for Happy, ’cause he smiles all the time. He’s got real white teeth. His real first name’s Juan, I think.”
“What’s his last name?”
“DeSoto. Hap DeSoto.”
“Did Roc get along with him?”
“Yeah, we used to sit with him in his private booth a lot. It’s up near the stage. They got into it once, though, not too long ago.”
“What happened?”
“Roc was, like, flirting around with one of Hap’s strippers, and Hap didn’t like it.”
Julia said, “Did you ever see Judge Lucien Lockhart there?”
“Yeah, nearly every time. He came with his maid, Maria. I don’t think she liked it, though. She always looked scared of everybody, but there’s never much trouble down there. Hap’s bouncers are tough guys. Like, nobody ever messes with them, not even the Battle Street boys.”
On the way out of Roc VanVeter’s studio, Will stopped. “Looks like Lockhart and VanVeter had a lot more stuff in common than we first thought.”
“Yeah, especially the fact that they’re dead and their tongues have gone bye-bye.”
“Not a good club to be in.”
“The killer’s not waiting long between murders. You think he’ll strike again soon, Will?”
“I think you can count on it. He’s only just begun.”
“Next stop is Studio Zero, I take it, and a talk with its happy little owner.”
“You got it.”
Chapter 14
The killer sat at his table watching the taped news broadcast on his smart phone. They were still calling him the Tongue Slasher. Damn, they just didn’t get it, and neither did the two detectives that the six o’clock news crew had caught standing on VanVeter’s balcony. He took the tongues to send a definite message. He’d spelled it all out in blood, plain as day, given them a clue they couldn’t ignore. It had been easy so far, the murders, the getting to and from the victims’ houses. Now that the media was involved and reveling like jackals in the murder and mayhem, maybe what he’d done to Lockhart and VanVeter would put the fear of God into the other people in his Murder Book. Once everybody understood what he was doing, maybe they’d deem him the Punisher or the Avenger, as comic-book as that sounded. It fit the crime much better; fit what he was trying to do. Everyone on his list deserved to die, to suffer as he had suffered. All the people named in his book of shame would soon join his first two victims burning in hell. On the smart phone’s screen, they were now showing VanVeter’s body where it dangled by the neck on his fancy balcony. The cameraman in the helicopter zoomed in on the shock jock’s face, on the rivulets of blood covering his vulgarly tattooed chest. The male detective was waving them off, holding up his TBI badge. The female detective had disappeared inside, and he wondered if they had any inkling who had done the crime, and why. He doubted it, but they needed to know why, needed to figure out what VanVeter and Lockhart had done to deserve to die. They needed to make sure the whole world knew. Maybe he had to help them out. Virtually spell out everything for them in black-and-white.
Rising to his feet, he walked across the cave to where he had placed his small video camera. He chose a DVD and meticulously wiped it clean of fingerprints. Maybe they needed to see for themselves, maybe everybody did, maybe they all needed to see why his victims had to die, why he was righteous in what he was doing. He picked up a second DVD, wiped it clean, too, and inserted them both into mailing envelopes. Soon the world would know what he knew about the godless evil of his victims and the ones to come.
Opening the Murder Book, he looked approvingly at the two tongues glued under the photographs of Lockhart and VanVeter. Neither tongue would ever spew hateful lies about people. Never again. The third page showed the picture of a woman: blond hair, brown eyes, no soul, no compassion, no conscience. She was next to die, and she was as despicable as the others; even more so in some ways. She worked for the evil, condoned their misdeeds and lies and evildoings. She would not live much longer. He had already been watching her. Now that the investigation was on, the detectives on his trail, time was of the essence if he was to be successful in finishing his job. Two down. Ten to go.
 
 
Gloria Varranzo tried not to smile as she left the shocked uproar inside the courtroom where she’d just won her latest trial. She stopped outside the door and let relief and pure pleasure flood her. Sometimes it was almost too easy to get her guilty clients off; sometimes she amazed even herself. Yes, it was scary how good she was. She especially enjoyed her job on days like today, when she could prove without a doubt to everyone in the courtroom that the police were inept and had mishandled the evidence. Yes, O. J. Simpson’s dream team had opened up a whole new era of challenging every single step of police procedure. Her client was a bastard, that was for certain; a loathsome excuse for a human being, a rapist, drug addict, and distributor. God, she couldn’t stand to be around him for longer than fifteen minutes. He actually made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. But today he was a free man, and what was more important, she had a hefty seven-figure paycheck to deposit in her already bulging bank account.
The corridors were busy. Lots of trials were going on. Criminals didn’t take vacations, lucky for her. She stopped at a mirrored pillar near the elevator and fluffed up her newly highlighted dark blond hair. Her nails were done, immaculate with a perfect French manicure, one that cost her fifty bucks. She looked great for her age. Yes, she was a month away from her fifty-sixth birthday and she looked no older than her late thirties. Thanks in part to the expertise of her New York cosmetic surgeon and the monthly Botox injections. She still dated younger men, men who were half her age, but that was fine by her. She could handle them, enjoy their hard, young bodies until she grew bored with their lack of wisdom and experience. They were a dime a dozen, especially the young lawyers interested in sleeping their way into her prestigious firm.
“Here, allow me,” said a voice behind her as the elevator doors opened.
The man prevented the door from closing, and she entered. She smiled at him, and he smiled back. He was too old for her taste, but any man over thirty was. He looked vaguely familiar, and she tried to recall where she’d seen him. They stood silently together, side by side, as the elevator began its descent.
“Have we met before?” she suddenly asked him, curious where their paths had crossed. It irked her when she couldn’t remember things. She prided herself on her sharp memory.
“I think I would’ve remembered you,” he said, presenting her with a very pleasant smile. His remark was suggestive. She liked that.
The guy had something attractive about him. “You just look so familiar.”
“Lots of people say that. I guess I look like a regular Joe.”
Yes, he did. Rather nice-looking but nondescript. She nodded at him as the doors slid open on the ground floor. She hurried out, eager to meet young Trent at her place and get him into her bed. He was sexy in every single department, and he knew how to please her. Of course, she had taught him what to do, when and where and why, and he had taken to it like the proverbial duck to water. As she left the criminal court building, she paused a moment as the August heat assailed her. She raised her face to the warm sunshine. Then she turned to her left and walked quickly toward the parking garage and her brand-new silver-gray Mercedes.
Intent on thoughts of Trent Casey and his newly acquired bedroom expertise, she didn’t look behind her, didn’t notice that the man from the elevator had turned in the same direction and followed her at a discreet distance.
 
 
Studio Zero was quite a place—quite a disgusting place, true, but still quite a place. Zero was a pretty good appraisal, too, if one were to judge the classiness of the joint on a scale of one to ten. It fronted on an alley in a particularly questionable part of town, and Will and Julia both flashed their badges at the muscular, bald, heavily tattooed gatekeeper who was outside the entrance, picking and choosing who could and could not gain entry to this seedy Shangri-la. He let them pass without comment, but when Will glanced back, he was on the phone warning somebody inside that law enforcement officers were entering the premises.
“Gee, what a neat place to hang out,” Julia said to him. “The mingled aromas of weed and beer make it seem so homey.”
“Yeah, the rap sheets on these guys would probably stretch to Seattle and back.”
“I think I’ll keep my weapon out with my finger on the trigger.”
“Don’t shoot anybody. Not unless you have to, of course.”
“I’ll try to control myself. It’ll be hard, but I’ll try.”
Will grinned a little, but his eyes were searching the dark, smoky interior for Juan DeSoto, aka Hap DeSoto, the owner of the grand establishment. His rap sheet was fifteen pages long, full of everything short of murder, starting when the guy was nine. There was an untalented band playing on the stage, lots of scantily clad women gyrating and strutting their stuff and twirling themselves around stripper poles for the rowdy, drunken patrons. Gigi had mentioned a specific booth Juan used for his personal guests, and it didn’t take Will long to find it.
“There he is. See him? The guy in the zebra shirt and black leather fedora.”
“I see him. Well now, he’s a regular Michael Kors, is he not? Think he’s got enough women in the booth with him? Maybe you’ll luck out and six or seven of them will be Delta flight attendants.”
“You aren’t ever going to let me live that down, are you?”
“It was just so impressive. That fond farewell lip-lock is forever imprinted on my mind.”
Will frowned as they pushed their way through the crowd. He wasn’t the unscrupulous playboy Julia obviously thought he was, and it annoyed the hell out of him that she continued to think so. He hadn’t been with a woman since he met her, but maybe that’s what needed to change. Maybe he needed to hook up with somebody, make love to Pamela Ford for about a day and a half, and forget Detective Julia Cass. And this bloody, frustrating case.
“Juan DeSoto?” he said when they reached the owner’s booth. “We’d like to talk to you, if you have a minute.”
DeSoto was small and wiry and swarthy. He wore a sleeveless white T-shirt under a zebra-striped silk shirt, a large gold crucifix around his neck, and lots of leather bracelets on both wrists. He wore a little black goatee that made him look like a pirate; that and the black scarf he had tied backward around his shaven head under the fedora. He had a tattoo of a teardrop under his left eye. He looked up at them as they flashed their badges. “Woo hoo, we got both the TBI and the Chattanooga cops in here. I feel so special. Call me Hap—everybody does.”
“I’m Special Agent Brannock and this is Detective Cass,” Will said, pulling back his jacket to show he was armed.
“Maybe you should feel special enough to send all your girlfriends back to their dancing poles and answer some of our questions.”
That was Julia. Not exactly the patient sort, he’d found. Often straight to the point, no wasting her time on polite chitchat, not while on a case. And, yeah, he liked that about her, too. And she did have her right hand resting on the butt of her weapon. There you go, more to like. She had his back, and yes, that was endearing, as well. Especially in a place like Studio Zero.
“No need to get ugly wit’ me, sweet cakes,” their new friend, Hap, said to Julia. “Hey, maybe you might wanna moonlight down here with my girls sometime? You sure got the nice tight little bod for the pole. You be crazy hot for a cop. Whooee.” He feigned wiping sweat off his brow and gave a low and appreciative whistle, just to get his point across.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m not into taking off my clothes and prancing around. It makes me feel like a Clydesdale.”
“Too bad. I’d like to teach you some moves myself.” Hap DeSoto’s appraisal of Julia was utterly lascivious and rubbed Will the wrong way, big-time. But then DeSoto laughed and shooed his six bikini- and high heel–clad women out of the booth with an insulting, dismissive wave of his hand. Will and Julia slid in on each side of him, just as a new dancer entered the stage in a leopard outfit that would fit comfortably in a teacup and slithered her way to the pole on her belly, in far slinkier fashion than any poisonous snake Will had ever seen.
DeSoto concentrated his attention on Julia. “Okay, what can I do for you, sweet cheeks?”
Julia ignored the remark. Will breathed easier. He didn’t want to have to pull her off the punk. He jumped into their titillating conversation. “We want to ask you some questions about Roc VanVeter.”
“Yeah, I heard about that guy.” Hap placed his hand over his heart. “He was a good friend, man. God, he was here just the other night, drinking and partying, and now he’s dead on the slab.”
Julia said, “You wouldn’t happen to know who killed him, would you? Sure would make our job a breeze.”
DeSoto threw back his head and laughed heartily for two seconds, cut it off on a dime, and frowned at Julia. “Nope. I keep my nose clean. I got a legitimate business here to run. I don’t get mixed up with criminal types.”
“Yeah, right.”
Will decided he’d better join in, keep things more on the civil side. “Was Roc here alone that night?”
“No, he always brings that cute little assistant of his. I do love all her body piercings. What’s her name? Gigi?”
“How often did he come here?”
“A lot.”
“We hear that you and he got into an argument a couple of weeks ago. What was that all about?”
“Nothin’, really. He got a little rough with one of my girls. Slapped her around. I don’t allow that kinda thing. My girls are my meal ticket. I take good care of them.”
Julia said, “Wow, you’re a class gentleman, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am, Detective Cass. That turn you on?”
“What do you think?”
Will said, “We heard Roc bad-mouthed you on the air. Called you a two-bit pimp. Maybe you got angry, decided to teach him a lesson.”
“Nope. I’m an honest businessman. That ain’t the worst thing I ever heard said about myself. I ain’t sweatin’ it.”
“How about Judge Lucien Lockhart? You know him?” asked Julia.
“Yeah, but not as well as Roc. He got whacked, too, didn’t he? It’s getting downright dangerous around this town. Maybe you two oughta start doing your jobs a little better.” He grinned and showed a lot of sparkling Crest Whitestrips teeth.
“Did he frequent this place?” she asked.
“Sometimes. Brought that cute little maid with him. One of his better-lookin’ lovers.”

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