The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (30 page)

“Bother? It’s no bother. You know you can call me anytime, even the middle of the night—”

“I was tired, Susan. I thought it could wait.” Lord. Did I have to defend every detail of every moment in my life?

“Well, thank God Nick called. You shouldn’t be alone. Not in your condition, not with all the stuff that’s going on.”

I leaned my head back against the cushion, sucking on the straw. I didn’t feel like talking.

“What? You don’t feel like talking?”

What? First Nick, now Susan was answering my thoughts. Were my brain waves being broadcast, beamed from my forehead?

“Sorry. I’m real tired.”

She frowned. “But otherwise, are you all right?”

“Fine.” Except that every inch of my body ached. Old wounds that hadn’t yet healed. New bruises that I hadn’t been aware of, bumps from toppling off the fence were beginning to throb. Contractions surged through my body every time I began to relax. I wished I could have a glass of wine, closed my eyes and fantasized about something red and dry gliding down my throat, loosening my muscles. Susan’s voice drifted around me like a melody, lyrics undefined.

“That’s why it took me so long.”

I had no idea what she was talking about.

“Are you too tired to hear what he had to say?”

I shook my head, no. Of course I wasn’t. Whoever he was.

“He wasn’t all that surprised. In fact, Ed says local gangs are popping up all over.”

Oh, Ed. Susan’s cop friend, her pipeline to the police blotter.

“These gangs may be local, but that doesn’t make them smalltime. They deal drugs, illegal weapons, prostitutes, loan-sharking, protection, gambling. And a particular kind of gambling is on the rise. Guess what it is?”

I blinked.

“Dogfights.” She sounded proud of herself. “He says dogfights are actually the fastest-growing gang activity not just here—in the whole country.”

I didn’t say anything.

“And he said that, until this latest murder, the cops have been treating the Mount Airy cases—Beatrice and Stan and that guy Gavin—like gang-related executions. Which translates to: The cases have not been overlooked, but they also have not been the district attorney’s top priorities.”

I didn’t follow.

“Wait, you’re saying that the police think the victims were involved in the gangs? Beatrice?” I pictured her. Her pillowy torso, her pinkish perm. Not my image of a gangster.

“They think so, yes. You don’t have to be a tattooed thug to take bets.”

I saw her on my father’s kitchen floor, betting forms shoved down her throat, imagined her working at a dogfight. But she’d been active in Town Watch. Hadn’t Stan said she was his patrol partner? No, Beatrice hadn’t been in a gang. It wasn’t possible.

“Anyhow, gang killings are tough to solve. They involve a lot of layers. The actual killers, if they get caught, are usually just grunts who don’t even know the top guys who ordered the killings. Fact is, for better or worse, these kinds of murders often go unsolved and unpunished.”

I still didn’t quite get it.

“So the police are giving up? The murderers get a pass? Gangs can do whatever they want?” I put my milk shake down, disgusted.

“No, they aren’t giving up, not at all.” Susan sounded defensive. “The cops are doing what they can, but the DA’s office isn’t pushing. Realistically, if the cops pick up a guy or two, the DA doubts they can get a conviction. And even if they did, it wouldn’t affect the overall operation of the organization.”

I still didn’t get it. If they could arrest gang members, why wouldn’t they? Maybe they could cut deals with them, like on television. Get the bad guys to testify against their bosses. “A killer is a killer. And killers should go to jail.”

“Zoe, why is it that you can’t accept reality? You like things clear-cut, black or white. Right or wrong. The world doesn’t operate like that.”

“So in the real world a gang murder is not as urgent to solve as—what? A murder of passion? Or revenge? Or greed?”

“Look, Zoe. It’s not about urgent. It’s about solvable. Gang activities like these dogfights are big business involving gobs of money and lots of invisible but powerful people. It takes time and manpower figuring out who did what. The cops are on it, but for now the DA’s office wants them to focus on other cases—cases they can win in court.”

I sat up, picked up my milk shake. “Fine. So people get away with torturing animals—and oh, by the way, with multiple murders.”

“Dammit, Zoe. Horrible stuff goes on every day, all around us. The police are working literally hundreds of open murder cases, and these are among them. But Ed says the DA isn’t content to just go after the little guys. The cops are being advised to keep a low profile until they can get the kingpins—”

The “kingpins”?

“—and that takes time. Nobody’s saying that dogfights aren’t horrendous. Frankly, I agree with you. The DA’s position pisses me off. I’m just repeating what Ed told me.”

I thought of the dogs in the arena. I pictured Jackson, ripped up in my father’s basement. Hardy’s face, half blown away.

Susan was still talking; again I’d missed what she’d said.

“… but they’re beyond saving anyhow before they’re even in a fight. Most of them are doomed from birth.”

Who was doomed from birth?

“Those dogs are bred to fight; they’re genetically predisposed, primed for aggression. And, trust me, you don’t want to hear how they’re trained.”

No, I didn’t. But I knew she was going to tell me. I leaned back, adjusted the afghan, waiting.

“It’s sickening.”

I waited, in no hurry to hear the grisly details, knowing there was no stopping her.

“To begin with, the breeders mate only the most aggressive dogs to make sure that genetically the puppies have fighting dispositions. Then, when they get old enough to train, their trainers withhold food to keep them hungry, almost starving. Then they get a live rabbit or a puppy. Maybe they find a stray cat or steal a neighbor’s pet. They dangle these animals in front of the dogs like bait. Can you imagine what a pack of starving dogs can do to a little kitten?”

She waited for me to respond. I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe, to visit my happy place.

“They rip those helpless animals to bits, and they get rewarded. These dogs are trained to attack and kill from the time they’re puppies. The only affection they get is for being aggressive. Their only rewards are for drawing blood.”

She was right; it was sickening.

“I bet your dad’s dog Jackson came up against one of them. A normal pet wouldn’t hurt him that way. Against a fighting dog, Jackson didn’t stand a chance.”

I couldn’t listen anymore. Didn’t want to. I picked up my milk shake and sucked until it was gone, kept on sucking, making loud noises pulling air through the straw to drown out Susan’s voice.

“… cops want the top dog. They aren’t just going to nip at the heels of this operation. They want to take a real bite out of crime.”

I groaned. “Please, Susan. No puns, not now.”

“The cops want to collar these guys, believe me. But the DA doesn’t want to waste time barking up the wrong tree.”

She wasn’t going to stop. When she couldn’t deal with something, Susan made jokes, the worse the better. It was her defensive mode. In her law practice, Susan dealt with murders on a daily basis. But there, the victims were human, not tamed, defenseless pets. Despite her bravado, Susan was having trouble dealing with violence against animals.

“It’s a dog-eat-dog world—”

“Good God, Susan.”

“What? Got a bone to pick with me, Zoe? A pet peeve? Are you trying to muzzle me?”

“Doggone it, Susan. Curb it, will you?” There.

“Sorry.” She stopped, thank God. “So. It’s late. We better get some sleep. We want to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Monday morning.”

We did? “Why?”

Susan leaned forward, elbows on her knees, head extended, body contracted like a tiger about to pounce. “This gang stuff— I agree with you. It’s gone too far. We’ve got to do something about it.”

What could we do?

“Ed said the DA isn’t pushing these cases. We want that to change. So we’re going straight to the top. Right to the DA.”

Wait. What? “We’re going to the district attorney?”

“You bet. First thing Monday morning.”

“Monday? I have to work.” And I had a hypnosis session with Bertram.

“Call in. Say you’ll be late.”

“So we’re just dropping in? And the DA’s going to see us why?”

“Are you serious? What’s going on in your father’s neighborhood is absurd. Unconscionable. Multiple murders. Animal mutilations. Organized crime. Illegal gambling. Dogfights. And among this bubbling hotbed of crime, what single element is spectacularly absent? I’ll tell you what—an arrest. So far, there hasn’t been a single one. Not a solitary suspect. And you know why? Because, according to Ed, the DA’s office has been letting these cases slide. So we’re going to tell the DA that we want… no—we demand— to know why.”

Indeed. “But detectives were on the scene when I left, Susan. They’re working on it.”

“The cops do their work, but the DA doesn’t follow up. We need to press him to make this priority. Maybe threaten to get the press involved.” She sat up, crossing her arms.

Susan had made up her mind. I knew her well enough not to argue. She was determined. Whether I wanted to or not, we were going to visit the district attorney. Still, I offered a comment. “Susan, you can’t just barge in—”

“Of course I can. I work with that clown. I beat his ass in court on a regular basis. They know me there, and they know better than to mess with me.” She smiled, looking evil. “And think about the richness of the situation. Here I am, a criminal defense attorney— a defense attorney, complaining that the prosecutors are too lenient. That the DA’s office isn’t being tough on crime? That, basically, they suck at their jobs? They ought to be mortified. That opportunity, that scene—actually, it’s a reward in itself.”

Her eyes were shining. Her skin was aglow. She reached for her milk shake and sucked hard on the straw, draining the cup. Then she took a legal pad out of her bag.

“I know you’re tired.” She searched for a pen. “But before we go to bed, while they’re still fresh, I just need to jot down the basic facts. Tell me about the dogfight. What you saw, exactly. Where it was. How many people were there—and how many minors. How you happened to be there. What happened when you left. Tell me about Hardy and his body. And who got ahold of your purse and keys to your house. Just briefly.”

Was she kidding? I could barely sit up; I was exhausted. Still, if it would help apprehend the “kingpins,” I had no choice. Tired as I was, I ran through the events of the day. And as I talked I realized that, once I sifted out my conflicts about my father, my fears about the early contractions, my tensions with Nick and the emerging memories of my mother, there wasn’t much to say. With those elements omitted, the day’s events had still been frightening. But compared to all the rumbling emotions and the darkness in my mind, frightening didn’t seem that bad.

F
IRST THING
M
ONDAY, WE
arrived at the Widener Building across from city hall just before 9 a.m., but District Attorney J. Foster Blaine wasn’t in.

Susan knew his secretary by her first name: Lois. Apparently, Lois and Susan were old pals. Short, square, powerful, her reading glasses dangling on a beaded chain, her extended fingernails painted shimmering white and decorated with rhinestones, Lois stood when she saw Susan, greeting her with a warm hug, and the two immediately began catching up, swapping gossip, whispering loudly about one lawyer’s divorce and another’s scandalous disbarment. I shifted my weight from leg to leg, finally took a seat without being asked to. Nobody noticed. They talked on, breaking into occasional fits of laughter, until finally Susan asked when the DA would be back and learned that he had meetings all day, something she had apparently failed to anticipate.

“Well, that’s a shame. Tell him I stopped by, would you?”

“Sure. He’ll be sorry he missed you. Next time you’re around, give me a buzz first. I’ll put you on his calendar.”

“And we’ll have lunch.” Susan turned, ready to go. I stood, still nameless without an introduction. “By the way, Lois, do you happen to know which ADA handles animal cruelty cases?”

“Animal cruelty?” She frowned. “No. Wait a second.” She punched a few buttons on her computer. “That would be Bill Frazier’s office. Why? Do you have a case?”

“Me? No. This lady might, though.” She pointed to me as if I were a casual stranger. Or a potted plant. “Where’s his office?”

Before I knew it, we were headed for the office of William B. Frazier III, the assistant district attorney in charge of animal cruelty cases. Susan didn’t apologize or explain her behavior, and trailing along with her through the halls of the old office building, I realized I was not with Susan my friend. I was with Susan the attorney, someone I’d never met before. This Susan didn’t bother to ask the secretary if William B. Frazier III was available. She saw the door to his office open and marched right past the secretary, surprising him, introducing herself but, again, not me.

The ADA was a young man in his thirties. His hair was thinning and dark, his forehead shiny, his mustache well trimmed. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his striped tie loosened. Susan’s sudden arrival startled him. Ruffled, he pushed his chair away from his desk and jumped to his feet, as if ready to fend off barbarians. “Excuse me. You are?”

Susan stood still, waiting a beat. “I’m Susan Cummings.”

She paused, allowing him to process what she’d said. When he did, it was apparent. His facial expression changed. His scowl became an uneasy smile. He stepped forward to shake her hand.

“Well, well. Susan Cummings.” He repeated her name while holding on to her hand, as if trying to figure out what she wanted, what he should say next. “I’ve heard of you. I’m Bill Frazier. Please, call me Bill.”

Bill was awkward, eyeing Susan warily. Why? Was she so formidable an attorney? Was her name enough to terrorize prosecutors?