Beating the Babushka (2 page)

Chapter Three

The dead man’s eyes stared accusingly at the two policemen. Strangulation had caused the eyes to bulge and turn outward, giving the illusion that the corpse was scowling at both men simultaneously, angry at being excluded from their conversation.

“Who did you say he was again?”

Vincent Mango looked almost as annoyed as the corpse, but anyone who knew him would swear that was his normal expression. Even with risers in the heels of his Italian loafers, his wiry frame stood just over five and a half feet tall, so he compensated by acting testy. His short black hair was slick above a high, pale forehead, and he was dressed impeccably, right down to the Glock on his right hip, his detective shield clipped on his left side so he’d look symmetrical.

“Real name was Otto Metzger. Most people called him Otto the Kraut, but never to his face.”

The voice that answered nearly rattled the windows. Beauregard Jones stood very still as he spoke, as if worried about crushing his diminutive partner. At six-five and almost 240 pounds, all he had to do was fall over. His face was a mahogany mask that would have been inscrutable if not for the eyes. Twenty years on the force had given him cop eyes that could go from open and friendly to flat and deadly in a heartbeat. He wore high-tops, jeans, and a black T-shirt with a weathered shoulder rig stretched tightly across his chest, holding a Springfield forty-five stainless. A sizable firearm, it looked like a toy against Beau’s massive frame.

“Otto was the man in the middle,” added Beau, as if that explained everything.

Vincent scratched his right ear. “Middle of what?”

Looking at the smaller man with a hint of amusement in his eyes, Beau leaned forward and pointed at the table in front of them. “Those are drugs, Vinnie—heroin, if you want to get specific.”

Vincent glanced at the worktable in front of them, taking note of the scarred Formica, the four steel legs running to the cracked and faded tile floor. Scattered across its surface was everything you needed to make a sandwich, including cold cuts, sausages, string, plastic—and Otto, his feet splayed and hanging off the edge.

He wore a butcher’s apron over brown canvas pants, his leather shoes stained from years of animal blood and worn from miles of pacing behind a deli counter. His hands were thick and coarse, the veins prominent even in death. But beyond those simple observations, it was impossible to tell what the man had resembled in life. Beneath the protruding eyes, his nose flared angrily, a last attempt to draw breath into failing lungs. His tongue jutted obscenely between cracked lips, a thin line of blood visible where he’d bitten down in agony. The right temple looked bruised, a purplish welt visible above the eye. Otto had not gone quietly, but to determine the cause of death you only had to look at his throat.

His neck looked raw where a coarse brown string cut across the Adam’s apple and disappeared where it broke the skin. The chosen instrument of death appeared to come from a small pile of cord near Otto’s leg, the thick strands coiled next to a broken pyramid of sausage links.

Finally Vincent let his eyes follow the line of Beau’s enormous arm to a spot on the table just above Otto’s swollen face where a sausage lay snapped in half. The sausage itself was a good foot and a half in length and four inches in diameter. It had split laterally, but instead of the normal mottled coloring of pressed meat, the broken sausage revealed a stark white interior, a plastic tube hidden within its length. From the end of the broken tube spilled a brown powder with the consistency of flour.

“I know it’s heroin,” said Vincent. “Just ’cause you used to work Narcotics doesn’t mean—”

A uniformed cop with more pimples than bullets interrupted with a short step forward and a cough. “Detective?”

“The ME here?” asked Beau.

The cop shook his head. “No, sir, but the techs would like to start tagging and bagging, if you don’t mind.”

Beau looked at Vincent, who took one more glance at Otto before moving over toward the deli counter about ten feet away. “Be my guest.”

Beau started to join him when his phone rang, the vibration making him jump. He pulled the phone out of its holster and stepped away as a choreographed swarm of crime-scene technicians buzzed around the worktable, gloved hands and tweezers moving back and forth with practiced ease.

“Who?” said Beau, holding the phone to his right ear. “Send him here. Yes, to the deli.” Beau took a deep breath but kept his voice mild. “I know it’s a crime scene—it’s my crime scene—I’ll arrest him myself if he disturbs any evidence. And tell him I’ll only be here another thirty minutes.” He snapped the phone shut and stood next to Vincent, who was leaning against a refrigerated display cabinet containing as many different meats as there were animals on Noah’s Ark. Proudly stenciled in orange and black lettering across the glass was “Otto’s Meat.”

“So it’s heroin,” said Vincent. “Which tells us Otto probably didn’t pay his taxes.”

Beau shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what it is, Vinnie. What matters is who it belongs to.”

Vincent sighed—there was no stopping Beau when he was in his element. Vincent often wondered why his partner left Narcotics in the first place.

“So who does it belong to?”

Beau rubbed his hands together. “You ready for Narcotics 101?”

“The suspense is fuckin’ killing me.”

“You might have noticed that Otto’s little deli sits right at the intersection of San Francisco’s two most popular neighborhoods, North Beach and Chinatown.”

“I live here, too, asshole.”

Beau continued, unfazed. “The tongs run Chinatown—the gangs get their smack from the Triads in Hong Kong, who bring it in from the Golden Triangle. Got it?”

“As long as there’s no pop quiz later, we’re good.”

Beau ignored him. “Then in North Beach, the Italians—”

“Hey,” snapped Vincent. “Don’t start with the ethnic generalizations—I’m Italian, you know.”

“With a name like Mango?” said Beau, laughter in his eyes. “I always thought you were named after a fruit, Vinnie. And seeing as how you dress, I just figured—”

“Funny, coming from a guy whose socks don’t match.”

Beau looked down at his ankles, frowning.

“Okay, Vinnie,” he said calmly. “From North Beach, the mob—an organization primarily run by Italian-Americans like yourself—distributes the heroin.”

“Much better,” said Vincent. “And Otto was the bagman?”

Beau nodded. “Narcotics watched his place for years, but Otto was too slippery.”

“Never heard of him.”

Beau shrugged. “Not surprised—both his business partners own plenty of judges in this town. They needed Otto—the Italians and Chinese don’t always get along so well—turf wars, that kind of nonsense.”

“We haven’t had any of that shit for years.”

“Didn’t happen very often. One side would cut into the other’s action, then all hell would break loose. That is, until they agreed the drug trade was too important to be disrupted.”

“So?”

“So we have Fat Frank Alessi on the Italian side of Broadway distributing smack bought from Freddie Wang in Chinatown. And then you have Otto the Kraut.” Beau gestured at the table. “Whose German deli became the neutral ground where all controlled substances could be exchanged.”

“Germany as the neutral party,” mused Vinnie. “That’s gotta be a first.”

“Was that some kind of ethnic generalization?”

“What do you care?” said Vincent defensively.

“Seems like a double standard,” replied Beau. “’Specially from a politically correct guy like you.”

Vincent started to respond when Cape ducked under the police tape stretched across the entrance. The uniformed cop gave him a dubious glance but let him pass.

Cape lingered for a moment next to Otto and the technicians, his blue eyes darkening as he studied the corpse. After a moment, he tore himself away and gingerly stepped around markers and photographic equipment before shaking hands with both detectives. “When you told me to meet you here instead of your office, I figured you were going to buy me lunch.”

Beau chuckled, a seismic tremor deep in his chest. “Dream on. You want to meet me, you come to me. I’m a cop—the street is my office.”

“The street is my office?” said Cape. “Is that this year’s bumper sticker for the police cruisers?”

Beau scowled. Cape gestured toward the corpse. “What happened to him?”

“You saw the body,” said Beau. “Someone choked the shit out of him after smacking him over the head.”

“Smacked with his own smack,” said Vincent.

Beau nodded. “Poor Otto was KO’d by a kielbasa.”

Cape shook his head. “Summer sausage.”

“What?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s a summer sausage,” said Cape, gesturing toward Otto before turning and pointing at the glass case behind them. “My mom worked in a butcher shop her whole life, remember? A kielbasa is a Polish sausage, like that one.”

Beau look bemused. “So?”

“It’s more narrow and usually curved—it lacks sufficient tensile strength to be used as a bludgeon.”

Beau looked at his friend with heavy-lidded eyes. “Whatever. I just liked the alliteration—you know, KO’d by a—”

“No, he’s right.” Vincent chimed in. “No way that’s a kielbasa. Might be a bratwurst, though. They’re nice and thick—you could definitely stun a man with a bratwurst.”

“They’re usually shorter than that, though,” said Cape. “And wider. But you’re right. You could do some damage with a bratwurst.”

“How about a chourica?” suggested Vincent. “I once had one at a Spanish restaurant. Had heartburn for a week.”

Beau frowned. “Chore-eek-uh?”

“It’s Portuguese,” explained Cape, squinting through the glass. “A heartier, spiced meat. Pretty good size, too.”

Vincent bent over the glass case next to him. “Is it that one?”

Cape nodded. “I don’t think you could kill a man, but you’d definitely get his attention. And there’s a linguica—that’s another possibility.”

“What’s that?”

“Another Portuguese sausage. About the same size, but made of pork.”

“It would make a pretty good weapon,” said Vincent admiringly.

“Much milder than the chourica,” said Cape. “You should try it sometime.”

“I’ll tell my wife,” said Vincent, pulling a notebook out of his suit jacket. “How do you spell that?”

“Will you two knock it off?” Beau snatched the pen from Vincent and threw it at Cape, who ducked. It flew across the deli, narrowly missing one of the uniformed cops.

“Hey,” said Vincent. “That was my good pen.”

Beau ignored him. “While you two are comparing recipes, our friend Otto is getting stiffer and smellier by the minute.”

“He’s not going anywhere,” muttered Vincent, waving at the uniform to retrieve his pen.

Beau turned his bulk on Cape. “Don’t make me sorry I invited you down here, brother—you said it was important.”

“It is.”

“Well then, since your little seminar on deadly meat by-products is over, maybe you could cut to the chase and let us get back to work.”

Cape looked from Beau to Vincent. “I need a favor.”

Beau opened his eyes wide and made the letter O with his mouth. “I’m shocked,” he said.

“Stunned,” added Vincent.

“Speechless,” said Beau.

“Fuck you,” said Cape. “Fuck you both.”

Beau laughed. “I think we hurt his feelings, Vinnie.”

“You done?” said Cape. “Or just warming up to do ‘Who’s On First?’”

Beau looked at Vincent, who shrugged. “We’re done, but this better be good.”

“It is,” said Cape.

“What’s the favor?”

“I want you to arrest my client.”

Chapter Four

“You want me to go to jail?”

“No, I want you to get arrested.”

“And you’re sure there’s a difference?”

“Pretty sure.”

Cape sat across from Grace at a small window table in Town’s End, a breakfast place along the waterfront not far from Cape’s office. He ate breakfast there more often than most people eat breakfast, and the owners let him meet clients after they closed up for the morning. Even at eleven o’clock, the smell of freshly baked pastries hung in the air like a fat man’s narcotic.

Though running had kept the calories from doing too much damage, Cape had developed a severe addiction to the miniature scones, which were complimentary and served in a basket on every table. He’d considered seeking professional help but lost his resolve at the first sight of wicker and checkered cloth.

Grace took a bite from a cranberry muffin and talked around it. “No offense, but when you say you’re pretty sure, it doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence.”

Cape looked at his client before answering, gauging her stress. He also liked looking at her. She was wearing black pants made from some fabric developed at a NASA research lab, a gray sweatshirt with UCLA across the front, and a pair of low black shoes that Cape suspected cost more than his car. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, revealing diamond-stud earrings. Cape noticed she didn’t wear any rings on either hand. He couldn’t decide if she was dressed to work, dance, or ride a motorcycle.

Grace frowned. “As far as the police are concerned, there is no case.”

“True.”

“So why would they arrest me?”

Cape palmed another scone. He’d already lost count. “Because I asked them to.”

“Are the local police always this accommodating to city residents?”

“Only if you pay your taxes.”

“Can they be trusted? There’s a lot of police corruption on Law & Order.”

“Then it must be true,” said Cape. “But you can trust this cop.”

Grace looked skeptical. “How well do you know him?”

Cape shrugged. “He arrested me once, so I guess you could call us friends.”

Grace waited for an explanation. When none came, she just stared. Cape stared back, a pleasant expression on his face.

Grace blinked.

“And why should he do you a favor?”

“I did a favor for him once.”

“What did you do?”

“You must have missed that episode of
Law & Order
.”

Grace took the hint. “I guess you wouldn’t have many clients if you weren’t discreet.”

“I don’t have many clients.”

“Maybe because you want them to get arrested.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Cape. “The police will either say they got a tip, or maybe we’ll have you walk into the precinct and confess.”

“Confess?”

“If you do that, then legally they have to question you, which means they’ve started a murder investigation.”

“Confess?” repeated Grace, shifting in her seat. “But I’m the one trying to get an investigation started, remember? I had nothing to do with Tom’s murder.”

“If it was a murder—”

“It was a murder,” Grace snapped, her nostrils flaring.

Cape held up his hands.

“What I was explaining,” he said evenly, “is that if it was a murder, then by definition there must be a murderer somewhere.”

“Okay,” said Grace cautiously.

“A murderer who thinks he—or she—got away with it. Most murders are solved within forty-eight hours or never solved at all.”

Grace nodded. “I saw that on
CSI.
”

Cape started to say something sarcastic but caught himself. She was paying his day rate, after all, and she had a natural disadvantage—she worked in Hollywood.

He said, “So the murderer is watching for any sign of trouble even as we sit here eating scones.”

“I haven’t had any scones,” said Grace, picking at her muffin protectively. “You’ve eaten them all.”

Cape smiled apologetically.

“We’ll order more.”

“I’m confused,” said Grace.

“I want to send a message—we want the killer to know that the cops think Tom was a murder victim and not a suicide. It’s more important that the cops are investigating a murder than who they’re investigating at this point.”

“I get it,” said Grace. “Then what happens?”

“I call a reporter who works at one of the local papers and say the cops think maybe the jumper was murdered. They might even take your picture coming out of the precinct.”

Grace sank down in her seat. “Is that really necessary?”

Cape shrugged. “If the bad guys can read, they’ll know someone’s nosing around their business.”

“And you’re pretty sure this will work?”

Cape shrugged again. “It’s all about provoking a reaction.”

“You sound more like a pain in the ass than a detective.”

“I don’t have the lab equipment they use on
CSI
,” replied Cape. “A common misconception from TV and the movies is that clues are just lying around, waiting to be followed back to the villain’s lair.”

“Villain’s lair?” Grace arched her eyebrows.

“I read a lot of comic books as a kid.”

“So what do you think will happen?”

“No clue,” said Cape. “I’m a pretty straightforward guy—to figure out what’s going on, I usually have to piss someone off.”

“Who are you trying to piss off?”

“The person or persons who threw your friend off the bridge,” said Cape. “Or maybe the people who paid them to do it.”

It was the answer Grace was waiting for. She took a deep breath and let it out, the tension in her face disappearing for the first time since Cape met her.

“So you believe me.” She made it sound like a statement, not a question.

“I trust you,” said Cape. “There’s a difference.”

Grace smiled.

“Do you think you could give me a ride to the police station? I have to confess to a murder.”

“Sure,” said Cape.