Gordo glanced down at the blood seeping between his fingers. Then he looked at Jenny. “You stabbed me, you crazy bitch!”
Although she was at least five feet away, she jabbed the knife at him. “I’ll stab you again if you don’t get your fat ass out of my apartment.”
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” He looked astonished, like they had been playing a game. “You’re a whore. You fuck for a living, yet you won’t do it to help yourself get out of debt? I’ve had housewives fuck my brains out over a five-thousand-dollar credit card debt they didn’t want their husbands to know about.”
They stared at each other across the floor of the small kitchen, both breathing hard. Gordo looked at his arm again. “I can’t believe you stabbed me.”
He lunged at her.
Jenny hacked at his face. She missed, but the fat man stumbled backward to get away. She rushed after him, thrusting the steak knife at his eyes and screaming at the top of her lungs, “Get out! Get out! Get out!”
The blubbery lawyer turned and ran. She chased him to the edge of the kitchen, then stopped, afraid to get too close to him. At the apartment door he turned. “This isn’t over.” He nodded toward the bloody hole in his sleeve. “You’re going to pay for this.” Then he threw open the door and bolted out.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“What’s the matter, you afraid to be seen with me?” Ray said.
Jimmy LaGrange nodded. “Yeah.”
“Every time we meet it’s somewhere new.”
“Maybe that should tell you something.”
“Like what?”
“Like I don’t want to meet with you,” the detective said.
Ray glanced around the park. They were near Lake Pontchartrain, not far from his boathouse apartment. The late-afternoon air was warm, and for a change it wasn’t raining. November in New Orleans and people were still out in shorts, some walking dogs, everyone enjoying the nice weather.
The two former partners sat on opposite sides of a picnic table. Ray said, “What’d you find out?”
LaGrange slung his attache case onto the table. He pulled out a thick manila folder. From inside the folder, he slipped a computer printout of at least a dozen pages and slid it across the table to Ray. “Scooby’s rap sheet associates.”
Ray flipped through the list of everyone Michael Salazaar had ever been arrested with in New Orleans. He started to count the names.
“Fourteen,” LaGrange said. “I highlighted the ones who got picked up with him for felonies.”
“Thanks,” Ray said.
He studied the printout. Under each name was a section containing basic identifying information, including race, sex, date of birth, and last known address. Nine were highlighted in yellow. Below the identification section was a list of charges.
“Scooby had a lot of friends,” Ray said. He eyed the folder in LaGrange’s hands. “What else have you got?”
“Rap sheets on his nine felony friends. I knew you were going to ask for them.”
“Good thinking,” Ray said, reaching across the table.
LaGrange put a hand on top of the folder. “This is it, Ray. I can’t help you anymore. You’re getting too deep into this shit, and I’ve got to think about my family.”
Ray stared at him. “I’ve got no choice.”
“You told me that before,” LaGrange said. “What do you mean?”
Ray told LaGrange about what had happened in Shorty’s parking lot, about the squirt gun filled with piss, about the real gun, and about the threat.
LaGrange said, “Why you?”
Ray shrugged. “They say it’s because I used to be a cop, but I think there’s more to it.”
“Like what?”
“Tony is an ambitious bastard. Best I can figure, he doesn’t want to risk ruining his career. If this crew has already blown town, or they spent the money, or anything else happens that’s not according to plan, Tony wants a fall guy.”
“And you’re it?”
Ray nodded.
“And if you do happen to find them?” LaGrange said.
“Tony takes the credit.”
LaGrange slid the folder across the table. “Same old Tony Zello,” he said. “Trying to have it both ways, just like always.”
Inside the folder were ten stapled computer printouts. Ray glanced at the first page of each and saw that at the top was a name, followed by the same identifying data as the rap sheet associates printout, then the total number of arrests. Printed below were the details of each arrest.
Scooby’s rap sheet was on top. The date of his last arrest was only three months ago, when he had been picked up for simple possession of heroin. The charges had been dismissed. A brief entry gave the reason as improper search. More important to Ray was the section describing marks, scars, and tattoos that was updated after each arrest. Scooby’s sheet listed several tattoos, but no spiderweb on his hand. Ray moved on.
He scanned the first page of each stack, looking at the names and physical descriptions, specifically for the spiderweb tattoo. Two of the rap sheet owners were black. Ray put them aside. He hit pay dirt on number five.
Dylan Sylvester-the name sounded familiar-white male, twenty-eight years old. Among the tattoos listed was a spiderweb on the back of his right hand. An image popped into Ray’s mind of a tall guy, on the skinny side, with a shaved head.
The arrests were listed in reverse chronological order, with the most recent on top. Sylvester’s first two were for DWI and simple battery. But two years ago he had been picked up for possession with intent to distribute crack and possession of a firearm during a drug-trafficking crime. Both charges had been dismissed, with no reason listed.
Ray flipped through the pages. There was an almost four-year stretch between the drug and gun arrest and the next most recent bust, for armed robbery. The disposition section showed Sylvester had pled guilty to the robbery and had drawn a ten-year sentence. With good time and an overcrowded prison system, he could have been out in three.
Then an arrest nine years ago jumped off the page at Ray. He found out why he thought he knew Dylan Sylvester. The charge was simple robbery, the location was in the French Quarter, the arresting officers were Ray Shane and Kurt Fitzpatrick.
Across the picnic table, LaGrange slurped coffee from a Styrofoam cup. Ray said, “You remember this guy?”
“Who?”
“Dylan Sylvester.”
LaGrange cocked his head back for a few seconds, like he was thinking about it, then looked at Ray. “I saw his name, but it didn’t sound familiar. Why?”
Ray tapped the physical description. “He’s got the tattoo.”
LaGrange shrugged. “Big deal. So do a hundred other guys.”
“But I know this guy,” Ray said. “Kurt and I arrested him nine years ago.”
“For what?”
Ray flicked his finger against the page in front of him. “Says simple robbery.” He thought back, trying to pull up the details. “Way I remember it, though, a tourist got robbed at gunpoint. A district car put out a description of the perp. Half an hour later me and Fitz see this skinhead asshole strolling down Bourbon Street. He matched the
