Shadows in the Water Read online

  Tonight there would be guns, of course. And the ones chosen for this evening’s mission would be fighters. Perhaps a few even better than Lou herself.

  And there was the water to consider. The harbor sparkled in the late afternoon sun. Looking at it made Lou’s skin itch.

  Angelo ran a thick hand through his oiled hair and tossed his Dunhill butt on the ground. He smashed it out with a twist of his boot and hooked an arm around Barbie’s waist.

  Tonight, she thought, as a swarm of tourists swelled on the pier. I’m going to kill you and love every minute of it.

  Her sunglasses hitched higher on her face as she grinned.

  Before Angelo could turn toward her and spot a familiar ghost in the crowd, Lou did what she did best.

  She disappeared, not returning until well after dark.

  By 2:00 A.M., all the tourists were in bed with dreams of the next day.

  Lou, on the other hand, wasn’t sure she had another day in her. That was okay. She didn’t need to see another sunrise as long as Angelo Martinelli didn’t either.

  Lying on top of one of the shipping containers, Lou had a great view of the docks below. Her forearms and body were covered in leather and Kevlar, but her palms were bare. The metal container serving as her lookout was warm under her palms, sun-soaked from the day. She was small enough to fit into the grooves in the top of the container, making her invisible to those below. Unless of course, Angelo arrived by helicopter.

  Her body squirmed. Despite the pleasant breeze rolling off the deep harbor, sweat was starting to pool at the back of her neck beneath her hairline. Her feet twitched with excitement.

  Death by waiting, she thought.

  She was desperate to swing at something. She imagined certain animals felt this way during the full moon. Hungry, unsettled, itching all over.

  Do it already, her mind begged. Slip. A heartbeat later she’d be standing behind Angelo. So close she could run her hands through his greased hair.

  Boo, motherfucker.

  Not motherfucker, she thought. Mother killer.

  True, Courtney Thorne was hard to love. Her compulsive and domineering behavior, her impatience. Her tendency to chide and scorn rather than praise. Her face a perpetual pout rather than a smile.

  But Louie also remembered how hard her mother had hugged her the day after she was found in Ohio. Louie had sat in the sheriff’s office for hours, wrapped in a scratchy wool blanket consuming all the soda and peanut butter cups she could stomach until her parents arrived.

  Louie! Her mother had cried the moment she stepped through the station’s glass doors. Louie had only managed to put down her soda can and slide out of the chair before her mother fell on her, seizing and squeezing her half to death. She smelled like makeup powder and rose water. Like the old woman she would never become.

  Courtney wasn’t her favorite parent, but she didn’t deserve to die either.

  Louie’s fists clenched at her side.

  Angelo’s men stirred on the pier. To anyone else, it seemed as if an innocuous few stood around, smoking, and talking. Apart from the hour, nothing suspicious there. But Lou glimpsed blades catching moonlight and saw the bulging outlines of guns under jackets.

  Jackets in this heat were clue enough.

  Cops stop patrolling the harbor at midnight. Lou wondered if that could be blamed on budget cuts, ignorance, or money from Angelo’s own pockets. A little of each, she thought.

  She’d almost succumbed to drumming her fingers on the shipping container when a car pulled into view.

  The black sedan was like so many others Angelo had rented in cities where he’d done business before: Chicago. San Francisco, New York, Atlanta and now Baltimore.

  As soon as she saw the car, she started to slip. Bleeding through this side of the world. No. Not yet, she scolded herself. Don’t fuck this up.

  She’d only have one good shot. One chance to catch him off guard.

  Tonight she would finish what her father started so many years ago.

  Someone opened the back door, and Angelo stepped out. He adjusted the lapels of his leather jacket. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Again. Because the sight of him was enough to make her heart hammer.

  Angelo called out to someone in Italian, then pointed at the boat. “Ho due cagne in calore che mi aspettano ed un grammo di neve con il mio nome scritto sopra.”

  Louie only understood a little Italian and caught the words two whores and waiting. Enough to get the gist of his harsh tone and thrusting hips, and comprehend why the men leered. One whistled through his teeth.

  Angelo cupped his hands around a fresh Dunhill. A flame sparked, illuminating his face. With a wave, Angelo led his entourage to the pier where the boat sat tied to the dock. The boat rocked in the waves, straining against its rope, like a tied horse ready to run.

  As soon as Angelo placed one foot on the boat, then dipping his head to enter the cabin, Lou let go.

  She bled through. One moment she lay on top of the shipping container, the next, she stood in the shadows beneath the cabin’s stairs. Her eyes leveled with Angelo’s heels. It was hot in the unventilated room.

  Angelo Martinelli descended the stairs with a man in front and one behind him. Lou smelled the leather of his boots and the smoke from his cigarette. I can grab him now, she thought. Reach between the steps and seize his ankle like in a horror movie.

  Someone turned on the overhead light, and the interior of the boat burned yellow in the glow of the 40-watt bulb. Lou jumped back into the corner without thinking. An honest reaction to the sudden influx of light.

  But her shoulder blades connected with a solid wall.

  Heads snapped up at the sound of Lou searching for an exit that had been there only a moment before but was now gone.

  She had only a second to decide.

  She drew her gun, one fluid and practiced movement, and shot the overhead light. The 40-watt bulb burst, exploding in a shower of sparks. It was enough to throw them back into darkness and provide Lou with her exit. She slipped behind the stairs, then emerged from a narrow pathway between two shipping containers. Gunfire erupted inside the boat behind her. The ship strained against its rope again, and the wooden docks creaked.

  More men came running, guns drawn.

  She cursed and slammed her fist into the shipping container. So much for the surprise.

  The chance to grab Martinelli and slip away undetected was gone. As her target emerged from the boat, gun at the ready, the weight of her mistake intensified.

  He was spooked. Now he looked like the horse ready to run.

  He inhaled sharp breaths of salty air as he hurried toward his car in short, quick strides. Fifty steps. Thirty-five. Twenty and he’ll be gone.

  It was now or never.

  Fifteen steps.

  Ten.

  The thick tint of Angelo’s car might work to her advantage, but her timing had to be perfect. Her blood whistled in her ears as she counted his last steps.

  3....2...1...

  She stepped from the edge of the shipping container into the backseat of Angelo’s car. The leather seat rushed up to greet her, bending her legs into place.

  But it was her hands that mattered. And she had plenty of time to position them.

  Angelo turned away from her, pulling the car door shut. She pressed her gun to his temple the second the door clicked into place.

  The driver began to turn, pulling his weapon up from his lap but he was too slow. Louie lifted a second pistol from her hip and shoved it to the back of his neck, to the smooth nape. His neck tensed under the barrel, shifting the gun metal against her fingers.

  “Don’t,” she said. Her eyes were fixed on Angelo. “I have a better idea.”

  “You were not in the car when I opened the door,” Angelo said. His tobacco breath stung her nose. “I’m certain of this.”

  “Imagine how quick I am with a gun.” It was a bold bluff given her predicament. His men were abandoning the boat
. Some were moving the heroin. Others were lumbering toward other vehicles. If even one of them got into this car, she was screwed.

  She could produce a third gun, sure. But not a third hand to hold it.

  “You were also on the boat.” Angelo’s eyes shined in the dark, reflecting light like the black sea in front of them. “Or one like you.”

  “That would put me in two places at once,” she said. She arched an eyebrow. “Impossible.”

  The driver remained very still, his hands at the ten and two positions on the wheel. Lou didn’t recognize him, but she doubted that she’d ever forget the thick stench of Old Spice turned sour with sweat. It made her head swim.

  If he was new, he was probably uninterested in doing anything that would cost him his life. She’d have to test this theory.

  “What do you want?” Angelo asked. He shifted uncomfortably. Lou had found her silence made men nervous. Or maybe it was her gun. Difficult to tell. “Money? The drugs?”

  “Driver?” she said.

  The driver didn’t turn toward her or even make a small sound of acknowledgment.

  “Do you see the pier?” she went on, eyes still on Angelo. One of his greased curls fell across his forehead, and one corner of his lip curled in a partial sneer. His cheek muscles twitched. “Beside the pier is a space between the guardrails. Do you see it?”

  The driver remained mute. His shoulders remained hunched, eyes forward. It was as if he’d had guns pressed to his head before and had since learned how to keep even a single muscle from twitching.

  Lou saw all this in her perfect peripheral vision, not daring to look away from the man she wanted most.

  Angelo Martinelli. This close he was smaller than she’d imagined.

  She smiled at him, the taste of victory on her lips. “Drive into the bay.”

  When the driver didn’t move, she smacked the gun against his occipital bone. “If you don’t do it, then you’re useless to me, and I think you understand what happens to useless people.”

  If he refused to drive, she’d shoot them both. It would be messier. Riskier. But if she couldn’t get Martinelli into the water, she wasn’t going to let this opportunity escape.

  Yes. If Lou had to, she’d shoot them both and drive the car into the bay herself.

  “Make your choice, Martinelli,” she said. His eyes were pools of ink shining in the lamplight.

  The confused pinch of his brow smoothed out. The curling sneer pulled into a tight grin.

  “Drive,” he said.

  Without hesitation, the driver put the car into motion, and the sedan rolled forward.

  “Faster,” Lou said, grinning wider.

  “Faster,” Angelo agreed. A small chuckle rumbled in his throat. He slapped the back of the driver’s seat like this was a game. “Faster.”

  The driver punched the accelerator, and the car lurched forward. As it blasted past the men on the docks, shouts pinged off the windows. Angelo’s laugh grew more robust, pleasing belly laugh.

  He’s high as hell, she realized. High as hell without any idea of what’s happening to him.

  They hit a bump when flying past the guardrails and onto the pier. The wooden slats clunked under the car’s tires.

  In the wake of Angelo’s mania, Lou couldn’t help but smile herself. She didn’t lower the gun. “You’re crazy.”

  This proclamation only made him laugh harder, clutching at his belly. His laugh warped into a wheezing whine.

  The thrum of the wooden slats disappeared as the car launched itself off the pier. The sharp stench of fish wafted up to greet them as they floated suspended above the ocean. Her stomach dropped as the nose of the car tipped forward and the windshield filled with black Atlantic water.

  There was a moment of weightlessness, of being lifted out of her seat and then the car hit the water’s surface. Her aim faltered on impact, but she’d righted herself before either man could.

  Cold water rushed in through the windows, trickling first through the corners, filling the car slowly as they slid deeper into the darkness. It seeped through the laces of her boots.

  “Now what?” Angelo asked. He seemed genuinely thrilled. As if this was the most exciting experience of his life.

  “We wait,” she said.

  “She’s going to shoot us and leave our bodies in the water.” The driver’s voice surprised her, higher and more childish than she imagined. No wonder he’d kept his mouth shut.

  The driver could open the door and swim away for all she cared. “I don't—”

  The driver couldn’t wait for any reassurance. He whirled, lifting his gun.

  Without a thought, she fired two shots into his skull, a quick double tap. His head rocked back as if punched. The brains splattered across the windows like Pollock’s paint thrown onto a canvas.

  She was glad she’d decided on the suppressor. Her ears would be bleeding from the noise if she hadn’t. The smell of blood bloomed in the car. Bright and metallic. It was followed by the smell of piss.

  Angelo’s humor left him. “Is it my turn now, ragazzina?”

  Water gurgled around the windows as the car sank deeper into the dark bay.

  “No,” she said, her eyes reflecting the dark water around them. “I have something else for you.”

  2

  Will you do it?

  The question looped in King’s mind. Will you do it, Robbie?

  At the corner of St. Peter and Bourbon, Robert King paused beneath a neon bar sign. Thudding bass blared through the open door, hitting him in the chest. The doorman motioned him forward. King waved him off. He was done drinking for the night. Not only because the hurricane was getting acquainted with the pickle chips he’d eaten earlier, but because the case file under his arms wasn’t going to examine itself.

  Despite the riot in his stomach, he hoped the booze would help him sleep. He was overdue a good night. A night without crushing darkness and concrete blocks pinning him down on all sides. A night where he didn’t wake up at least twice with the taste of plaster dust on his lips. Leaving the bedside light on helped, but sometimes even that wasn’t enough to keep the nightmares away.

  Drunk revelers stumbled out of the bar laughing, and a woman down the street busked with her violin case open at her feet. The violin’s whine floated toward him but was swallowed by the bass from the bar.

  King paused to inspect his reflection in the front window. He smoothed his shaggy hair with a slick palm. He could barely see the scar. A bullet had cut a ten-degree angle across his cheekbone before blasting a wedge off his ear. The ear folded in on itself when it grew back together, giving him an elfish look.

  A whole building collapsed on him, and it hadn’t left a single mark. One bullet and...well, he supposed that was how the world worked.

  Calamity didn’t kill you. What finished you was the shot you never saw coming.

  He straightened and smiled at the man in the glass.

  Good.

  Now that he didn’t look like a drunk, it was time to make sure he didn’t smell like one. He pinned the file against his body with a clenched elbow and dug into his pocket for mints. He popped two mints out of the red tin and into his mouth, rolling them back and forth with his tongue as if to erase all the evidence. Satisfied, he continued his slow progress toward home.

  The central streets of the French Quarter were never dark, even after the shops closed and all that remained were the human fleas feeding in the red light of Bourbon Street. The city didn’t want a bunch of drunks searching for their hotels in the dark, nor did they care to provide cover for the petty pickpockets who preyed on them. There were plenty of both in this ecosystem.

  At the corner of Royal and St. Peter, King paused beneath a metal sign swinging in the breeze rolling in off Lake Pontchartrain and wiped his boots on the curb. Gum. Vomit. Dog shit. A pedestrian could pick up all sorts of discarded waste on these streets. He balanced his unsteady body by placing one hand on a metal post, cane height and topped with a hor
se’s head. The pointed ears pressed into his palm as he struggled to balance himself.

  A fire engine red building stood waiting for him to clean his feet. Black iron railings crowned the place, with ferns lining the balcony. Hunter green shutters framed oversized windows overlooking both Royal and St. Peter.

  The market across the street was still open. King considered ducking in and buying a bento box, but one acidic pickle belch changed his mind. He rubbed his nose, suppressing a sneeze.

  Best to go to bed early and think about all that Brasso had told him. Sleep on it. Perhaps literally with the photographs and testimony of one Paula Venetti under his pillow for safe keeping.

  And with his gun too, should someone come in during the night and press a blade to his throat in search of information. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Will you do it?

  King supposed if he thought this case was hot enough to warrant a knifing in the night, he should’ve said no. He should remind his old partner he’s retired. Brasso should find some young buck full of piss and vinegar. Not a man pushing sixty who can’t have two cocktails without getting acid reflux severe enough to be mistaken for a heart attack.

  The case file sat heavy in his hand. Heavier than it had been when he’d first accepted it. He clutched the folder tighter and crossed the threshold into Mel’s shop, the lights flickered, and a ghostly moan vibrated the shelves.

  A gaggle of girls looked up from their cell phones wide-eyed. Then they burst into laughter. One with braces snorted, and the laughter began anew.

  Mel’s sales tactics may not be old hat to them, but King found the 10,000th fake moan less thrilling than the first. Funny how it had been the same with his ex-wife.

  It’s all about theatrics with these folk, Mel had said when she forced him to help install the unconventional door chime. They come to N’awlins for the witchy voodoo stuff, and if you want to keep renting my room upstairs, Mr. King, you best clip these two wires here together. My old fingers don’t bend the way they used to.