Sex, Lies & Diamonds Page 10

“It’s not, Z, now listen—”

  “Gotta go, Colt,” I said cutting him off and hanging up to stare Tristan down. “How in the hell did you get in here without me noticing you?”

  “I’m quiet.”

  My brow arched. Tristan was a man of few words and even fewer when pressed for information. He knew a lot about the American mob. He knew even more about the drug trade. Most of it he kept to himself. The Bureau didn’t mind as long as he kept turning people over and shutting down pipelines of drugs into the country. They didn’t question his tactics and he kept sending them people to indict.

  “I didn’t know if you’d be back today or not.”

  “You’d be hard pressed to find another agent to help your sorry and, I might add, dead ass out right now.”

  “You know anything?” I asked, ignoring his comment.

  He moved closer. “Chatted with Marchant this morning.”

  “And?”

  Tristan pulled a folded piece of paper from inside his leather jacket and tossed it on my desk. Sliding it toward me with his middle finger, he began to explain its contents.

  “FBI has been tracking two major players in a heroin ring here in New Orleans. One man is Tommaso Falconi—they call him Big Man. The bastard’s killed plenty of people who’ve gotten in his way—including his own men and family. The other is a newcomer—Alphonso Balivino, Jr. According to the information I’ve turned up, he doesn’t have capital to run his ring—to pay Sicily. So he’s got a line on merchandise coming in from Mexico and he has something Falconi doesn’t.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Police protection.”

  I sat up in my chair, the ancient wood whining under my weight. “Jesus.”

  “There’s more.”

  I ran my hands through my hair. I knew the New Orleans police department was corrupt. But corrupt to the point they were doing more than taking bribes for protection? Could they honestly be part of a heroin ring? “Are you seriously saying…?”

  “Read it.”

  Opening the paper, I stared at a list of at least twenty NOLA police officers. “Are all these men and women on the take?”

  “So says Marchant. These officers have either covered up or participated in activity surrounding the Balivinos.”

  “What about the Falconi family? Who’s covering up for them?”

  Tristan’s lips thinned. “Like I said, no one. New Orleans Police is cooperating with the Bureau’s investigation of them. If the Balivinos can control the heroin trade in the city and the cops are getting a cut, getting rid of Falconi only helps their cause. They get letters of commendation for winning the war on drugs—”

  “While making a fortune off bringing in the new supply.”

  Tristan nodded. His immunity to the work was mind-boggling. The man operated like a machine, never showing any kind of reaction to the facts he had to deal with day in and day out.

  “How did Marchant come up with this list? Do we even know it’s real?”

  “There are twenty cops on the list—each with a retail establishment to oversee. The shit comes in with regular shipments for restaurants and bars. The owners get a little cut, the police get a bit, and Balivino takes the rest.”

  I dropped the paper. “Why doesn’t the FBI know about Balivino if they’re following the Falconis?”

  “Nothing’s happening on a large scale. Not yet. One good sale of smack with no problems and it’s all she wrote.”

  “But, Balivino has money. He doesn’t need to rob me. The Marcello Family would surely back him.”

  “Since your, you know, untimely death—the Marcello family has been exposed. They’re on the run. After The Shadow was killed, that one reporter wrote a book and blew a lot of shit wide open. The Feds moved in and arrested everyone—and I mean everyone. The Marcello family spent a ton of money trying to defend its members. Some of them died—most of them are serving life sentences. The Balivinos were never indicted. With the Marcellos all but gone, Al and his sons are a dying breed.”

  “Yeah. A dying breed trying to re-invent itself.”

  “They’re getting help from a corrupt police force.”

  “Not just the force, Tristan. Did you see the last name on the list?”

  Opening the paper again, I scanned the names to double check. Chief Foster Norwood. Not only did I need to steer clear of the Balivino boys, I needed to hide from the New Orleans police chief.

  Tristan furrowed his brow. “What now?”

  I rubbed my fingers across my lips. “What I want to do and what I should do are in complete contradiction to one another. I’m going to start with what I need to do.” I picked up the house phone, then placed it back in the cradle. “I need a damn phone.”

  Pushing myself away from the desk, my footsteps thundered through the house. “Johnson?” I didn’t have to travel far.

  “Sir.” Hawk stepped out of the kitchen and into the adjoining parlor.

  “I need a secure line. I don’t trust the house phone. Get me a burner phone from a local drugstore. I’d send out one of the staff, but—”

  “No problem, sir. If we don’t have one on hand, I’ll have it for you in the next thirty minutes.”

  I nodded.

  “Barbie. Barbie, Hawk,” he said walking away.

  Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “Barbie?” he mumbled under his breath.

  I nodded, unaffected. “Yeah. I guess there’s a story there.”

  “Look, Leo,” Tristan began. “If you want to take care of Oscar and go back to the middle of nowhere, then do it. No one is going to blame you. You don’t have to wage this war. Balivino came here looking for something and didn’t find it. Maybe he knows you’re alive. Maybe he doesn’t.”

  I brought my wandering eyes back to focus on Tristan. “He knows.”

  “Then he wants you dead. You and Polly both.”

  I knew what Tristan said was true, but I chose to think about other aspects of the case. “How do we know what Marchant is giving us is real?”

  “I checked him out. He’s a code-breaker. Got in trouble his freshman year for hacking into the university’s main email server and calling off school.”

  “What?”

  Tristan nodded. “Sent out a school-wide email from the president of the university.”

  “And he didn’t get kicked out?”

  “Couldn’t pin it on the sonofabitch. Honestly, I trust him behind a keyboard, but not a fuckin’ gun.”

  I looked at the list again.

  A knock sounded out on the open door frame and Hawk stood with a bag in his hand. “Your burner phone, sir. It’s a local number with a clean SIM card.”

  Taking the prepaid phone from his hand, I thanked him and walked back to my desk to dial.

  “Dr. Atwood, it’s Z.”

  “I wasn’t expecting your call.”

  “This is a good number—at least for today. How is he?”

  “Stable. Will you be stopping by?”

  “Is he stable enough to be moved?”

  “Moved to where, exactly?” I picked up on the concern in his voice and I knew my next statement was going to be met with apprehension.

  “Home. Jackson House.” In his silent reply I could almost hear him shaking his head.

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “Well, here’s the problem, Dr. Atwood. This place is a fortress right now. That place is merely a secret. And when that secret is revealed—which I fear it will be—not only will Oscar’s life be in danger, but so will yours and anyone who’s on duty at the time. Now, I know we have a couple of armed guards watching over him, but I’d feel much better if we could get him well enough to bring him home. Because I can promise you, whether he survives this or not, Oscar would want to be here.”

  Atwood sigh heavily on the other end. “You’re making this hard on me, Z. You know I want to do right by my patient.”

  “I know. And I by you. The last thing I want is to hear that not only Oscar ha
s passed, but you have too.”

  Atwood was used to dealing with men like me—men from clandestine government agencies who needed medical help. But that didn’t change the fact that he needed to or wanted to stay alive.

  “Give me a couple of days to wean him off the ventilator if we can. The blood clot is dissolving but moving him is going to be a big deal. How do you plan on doing it without causing a big fuss over there? If you’re being watched, it will be noticed.”

  “Leave those details up to me. Just get him ready. I have some other plans to attend to. And Atwood?”

  “Yes?”

  “No matter what you hear on the radio or television—no matter what you see in the newspapers—you do as I say and you keep it to yourself. Understood?”

  “You’re not instilling any kind of confidence in me that this is a good plan.”

  “Just get him ready. I’ll take care of the rest, doc. Two days.”

  “Two days.”

  I hung up and looked at Tristan. “That went better than I expected.”

  Tristan tilted his head. “I have no fucking idea what you’re doing, but I’ve got your six.”

  I nodded. “You ride your bike in?”

  He curled his lip in reply.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  Grabbing stacks of cash from the top drawer, I shoved the money and my new phone into the pockets of my jeans. They were a little dirty from last night, but that was a good thing. Pulling the bandana out of my back pocket, I tied back my hair and picked up my aviator sunglasses from the top of my desk. “Let’s go.”

  Out the back door and down the steps, Tristan and I walked in silence to the garage. Once inside I turned to him. “I’ve got a pocket full of cash and I want to meet some dealers.”

  “You sure you’re ready for this?”

  My jaw tensed. “Yeah, I’m fucking ready. If I can convince someone I have cash to buy a shit load of smack, Big Man will want to meet me. And that’s exactly what I want.”

  “You’re playing with fire, man.”

  I gave Tristan a half grin and one-kicked my Softail. “It’s how I play best.”

  12

  POLLY

  I’d refused to sit in the back of the blacked out SUV, opting for riding shotgun with Tree. I hadn’t told him exactly where I wanted to go, but that I wanted to drive around the city a little and see what we’d been missing the last eighteen months. He didn’t seem to mind. I played with the radio until I found something I liked. Tree didn’t bat an eye when I stopped on a rap station and busted out a few lyrics.

  “This music okay with you?” I asked, trying to get him to talk or at least crack a smile.

  “Whatever you’d like to listen to, ma’am.”

  “C’mon Tree, you must have a favorite artist? Someone you like?”

  I watched his lips thin and I could tell he was contemplating whether or not he wanted to disclose what was on his mind.

  “Do you like rap music?” I asked, sitting up a bit to catch his expression.

  “Not particularly, ma’am.”

  “Please call me Polly.”

  He blinked hard. “Not particularly, Miss Polly.”

  “I’m a Backstreet Boys fan myself. Do you know who they are?”

  Tree nodded. “Sometimes I hear them during the old school hour on the radio.”

  I blanched. “Old school?” Sitting back in the seat, it occurred to me that I was thirty and Tree was probably much younger.”

  “How old are you anyway, Tree?”

  “I’m twenty-two ma’am—I mean, Miss Polly.”

  I breathed the words remembering the age as if it was eons ago. “Twenty-two. Do you have a wife? Girlfriend?”

  He shrugged. “There’s a girl. It’s hard when you take jobs like these. I’m on the road a lot. Sometimes too much to keep it all together, but we try.” He paused. “At least I try.”

  “Tree, if you’re only twenty-two, then how in the world did you come by this job? I thought all you boys were ex-military.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I graduated at seventeen right here in New Orleans. My dad’s a high school science teacher. After graduation, I completed two tours. One in Afghanistan, a shorter one in Iraq. The first was under the command of Sergeant Johnson—Hawk. When I came home, he’d gone into private security. He rang me up. It’s a good way to make money—save—for, you know.”

  “The future?”

  “Yes ma’am. I mean, yes, Miss Polly.”

  “It’s okay, Tree. I know you’re programmed to say ma’am. I won’t fault you for it—yet. It’s just I’d rather we be more like friends than maybe your typical soldier-client relationship. Plus, it makes me feel elderly. Not to mention you called my favorite band old school. I mean, they are…but you don’t have to call me out on it.”

  Tree’s face blushed as we stopped at a red light and he dropped his chin to his chest in embarrassment. “I’m so sorry, Miss Polly. I never meant any disrespect.”

  I shook my head, allowing my lips to curl into a smile. “See? This is exactly what I’m talking about. If we were friends you’d know that I like to give people a hard time. It’s how I show affection. Now. We’re not going to get very far in our friendship if you don’t tell me why your call sign is Tree.”

  He blushed again and took off when the light turned green. “Miss Polly, maybe you should tell me where I’m supposed to be driving you.”

  “Quid pro quo, Alex Knight. You tell me why the boys call you Tree, and I’ll let you know where we’re going.”

  “Ma’am, I don’t know that it’s a story I can exactly tell.”

  “Why? Because it’s embarrassing?”

  “I mean, it’s not embarrassing, but it would be a little… um, impolite to say it in mixed company.”

  I pondered for a moment, but wasn’t going to be deterred—even if Tree did have a sexual connotation. “So it clearly has something to do with your ah—your—” I stopped midsentence and leaned closer to his seat again for a better look at his face. He was flushed. “It must have something to do with your dendrophilia.”

  “My what?” He nearly ran off the road at the sound of the word. “Ma’am, I don’t know what you’re thinking but I don’t have any sexual perversions toward—kids. They call me Tree because I have what most consider a bigger than average—you know—penis. A female marine caught me with my pants down then told someone she was going to climb me like a tree. That’s where the name comes from. No other place.”

  He’d rattled off the entertaining explanation without giving me a chance to cut him off. When he finally finished, I allowed the air around us to settle.

  “Alex?” I thought it best to use his given name at this point. “Dendrophilia is a love of trees. Pedophilia is sexual feelings toward children.”

  His face blanked and the once rosy cheeks were now pale. “Oh, Jesus.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  Tree, a.k.a Alex, drove aimlessly down the road and past the French Quarter. I wanted to tell him to head toward the Ninth Ward, but he was so shaken I felt like I was trying to reach a traumatized child. “Alex?”

  He stared straight ahead.

  “Tree?”

  “You must think I’m a prize idiot.”

  I shook my head. “Not at all. It was an innocent mistake. Besides, I said I wanted to know you better and for you to treat me like a friend. Now I feel like we’ve shared a moment.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Tree…C’mon.”

  “Okay, Polly.” He took a beat and I didn’t try to fill the conversation with an extra awkward explanation. “You wanna tell me where in the hell I’m taking you?”

  I couldn’t keep the smile from my lips. “Now that’s more like it.”

  He looked over to me in between glances down the street. “You’re not like anyone I’ve ever protected—Polly.”

  “Good. If there’s one thing I hate being, it’s predictable.”

  Tree drove through the las
t green light and pulled the SUV over on the side of the road, putting it in park. “Tell me where I’m going. Because I know you have a plan. So why don’t you save us both some time and let me in on it?”

  I pursed my lips and closed one eye in resignation. “Fine. I want to go to the Ninth Ward.”

  He dropped his chin in silent disapproval.

  “I’m serious.”

  “I’d happily take you, but your husband gave some pretty specific instructions.”

  “What? And one of them was to keep me from going to the Ninth Ward?”

  Tree nodded.

  “Well, I don’t care. You either drive me there, or I’ll get out of the car right here on the street and take a cab there myself.”

  “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “I know we’re new friends and all, Tree, but I would most certainly do exactly that. And believe me when I say this—the last thing you want to do is to call Leo and tell him you’ve lost me.”

  Tree’s jaw tensed and the veins in his neck strained at my words. “You’re killin’ me.”

  “Don’t make me take a cab, Tree. Especially now that we’re just getting to know one another.”

  Putting the car in drive, he looked over his shoulder and pulled back onto the road. “Lead the way.”

  My return to the makeshift hospital room where Oscar lay recuperating was unannounced as evidenced by the number of men that came out of nowhere and guns that were pulled upon our arrival. When Dr. Atwood came to the door, I was finally ushered back. Tree stayed outside with the other men.

  “How’s he doing today?” I asked.

  “What are you doing here? Your husband said no one was coming today. We’re not ready.”

  I looked past him, standing on my toes to see through the small square window at the top of the door. “Ready for what?”

  Dr. Atwood ushered me through the plastic, ignoring my question. “He’s been awake off and on. I want to wean him off the respirator, but that’s not going to happen today.”

  “He’s awake?” I asked, brushing past the doctor to get to Oscar’s side. “Have you called Leo? Does he know Oscar’s awake?”

  “Mrs. Xanthus, he’s not awake by any standard that would allow him to communicate. But the fluttering of the eyes, the raising of his finger, we think he’s aware of his surroundings. He did try to communicate something this morning.”