Fatal Flaws (excerpt)
The cab careened through the streets, the driver urged on by Krite’s instructions to hurry. Krite and Sam were tossed back and forth in the back seat as each corner was rounded, each yellow light was ignored. Agonizing minutes later, they arrived at the shabby storefront on Argyle Street. A neon outline of a taco and some tacky hand-lettered signage announced that they had arrived at Lolita Conchita’s Taco House. Krite tossed some bills at the cabby and they stepped out onto the sidewalk.
“How do we get to Juano’s apartment?” he asked.
“There,” said Sam, pointing to an unmarked door next to the storefront. They bounded up the narrow stairway three steps at a time, and found the door to the tiny tenement hanging open. They cautiously stepped inside.
Krite’s eyes scanned the filthy living room, and he gasped. A small, light-skinned Hispanic man hung, dead, from the central light fixture. A narrow-gage wire cut into the flesh of his neck and ran up and over the ceiling light. Sam gasped and put her hand over her mouth. Krite quickly finished scanning the room, making sure they were alone.
He stepped up to the corpse. The throat had been slit from ear to ear, the thumbs had been chopped off, and the crotch was bloody and mangled, blasted with a shotgun at close range. It was the type of murder reserved for a traitor.
“Is this Juano?” he asked coldly. Sam nodded, biting her lip. Krite touched the dead cheek with the back of his hand. He tried to bend one of the arms, but couldn’t.
“He’s stone cold and stiff,” He said. “This one’s been dead for hours. He didn’t send that text.”
“Then who did?”
“Someone who wanted us to see this. And who had Juano’s cell phone. No doubt his killers. They wanted to send us a message.” He added ruefully, “The trail of the damned never is clear. That’s for sure.”
Krite suddenly realized that he had been hearing a police siren far in the distance. He noticed it now because it wasn’t quite as distant any more; in fact, it was approaching rapidly, and it sounded like more than just one squad car.
“Maybe it isn’t just a message,” he said. “Maybe it’s a trap! Let’s get out of here.”
“The back way,” said Sam. “There’s a fire escape outside the kitchen window.”
They started to sidle through the tiny kitchen, but stopped in their tracks. Lying supine on the kitchen table was the corpse of a young girl. She was nude from the waist down, and her thighs and privates were bruised and bloody. Her lips were blue and her eyes were bulging and bloodshot. Her windpipe was crushed and mangled. Krite recognized her despite the disfigurations: she was the pretty young prostitute that he had helped out yesterday outside the bar.
“Damnation!” spat Krite. Then his eyes widened further. Something was clutched in the hand of the corpse: a police badge! A cop did this! Krite seethed with rage. He bent in close, to see if he could read the badge number. When he did, all blood drained from his face. The number was 714. It was his own badge.
“Holy fucking shit!” he yelled. It wasn’t just a trap; it was a frame-up! He frantically tried to pry the badge out of the cold dead hand of the murdered girl. But rigor was too far advanced, and he could not pry it loose. All he managed to do was to get his fingerprints all over the shiny metal of the badge.
“Krite! We have to go. Now!” yelled Sam. Krite could hear the cops pounding up the stairs toward the front door of the apartment. Mind reeling and body numb, he let Sam push him out the window and onto the fire escape. Soon they were disappearing into the deepening dusk of the barrio; two desperate fugitives, two cautious lovers, on the run.