Bones of the Lost(88)
“And you run this dump all by yourself?”
“Someone comes in to clean.”
“Where are they, Mrs. Tarzec?” Slidell was looming over the woman. The man is a spectacular loomer.
“I told you. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mrs. Tarzec sounded like decades of cigarettes. Her appearance matched her voice. Her hair was thin and fried, her skin sallow and wrinkled due to the diminished blood flow caused by smoking.
“I think you do.”
Mrs. Tarzec shrugged.
Slidell’s eyes rolled to Rodriguez.
Rodriguez gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
Slidell’s jaw muscles bulged so large they jostled his helmet strap. “Who dimed you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Slightly accented English. “We do massage therapy. Only massage therapy.”
“Yeah?” Slidell made a show of looking around. “Where are the masseurs?” It came out massers.
“It’s Wednesday. Business is slow. It’s costing me more to keep the lights on than I’m taking in, so I gave the girls the night off. Girls. Making the proper term masseuse.”
“The proper term is whorehouse.”
“I love the way you do macho, officer. What are you? Four hundred pounds?”
“With my gun on.” Slidell’s face was hard, his cheeks the color of claret.
“You seem tense, officer. You might benefit from one of our aromatherapy packages.”
“You might benefit from a little time in the box.”
Mrs. Tarzec took two steps back, wagged her head slowly, and smiled. Her teeth were yellowed and seemed oddly small for her mouth.
“You going to arrest me?”
Slidell said nothing.
“I didn’t think so. Whatever you’re looking for, it’s not here. Never was. You have nothing. You know it. I know it. So take your piece-of-shit guns and your piece-of-shit vans and get the hell off my premises.”
“These masseuses”—pronounced mass-ooses—“where do they come from?”
“Licensed massage therapy training programs.”
“What’s SayDo?”
“Excuse me?”
“The outfit that owns this dump. The people funding your lavish pension.”
At that moment a SWAT guy clomped down the stairs, Bushmaster angled toward the ground. I stepped sideways to allow him access to the room. He nodded thanks.
Slidell dragged his eyes from Mrs. Tarzec to look at the man. His deep frown deepened on seeing me.
The SWAT guy shook his head and raised a palm. Nothing.
“Toss it again,” Slidell barked.
Mrs. Tarzec’s tough exterior showed its first crack. “This is harassment. You can’t do this.”
“Yeah?” Slidell pointed at the warrant. “That says I can.”
Mrs. Tarzec’s eyes narrowed. “Can I get my cigarettes?”
“No. You can’t.” Slidell indicated one of the cots. “Park it.”
Mrs. Tarzec sat and crossed both her legs and her arms.
The SWAT guys headed upstairs. In moments I heard boots on the floorboards above. I knew they’d recheck for people, not search for evidence.
Slidell knew that, too, and it was not improving his mood. He slammed through the desk, checking random papers, agitation obvious in his rapid breathing and jerky, heavy-handed movements.
Rodriguez moved to the sideboard and began pulling out ramen noodle packets, canned foods, and boxes of dried macaroni and spaghetti dinners. When each section was empty he knocked on the cheap laminated wood, testing for hollow spaces behind or below.
Slidell dug through the wastebasket. Empty. Pulled the blankets from the cots, the covers from the pillows. Nothing.
He disappeared into the bath. I heard the toilet seat bang, the tank cover scrape, the shower curtain screech across its rod.
Rodriguez opened the refrigerator. Found sodas and condiments, a few packages of cheese. Slidell emerged from the bath.
“You’ll find nothing illegal.” Mrs. Tarzec’s voice now sounded high and stretched. Either nerves or the need for a nicotine hit.
“Good point. No client lists. No bills. No ledgers to square your ass with the IRS.” Slidell drilled her a look. “Here’s an interesting point. What ain’t here can be as incriminating as what is.”
“I doubt that.”
Slidell strode over to her.
“What’s SayDo?”
Mrs. Tarzec shrugged.
“Who you working for?”
“Darth Vader.”
“You say you’re sucking wind now? Let’s see if business picks up with a cop parked on your ass twenty-four seven. Think Darth’s gonna cut you a big bonus check?”
“That’s what lawyers are for.”