Moonlight Weeps: (A Dick Moonlight PI Thriller Book 8) Page 17

  “How do you know?” I say. “How do you know she’s alive?”

  “I checked with downstate. Newburgh General which was the closest medical center to the highway accident.”

  In my head, the events of that sunny afternoon more than a year ago play out in rapid-fire bits of memory. Like a video on fast forward, I see our big bulky four-wheel-drive Suburban spinning out on the highway so that we face the wrong way against the oncoming traffic. I see the eighteen-wheeler barreling directly for us. Boris, the Russian goon who is behind the wheel of the Suburban, guns the engine, heads directly for the semi like he wants to enter into a lethal game of chicken. Only, he isn’t playing chicken. His thigh is shot through, and his leg is paralyzed, his right foot stubbornly bearing down on the gas pedal. Boris turns the wheel to the right, but the operator of the truck turns his wheel to the left. Boris goes left, the truck goes right. Lola is in the back seat. I scream for her to get down. Get down now . . .

  Then the collision . . .

  When the dust settles, I remember falling to my knees on the pavement, holding Lola in my arms. She isn’t breathing. There’s a tear of blood falling from her left eye. It runs down her cheek, and it touches my hand. My heart is ripped out of me then because I know she’s gone. I gently set her back down onto the road, get up, and walk away. Never once do I look back.

  I drink some more beer, wipe my mouth with the back of my trembling hand.

  “Newburgh. What did they tell you?”

  “Lola Ross was delivered to their emergency room in a state of near death. She suffered internal hemorrhaging from the crash. She died once while en route, was resuscitated, and died once on the table, and again, was successfully resuscitated and later on, stabilized but critical. She remained in a coma for nearly a month.”

  “Why didn’t someone call me?”

  “She had no ID on her when she was delivered to the hospital. The only people with her were the now dead Russians who had kidnapped her. She’d been living in Europe for the past year. She was a blank on the identification radar.”

  “But when she woke up, Georgie, she would have asked for me by name.”

  He shakes his head, drinks down what’s left of his beer, holds the bottle up so that Tess can see he needs another.

  “Bring a new one for Moon, Tess,” he says. “And that shot of Jack.”

  “Sure about that, Georgie?” she smiles, grabbing the beers from the cooler, popping their tops.

  “I’ll assume responsibility,” he insists.

  She sets the new beers in front of us, even though I haven’t yet finished my first. Then she pours a hefty shot of Jack, sets that before me. She also pours one for Georgie, sets it beside his new beer.

  “Those are on the house, boys,” she nods.

  “Thank you, beautiful,” I say.

  She blows me a kiss and shifts back down to the other end of the bar.

  “So tell me, Georgie,” I say after a beat. “Why didn’t she ask for me?”

  “It’s her memory, Moon. She can’t remember much of what happened in her life prior to the accident.”

  “Total amnesia.”

  “No,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s not that simple. She knows who she is, where she comes from, what she does for a living. Only what she can’t seem to recall is a block of years. More than likely, the blunt force of the accident resulted in Lola experiencing a traumatic brain injury.”

  “She’s brain damaged?”

  “From what I understand, not permanently. I did a little more snooping and found out she’s to undergo surgery at the Albany Medical Center on the hippocampus portion of her brain to relieve pressure on the gray matter cortical which is being caused by scar tissue. If the operation is successful, it’s very possible her entire memory will come back to her. A block of years that are presently a big blank will be refilled with memory.”

  “What years?”

  “The years she spent with you. Be thankful for new developments in brain surgery. Used to be that once a brain was damaged and scar tissue formed, there was nothing that could be done. But now, nanotechnology is making it possible for brains to undergo delicate procedures never before attempted or even thought possible.” He drinks some beer, wipes his mouth. “You should really think about looking into it yourself. It’s possible that the bullet planted inside your own brain is ready to be removed once and for all.”

  “Too bad Schroder turned out to be such an asshole. He might have been the surgeon to remove it. For free.”

  “There’s far better surgeons out there. Ones who aren’t involved with the Russian mob.”

  I drink the rest of my first beer, start on the second.

  “Is Lola here in Albany?”

  “She’s here, Moon. Your instincts were right all along. The woman you saw walking into the coffee shop must have been her.”

  My insides feel like they’re going to rip out of my stomach and spill all over the floor.

  “Do you have an address?”

  “Now, Moon, you are in no condition to go knocking on her door.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she won’t recognize you. You’ll scare her off.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that, Georgie,” I bark.

  “Boys,” Tess scolds. “Let’s all get along.”

  “Listen,” I say, “if I promise not to go there right away . . . Like this, after I’ve been drinking . . . will you give me the address?”

  He nods.

  “I will give you the address. Under two conditions.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “That I don’t reveal the address until you’re ready, and that I accompany you.”

  “Any room for bargaining?”

  “You’ve known me almost your whole life.”

  “Good answer.”

  He raises his Jack.

  I raise mine.

  “What do we drink to?” I say.

  “Lola’s alive,” he says. “Here’s to you getting your shit together, and making her fall in love with you all over again.”

  Chapter 60

  Georgie and I stay at McGeary’s for one more shot. Then I tell him it’s time I head back home to sober up for my meeting with Schroder tonight at his son’s birthday party. It’s exactly what I do. I head home, undress, slip under the covers. As usual, I make a last check on my phone for any emails I might have missed during the day.

  There’s an email from Nick Miller.

  “These aren’t pretty,” reads an email that’s accompanied by four photo attachments. “Forensics have concluded that, without a doubt, Amanda committed suicide, and she did so with no one else present in the basement of the Senator’s house.”

  I open the email, download the photos.

  The first one sends a frigid chill up and down my spine, and most definitely sobers me up.

  It’s Amanda Bates. She’s lying naked on what must be Stephen’s bed. She’s either passed out or close to it. A red and black sock is stuffed in her mouth. He’s placed his smiling self in the photo having snapped it as a selfie with his cell phone. In the second photo, he’s got her turned over onto her belly, and he’s straddling her bottom with his pants pulled down around his ankles. Again, he’s taken the picture as a selfie, and he’s smiling bright eyed for the camera. He makes me want to punch something.

  The last two photos, which must have been attached to the email as an afterthought, are the most heartbreaking. Snapped by the APD forensics team, they show a beautiful young woman hanging from a basement rafter, a man’s black leather belt around her neck. In each of the photos, her brown eyes are wide open, and her lush brown hair is veiling her pale white face.

  I slap the phone down on the bed and wonder how it will be possible to sleep when I hate the world so much. But somehow, I manage to drift away.

  I wake to the sound of my phone ringing. It’s Schroder.

  “We have a deal, Moonlight,” says the brain surgeon.

  “Sev
en thousand?” I say.

  “No,” he says. “Ten grand. No negotiation.”

  “I’ll try and get it.”

  “Bring it with you tonight or no deal.”

  “I’ll do it. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Oh, and one more thing.”

  “What is it?”

  “In order to seal the deal on our little double secret arrangement, I’ll need you to prove your allegiance to both me and the cause.”

  The cause . . .

  “Refresh my memory, Doc,” I say, knowing precisely what he wants.

  “I’ve already explained my dissatisfaction with those two Russian bears.”

  “How could I forget?”

  “I’m so glad we can communicate on such a superior level of intelligence, Bruce.”

  “Me, too, Doc,” I say, lifting my free hand, the middle finger raised high.

  “But don’t fret,” he goes on. “I have a plan. Listen up for the deets . . .”

  Chapter 61

  His stupid plan goes something like this: The Russians have not only been invited to his party, they are there now partying like wild animals. At some point during the festivities, when they’re both so liquored and Oxy’d up they can’t stand, he wants me to lure them out back to the pool to do a little night swimming. Then, when they’re in the water, he wants me to shoot them. He’ll then have the bodies disposed of, and the pool drained.

  “You can doooo eeet, Bruce,” he says. “Like fish in a barrel.” Then he hangs up.

  I glance outside. It’s dark out. I flick on the light.

  Elvis’s gear is still laid out on the table. But he’s nowhere to be found. That’s when I hear someone fumbling around with the front door. My .38 is resting on the counter beside the spy equipment. I pull it out of the shoulder holster, plant a bead on the big slider door as it opens wide and in steps a man.

  It’s fat Elvis.

  “Jesus, Moon,” he says, through heavy breaths. “Expecting company?”

  I lower the pistol, stuff it back into the holster on the counter.

  “Just a little jumpy,” I say. “It’s official. The doc wants me to kill the Russians.” Then, noticing his gray sweat pants, hooded sweatshirt and Converse high-top sneakers. “Don’t tell me you were getting some exercise. Not you, Elvis.”

  “Hey, the King was all about physical fitness.”

  “The King was fat.”

  He closes the door behind him, steps into the loft.

  “Popular misconception about the great one. It wasn’t for lack of exercise that he was so rotund at the end. It was the pain medication he was ingesting for his many physical and mental ailments.”

  “I’m sure The Beatles gave him a real headache,” I say. Then, looking at my watch. “Shower up. We’re leaving for the Schroders in ten minutes. You got your Fat Elvis costume . . . Excuse me . . . You have your Pain-Medicated-Elvis costume ready?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You got nine and a half minutes to get ready and gather up your spy gear.”

  “I only need five,” he says, heading for the shower.

  While Elvis is cleaning up, I pull my .38 back out, thumb the clip release to check the load. The clip is full. In the drawer of the nightstand, I find two more fully loaded clips and place them beside the pistol on the counter. Once more, I pull the .22 from my coat pocket, recheck the chambers. The .22 is fully loaded. I return it to the interior coat pocket.

  Elvis comes out of the shower with a towel wrapped around him. Rather than go through the pain of watching him force his body into a skintight white jumper, I tell him I’ll wait for him out in the car.

  Five minutes later, Elvis shoots out the door, his thick black hair slicked up in a ducktail doo, the collar on his jumper sky high and that WWE belt wrapped around his gut. For shoes, he’s got black high heels. Thick, aluminum-framed sunglasses cover his eyes even though it’s night time. He’s got all the equipment, including my .38 stuffed inside a backpack which is slung over his shoulder. Opening the passenger side door, he tosses the equipment into the back where it falls beside the bag of marked bills.

  He gives me a look with that trembling upper lip.

  “Let’s ride, cowboy,” he says, shooting me with the pretend pistol he makes with his right hand.

  I turn the key, and the engine comes to life. Without a word, I pull out, head away from the port.

  We drive through the city and then into the suburbs. There’s no traffic at night and by eight o’clock we’re pulling into Schroder’s neighborhood. Even from a few hundred feet away, I can see that the driveway is empty.

  “Thought this was supposed to be a party?” Elvis says.

  “A very private party.”

  “Pull over here,” Elvis says, cocking his head over his left shoulder.

  I stop the car a few houses up from Schroders.

  “This is as far as I go,” he says, reaching into the back, grabbing hold of his backpack. “I’ll cut through those woods and make my way across to the back of Schroder’s house by way of the golf course. I should be able to get a clear shot for the video camera from that position. Sound reception should be great, too. That is, you get him outside on the deck.”

  “Don’t get grass stains on your jumper,” I say.

  He peers down over his belly at his bell bottoms.

  “Thanks for that,” he says, genuinely concerned. “Grass stains never come out.”

  He disappears into the night and through the woods. That’s when I reach back into my coat pocket, pull out the .22, and stuff it under the driver’s seat, easy access. Knowing that I freely enter back into hell, I complete the drive to Schroder’s house, pull into the driveway.

  Chapter 62

  Anxiety washes over me like someone just dumped a bucket of cold blood on my head. I pull in directly behind the Russian’s old Caddy. The old boat of a car sticks out like a sore thumb in the high-end neighborhood. I can only assume the Russians don’t know the police are looking for them. Or maybe they just don’t care. Probably the latter.

  I kill the engine, get out.

  From where I’m standing, it looks like every single light in the house has been turned on. The exterior flood lights mounted to the back of the house are lighting up the backyard like a Monday night Yankee’s baseball game. I can hear music going. Loud, death metal. Guitars grinding, double bass drum thudding, voices grunting and howling. Death dirge. Calling it music at all is too kind an adjective.

  Making my way around back, I spot Schroder. His back faces me. From where I’m standing, the glare from the bright white flood lighting is making it impossible for me to clearly see the person he’s talking to. But what I can see is that the brain surgeon is wearing black Gucci loafers, the kind with a silver buckle attached to the front that cost more cash than my entire collection of jeans, boots, and work shirts. He’s also wearing bright red Bermuda shorts with little green whales printed on them. For a shirt, a pink IZOD. I can’t see the little alligator that’s no doubt stitched to the front over his left man boob, but I’m certain it’s there. He’s holding a cocktail in his hand, and he’s spewing forth about something to the invisible man.

  The music gets louder. I can almost feel the heavy pounding bass as much as I can hear it. I also make out some laughing and shouting. Shouting coming from the Russians. Hector and Vadim.

  I decide to take another couple of steps forward, make my presence known.

  “Looks like you have another guest,” the invisible man says, in a voice that’s not entirely unfamiliar.

  Schroder turns, peers at me.

  “Bruce Willis,” he says in his happy voice while descending the single step down off the wood deck. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  “I was invited, remember?”

  “Yes, yes, you were.”

  He comes up to me, wraps an arm around me, hugs me.

  “The Russians are inside getting positively blotto,” he whispers into my ear. “When I
give the word, I want to you to take them out back. Then you have my blessing to do what you have to do.”

  “I’m not packing a weapon,” I say into his ear, picturing the .22 I stuffed under the driver’s seat of the hearse. “Didn’t think you’d want me to bring one since it might pose a threat to you and Stephen, considering the ummm, up and down nature of our relationship. But I did bring your money. All ten Gs of it.”

  He takes a moment to pat me down, up and down one thigh, and up and down the other. He seems to enjoy the process a little too much.

  “You’re a smart man, Moonlight,” he says. “Maybe you assumed that if you didn’t bring a gun, you wouldn’t have to perform your sacred duty for me, which is none other than ridding my life of those wretched Russians.” He pats my left facial cheek with his loose open hand. “But guess what. I’ve got you covered. I own one of several pistols that you may use.” Then, planting that pumpkin head smile on his face that I’ve come to hate. “Now allow me to introduce you to one of your new business partners.”

  I feel my heart sink, knowing I might have to kill Hector and Vadim after all.

  “Partners?” I say. “Thought we were working alone.”

  “Not on your life. There’s mucho dinero to be made in the Oxy smuggling business. I have many partners. In fact, you’d be surprised how deeply my network runs.”

  “Indeed, I would,” I say.

  He takes hold of my hand like I’m his new bitch. I feel his sweaty palm and soft, chubby hand in mine, and it makes my stomach turn. He leads me around to the deck so that, for the first time since I arrived on the scene a minute ago, the floodlights are no longer blinding, and the invisible man becomes plainly visible. Now it makes sense why his voice sounded so familiar. I know this man. We were recently introduced.

  It’s the late Amanda Bates’ father.

  The Honorable Senator Jeffery Bates.

  Chapter 63

  “Can’t say I expected to see you here, Senator,” I say. “In fact, I should think this is the last place you’d want to be.”