Page 150 of Don't Say a Word
“We just got here, cleared the place. Three bodies, all deceased.”
Hitch nodded to Cal, and they both went inside, leaving Jack and me just inside the crime scene tape.
“They’re cleaning house,” I said to Jack.
“It could be a robbery.”
“You don’t believe that. Not after tonight.” I thought back. Lena Clark was asking questions—then she was murdered. Dwight Parsons wanted to talk to me—then he was murdered. I told Manny Ramos what I thought Desi Jimenez was doing—and now she was likely dead. It was Friday, her regular night. Cleaning house because he feared she’d talk? Once he launched the audit—no, I thought. Once the police investigated, she would talk.
John Brighton wasn’t the man in charge. He wasn’t even at the house tonight. Ramos called the shots. He may have called his nephew to clean up the problem. Brighton may have pulled the trigger.
But I knew in my heart and my head that Manny Ramos ordered these murders.
Maybe Desi didn’t know her brother had been killed, maybe she did. Maybe she knew Ramos was in charge, maybe she didn’t. But Manny Ramos wouldn’t want his favored nephew, the boy he raised as his own, to go to prison.
“Manny fucking Ramos is running the whole thing,” I said. “Itold him about Desi. Either he ordered this hit, or he told Brighton who ordered the hit. He’s dirty.”
Jack didn’t say anything.
“I know, I know, we can’t prove it—yet.”
Cal came out. “Hitch is talking to the cops. Three bodies. One woman, two men. A bloody mess. The woman is Desi Jimenez. One of the men is a customer, in a janitor’s outfit, shot and killed next to the beer cooler. The other guy I don’t know, his head was near blown off. The back door was open and there’s evidence one of the gunmen ran out that way. Maybe someone got away, or he was clearing the alley, I don’t know. Cameras, destroyed. Cash register, busted. It wasn’t a robbery—it was a hit.”
My phone vibrated.
I glanced down, not intending to answer anyone this late, when I saw the message.
They used Benny’s phone to set me up. I ran. Help.
I immediately hit Call and headed toward my car. “Angie, where are you?”
She was sobbing and panting, clearly out of breath. “I—I—I’m running. The canal trail. They followed me, but I lost them. I think. I don’t want to die!”
“I’m coming for you. Where?”
“I—I passed. Nineteenth. I’m stupid!”
“Listen, Angie—listen to me. Take the path up to Twenty-Fifth, near Rose Mofford Park. I’ll be there. I’m coming.”
I got into my car and Cal climbed into the passenger seat.
“Out,” I said as I turned the ignition.
“Backup.”
I looked out the window at Jack as if to say,Why aren’t you coming?But he just motioned me to leave.
“Well, shit,” I said and made a U-turn since the police had blocked off Hatcher.
“Trust me,” Cal said.
“Like hell,” I said. “You were stalking me.”
“Not stalking. That’s a crime. I was following you in the course of a legitimate investigation. Is this the Angie you told me about?”
“Yes. I told her to stay away from here.”
I wove through the neighborhood until I hit Seventh Avenue, then turned west on Dunlap and floored it until I hit Twenty-Fifth, turned north too fast, my tires squealing as we crossed over the canal. There was a jogging trail along the north side of the canal. I didn’t see Angie, so parked the car and jumped out.
