The Delgado Killings by Marc Olden

Author:Marc Olden [Olden, Marc]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4532-6072-2
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2012-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

VICTOR POLAND’S EIGHTEEN YEARS as a cop had taught him one thing: cops scare people shitless. Cops and the law. But that’s why anybody will do exactly what a cop tells them to do.

Shove the badge in their faces, let them see the blue uniform, and you got them by the short hairs. A cop tells somebody a giraffe is a tangerine, and that somebody starts peeling the giraffe.

Something about cops turned almost everybody scared and dumb, and Poland wasn’t quite sure what it was.

All he knew was that a cop is God with a gun. To his mind, there wasn’t anything better than that. You could lie through your teeth, and as long as you wore blue, that lie was gospel.

Right now, his lies were going so smoothly, he almost had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing in this chump’s face. Poland had only contempt for people he used. Whether he killed them or spat in their faces, as far as he was concerned, it was their own fault.

He was quietly telling Sam McCartney, the small gray-haired manager of the Hatchen Superette, that he and the three cops with him were from the next town over, here to investigate two telephoned bomb threats concerning the elegant store.

“Don’t want to alarm anybody, Mr. McCartney,” said Poland, his cold blue eyes sweeping the store. Only six customers, plus three help. “But it’s something we have to look into, you understand. We gotta move fast, and we need your help.”

As he talked, Poland’s eyes kept moving until he saw her. Dark hair down to her shoulders, pretty, good figure, Cuban. Just as Tomas had described her.

Tomas hadn’t described the yellow dress and black sandals with leather thongs wrapped around her bare tan legs from ankle to knee. Poland locked eyes with Angelo Petti and leaned his head once in Anita Rona’s direction.

Petti, tall, muscular, dark-haired, and unsmiling, moved from behind the store manager and walked toward Anita Rona. The Italian, twenty-six, was the best of Poland’s killers. He was smart, cold, able to think for himself under pressure, and had no regrets about what he was doing.

If he had a weak spot, it was women. Petti was a sexual sadist, unable to separate violence and pain from sex. In Vietnam he’d sexually assaulted and killed two fourteen-year-old Vietnamese girls. Somehow he’d served only four months, the time spent in the stockade waiting for trial.

He’d been lucky. Killing the girls had come at a time when the army thought the only good gook was a dead gook. There hadn’t been enough proof, and the army hadn’t tried too hard to pin it on him.

Later, the army would be forced into punishing other soldiers for crimes against the Vietnamese, but by that time Angelo Petti had been sent back to the States and discharged.

Reaching Anita Rona, he touched his fingers to his blue cap and smiled politely. Christ, she was one dynamite-looking piece of ass. Tits and a body that wouldn’t quit.

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