Property Damage

by James Vachowski

  Property Damage

  Book 4 in the Goosey Larsen series

  by James Vachowski

  Copyright © 2019 by James Vachowski

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design provided by German Creative, LLC.

  E-book formatting provided by Nick Caya.

  Duke Regan chose a booth in the back of the restaurant, raising a casual finger to signal the waitress for a cup of coffee. The laminated menu lay on the tabletop, ignored, as Duke lingered over his drink. He took it black, the dark liquid still several degrees too hot, the first sip burning his throat. The businessman gamely managed a second swallow before contenting himself with warming his hands on the enamel mug. After a particularly long, hot Southern summer, the fall had finally arrived in earnest, and the early morning air carried a thick November chill. As he waited for his guest, Duke Regan passed the time by allowing his gaze to wander about the restaurant, surveying his fellow customers with the eye of a seasoned appraiser. Remarkably few people bothered to hold his stare before looking away, a reaction he rightly attributed to lack of interest.

  The other early-morning diners seemed a blue-collar crowd, more concerned with their cheese grits, scrambled eggs and hashbrowns than with real estate or local politics, and Regan nodded with satisfaction at his decision to leave the blazer in his Lexus. Here in the Waffle House there was absolutely no need to dress for success, and only a remote chance of being spotted. He allowed himself a slight smile, taking one more sip of coffee despite the beverage’s acidic flavor. He’d harbored some doubts when Antoine had suggested the meeting place earlier that week, North Charleston’s blighted Rivers Avenue being a far cry from his downtown Broad Street office, but in retrospect, the location now seemed perfect.

  Just a few short minutes later, at six o’clock exactly, the jingle bell attached to the front door let out a ring. His partner Antoine Brown walked in, right on time and smartly dressed in pressed khakis and a crisp polo shirt. The young man took a certain pride in his punctuality, a rare trait among his peers, and Duke Regan often suspected this was a behavior Antoine had developed to cope with his underprivileged childhood. He stayed seated, watching Antoine as he slid into the opposite seat. The chilly reception might have come across as rude during any other business meeting, but the decision was a calculated one. Such a formal gesture would have seemed out of place here, and even a simple handshake wouldn’t have passed unnoticed by the other clientele. Antoine, to his credit, ignored the slight. He smiled and reached for the menu, the glossy plastic reflecting against his dark brown hands. “Mr. Regan, good morning sir. It’s so great to finally see you in person again.”

  “Antoine, my friend! I feel the same. It’s been, what? Six months now? Seven?”

  “Almost eight, sir.”

  “Too long, too long.” Duke Regan clucked his tongue softly, signaling for the waitress and making a study of her drab brown apron while she bustled over. “Whatever he wants, please. I’m buying.”

  The heavy-set woman shifted her weight on her heels. The plastic nametag labeled her as a ‘Betsy’, and she stood silent, facing Antoine with her pen poised over a shopworn notepad.

  After one last, cursory glance at the listings, he looked back up with confidence. “Make it two eggs, scrambled with cheese, and a side order of bacon and toast. The hash browns, I’ll take them scattered and chunked, please.” He tucked the menu back behind the stainless steel napkin dispenser, then reached across the table to claim a coffee cup. “Thanks for that” he said as the waitress retreated, “but you sure didn’t have to. I’ve got a mint tucked away already, and the interest just keeps compounding. It’s pretty damned easy to save cash when you’re picking up my tuition, know what I mean?”

  Regan dismissed the gratitude with a wave of his hand. “Please, don’t mention it—that was the least I could do, particularly after everything your group has done for me. It’s so rare to find a business partner who understands the importance of discretion. Besides, the cost is negligible. Trident Tech is the perfect place for you to launch your career, but the cost of culinary school is a far cry from the Ivy League. With the profit you’ve brought in for me over the years, the two of us probably ought to be establishing a scholarship fund by now.”

  Antoine smiled as he took another sip of the house brew. “That’s good to hear. Oh, and by the way, my street team asked me to pass along their appreciation for all these smaller jobs you’ve got them on. Vandalism isn’t nearly as profitable as the dope game, but there’s so much less risk involved. I haven’t had a team member go up the road yet, not even one. It’s almost as if the police aren’t even trying to investigate these break-ins.” He smiled, rotating the cup slowly around in his hands. “I tell you what, man, I’m sleeping so much easier now that my ass is done running them streets. I mean, I never really minded working the block, but the operation is actually running even smoother now that I’m up here in school all day.”

  Regan couldn’t hold back a smile at his protege’s observation. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

  Antoine shook his head, flashing a single gold tooth.

  “You’ve managed to work your way into upper management. Congratulations, son.”

  The two shared a laugh as the joke momentarily bridged the wide gap of their disparate upbringings. The waitress returned bearing a chipped enamel plate, setting it down in front of Antoine without speaking a word. Duke slipped her a twenty-dollar bill without bothering to ask for the check, knowing full well that the tip had probably just doubled Betsy’s hourly wage.

  Antoine knew his boss wasn’t one to waste time, so he dragged a forkful of eggs through the sticky grits and got to the point. “Look, sir. It’s great to see you again...but what’s on your mind? Something you couldn’t say over the phone?”

  Regan gave a nod of agreement, pausing to take another long, slow sip of coffee before going on. “As usual, you hit the nail right on the head. I wanted to give you a heads-up in person, so you had adequate time to notify your team. It’s taken me a few months to raise a sufficient amount of capital, but things are finally lined up for us to increase our operational tempo. I’m prepared to make a few more moves, and your team’s work has been the foundation for that success.”

  The unfamiliar terms left Antoine’s face washed with an unmistakable glaze of confusion, but the eye contact was a sure sign that the young man was still earnestly trying to follow along.

  “So soon, let’s say within the next ninety days, my goal is to grow the portfolio by closing on at least twenty new properties.” He raised a finger to hold off any potential interruptions. “No fancy homes, and definitely nothing new. Just the usual business model: close the deal at a suitable investment cost, rehab-and-hold, then adjust the rents to reflect current market rents. My only concern is that by branching out West of the Ashley, I’m entering a completely new area. That, of course, carries the potential for completely new problems than the ones we’ve been working through downtown. And that’s why it’s so important to prepare a sufficient margin for profit, something you and your team are so skilled at.”

  Antoine twisted up his lip in concentration before a light of understanding flashed in his dark brown eyes. “Man, we just went over this in Business Management 101. ‘Buy low’, right?”

  Regan smiled. “That’s it. And when it comes to rental real estate, you make your money at the purchase. Whenever pro
perty values drop, no matter the reason, that means more opportunity.” He lifted the heavy enamel mug, taking one more sip of coffee as an excuse to pause and gather his thoughts. “I like to think of myself as a service provider, not just a simple businessman.” He set the cup back down on the table. “I’m offering homeowners a quick, convenient exit from an undesirable living situation, while at the same time working to provide their communities with affordable rental housing. The Lowcountry property market is white-hot right now, and there’s a whole section of the population who’d be locked out of the market if it weren’t for men like us.”

  “I feel ya” Antoine said, nodding his understanding. “So how can I help?”

  Straight to the bottom line, Duke noted, giving Antoine his own nod of approval in return. “Excellent question. Right now, I simply need to pick up as many houses as I can get my hands on. Give your team the signal that the candy store is open for business, starting right now. I’m also willing to increase their pay in recognition for such exemplary performance. Two hundred dollars for every confirmed break-in or major vandalism occurring now through Monday. Cash payment as always, a lump sum, yours to distribute among the crew.”

  Antoine smiled, his gold tooth flashing beneath the florescent overhead lamps. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

  “Good. And please, don’t feel the need to be too thorough. The goal is targeted harassment, not necessarily a lot of structural damage. Anything too serious and I’ll just have more repair work before I can move new tenants in. Break down the doors, shatter the windows, all that’s fine. Maybe some graffiti if you feel up to it, but anything beyond that is going to affect my bottom line.”

  “Gotta keep the overhead low, right?”

  “Now you’re thinking like an entrepreneur. And, oh, be sure to pass on to your team that I’m only interested in the properties themselves, not the contents within. Like always, they’re free to keep anything they can carry off.”

  Antoine nodded once again, committing the instructions to memory. “No problem, sir. So long as there’s cash in hand, my guys are always willing to work.”

  Duke allowed himself a smile, then stood. “In the world of business, Antoine, cash is always king. Let’s plan to meet back up here, say, a week from now. Same time.” He paused for the briefest of moments, looking down at his young partner with a feeling of sincere respect. “You know, Antoine, something tells me you’re going to do very well in the hospitality industry. When it comes to building equity, there’s simply no substitute for hard work.”

  THURSDAY

  1.

  There I was, fully reclined across the front seat of my patrol car, savoring a late morning daydream about one of those fat submarine sandwiches from Jersey Mike’s. I swear, I could almost taste that thick white bread, slathered with a layer of creamy mayonnaise. Duke’s brand, of course— none of that low-fat Hellmann’s nonsense. The thick slices of spicy salami and deli ham were stacked together in towering layers, each one drizzled with showers of oil, vinegar and seasoning, topped off with a few strands of watery lettuce for color. My mouth practically watered over as I slept, at least until the rude squawk of the police radio shattered my reverie. It sounded suspiciously like the dispatchers were calling my number, which could only mean that there was work out there waiting for me. As the rest of my body fought the urge to roll over and drift back off into slumber, my tongue stretched out of my mouth, searching in vain for the sticky, salty flavors it craved.

  Eyes still glued shut, I fumbled blindly for the microphone. As my hands closed around the cool plastic handle, I willed my voice not to sound too sleepy. “This is 414, Control” I yawned. “Whattya got?”

  A long pause came across the air, almost as if the operator was pissed at me for making her wait. The familiar sounds of our bustling control room echoed in the background, along with the unmistakable clacking of finely manicured fingernails as they rooted through a greasy bucket of fried chicken. “414... and any other available unit...” she said, spreading the words out between mouthfuls of gizzard and chitlins. “Start en route to the main entrance of Shadowmoss Plantation, off of Highway 61 South, past Bees Ferry Road. Still gathering information at this time, but this is in reference to a 34, possibly in progress, or just occurred. Complainant is irate.”

  I groaned and slapped my forehead, disgusted at my colleagues’ complete and utter lack of competence. “Control, don’t you have any team units available?” A simple vandalism call was definitely not worth an investigator’s time, and especially not a fresh case which carried the possibility of having to deal with a suspect. In my experience, during these types of situations it was much safer to simply avoid the area altogether. If I were to let some patrol rookie head out there and take the report in my place, all I’d really have to do is wait a few days for the reports to hit my desk before shitcanning the case entirely.

  “414” she finally answered, after one more mouthful of dark meat. “That’s a negative. All of your dayshift Team Four units are already out on calls. I’ve got 423 and 424 out at the Citadel Mall dealing with a 32/39, the shoplifter’s combative. 404 just got flagged down to work a 2-vehicle 40 on Sam Rittenburg, and there’s no Traffic units in service to relieve him. That only leaves 430. He’s closest, so I’ll have him 63 with you at Shadowmoss as soon as he clears from the disturbance at West Ashley High School.”

  I grumbled at my bad luck, reaching down and wrenching the lever to pull the driver’s seat back upright. That done, I stomped down hard on the brake pedal and threw the car into gear with my free hand, reluctantly easing my eyes open once the ride was in motion. Of course, the very first thing I saw was this withered old bag standing straight out ahead of me, weighed down by two huge sacks of groceries, unable to move. She just stood there, shaking in fear and listening to my brakes screech, probably thinking I’d been about to mow her down or something. But after a few long, awkward moments, once it was clear that she wasn’t about to get out of my way, I rolled down the window and stuck my neck outside. “Just resting my eyes!” I called, waving an impatient hand to prompt her along. Finally, once her varicose-layered legs resumed motion and my path was clear, I lifted my foot off the brake and eased the car through the busy Winn-Dixie parking lot with an overabundance of caution. “I copy, Control. I’ll be en route from, let’s see here... Highway 61 and Ashley Hall Road.”

  Pulling out into traffic, I snuck a glance down at the digital clock on my dashboard. It was nearly two-thirty already, the afternoon damn near over, and jumping a call so late in the day went against every instinct I had. My shift ended at five o’clock sharp, so by all rights should’ve been heading back in the other direction by that point, fleeing towards the comfort and safety of my apartment. But even though I could almost hear my broken-in couch calling to me from James Island, I nevertheless turned to heed the call of duty. Stoically, heroically even, I pointed my car in the direction of work.

  Now it wasn’t as if I was some kind of overly-dedicated ‘hero cop’ or something: far from it. When it came to my career, my primary goal was self-preservation. Because of that, I made it a point to do just enough work to keep the bosses off my back. No question, my current gig as the Team Four investigator was the sweetest job I’d ever had, and after I’d grown wise to the hustle, I’d become bound and determined to milk the position as long as possible. My work responsibilities were a little unclear, just the way I liked them, but basically it was exactly like being a Central detective, except for that I only handled minor crimes. And even better, there didn’t really seem to be any kind of accurate barometer to assess my performance. As far as my supervisors were concerned, they were all generally just satisfied if I showed up at morning roll calls more often than not. On top of that, I’d never once been questioned on my whereabouts following one of my trademark long lunches, not even the three-hour “executive” sessions which included a long nap back at my pad. So no, I definitely reasoned that it wouldn’t do one bit of harm t
o pipe up on the air every so often, if only so I could make it sound like I was being productive. And besides, now that I’d mastered most of the backroad shortcuts through the suburbs, after ditching the call I could easily meander off on the scenic route back home.

  Thankfully the afternoon traffic was starting to build, making even this short response a relatively slow trip. I stayed a healthy distance back from the cars ahead, doing my damndest to ensure that any suspects still on scene would be gone by the time I pulled up. I probably had at least a couple dozen incident reports on my desk already, piddling little cases like simple assaults or vehicle break-ins. I’d been so busy that I hadn’t even had the opportunity to look at any of those case files, much less investigate them, and to be fully honest there was only so much you could do with those situations. Most of the time, my personal investigative technique involved sticking all the paperwork down in some file drawer to let the crimes marinate for a few months, then closing them out in small batches by placing the blame on some unknown gang of neighborhood kids. This Shadowmoss call sounded like it would be right along those same lines, so I rehearsed my talking points as I drove. Damn kids today, I swear. No good at all. Me, I blame the parents.

  “Unit 1 to Control!” The police radio broke my reverie once again, and my armpits felt the beginning of a cold sweat seeping through my pores. My dress shirt’s thin fabric dampened as rivulets of salt water moistened out across my body. It was never a good sign when our Chief came up on the airwaves— the guy was a confirmed basketcase, afflicted by some particularly severe form of personality disorder. There was no way to be certain whether or not his secretary had persuaded him to take his medication, so on any given shift there was a fair to middling chance that the Chief might break down into a raving mess. Rufus Greene had a well-earned reputation for eccentricity, and that wasn’t just because the dude had somehow become the first black, Jewish, Chief of Police anywhere in the South. No, our dear leader also had a penchant for leading city parades dressed up in holiday costumes, or even roller-skating through the City Market on busy Saturday nights. It seemed to me like people around these parts had simply gotten used to his quirks over time, which I guess is why it seemed as if nobody besides us cops had noticed just how badly the man was losing his marbles.