Gangster's Court

by Adam Van Susteren

  His hands, covered by biking gloves, unhooked the bungee cord holding the quilt tight. Santiago recoiled from the smell of the blanket, purchased for fifty dollars from a homeless man. It had years of use and contact with dozens of people – DNA samples would be hard to process.

  At the center of the blanket was a tall backpack. Santiago unzipped it. He pulled out the stock of a grey Remington 700 ADL Synthetic hunting rifle. He scanned his surroundings and pulled out the action. He tried to connect them, but was having trouble with his thick biking gloves on.

  He set the rifle parts on the blanket and pulled his gloves off. His eyes strained to line up the parts. After a few attempts, he was able to connect the stock with the action. He repeated with the barrel. He clenched his eyes closed, tired from the strain of focusing in the poor lighting. After a few seconds’ break, he fit a Pinty green laser sight dot scope onto the rifle.

  Santiago stood, aiming the gun at the parking lot. He was elevated by thirty feet. Great sightline. While standing, he had an easy shot at one hundred yards away. The single parking lot light would make it easy for him to see them, but hard for them to see him. The location was perfect – if it hadn’t depended on having to bike up the hill behind him and across the preserve to escape.

  With a bead of sweat trickling past his eyebrow into his eyes, Santiago lifted up his baseball cap and wiped his forehead. The sweat reminded him to fish out the second water bottle from the backpack and drink. He checked the time on his burner cell phone, five after midnight.

  He crouched down, put a .308 bullet in the bolt action rifle, and cocked it. He lay down, peering through the scope, checking the sightline to the parking lot. The plant he crushed entered his field of vision, but not the shot. He flicked on the scope and a green dot appeared on a wooden post in the parking lot.

  He flicked off the laser sight, stood up, and pulled at the heavy blanket. He looked behind him, to the west, and saw the outline of the dirt and gravel road he would later be biking up. Only two miles to get to the other side, where a truck would be waiting. But the hill looked daunting.

  He retrieved his latex gloves from his pocket, pulled them on, then used brush on both sides of the bush he crushed to create a blanket fort. The heavy blanket would muffle the sound of the shot more than a silencer would.

  Santiago put his earbud in his left ear, then ran the cord inside his shirt, plugging it into his flip phone. He hit number one on the speed-dial.

  “Hm,” a deep voice grunted quietly.

  “All set,” Santiago whispered, ready to crawl under the smelly blanket.

  “Car coming,” Milk whispered.

  Santiago lay on the ground, crawling under the blanket. It wasn’t perfect soundproofing, but in the still night, some noise absorption would cut how far the sound would carry. With a final adjustment of the blanket above him, Santiago was settled in and looking through the scope of his rifle when Omar’s black Audi pulled into the dirt parking lot. Santiago followed it with his rifle, laser off.

  The car rolled to a stop in a corner of the lot, away from the single light pole in the lot. Santiago panned the lot, focusing on the car. When the car’s lights cut out, it took a second for his eyes to readjust.

  A man, wearing cargo shorts and a gray hoodie, got out of the car and walked across the parking lot to the trailhead. He was the man they took down in the law office that Omar was scared of. Who the heck was he, and why was he driving Omar’s car? It don’t matter. He’d be dead soon enough.

  He saw the man staring up at him. Santiago’s heart pounded.

  “Car two,” came into Santiago’s ear, causing him to flinch. He exhaled with relief, thankful his finger wasn’t on the trigger, he might have pulled it accidentally.

  “Got it,” he whispered back.

  A long moment later, a white car entered the parking lot, driving with its lights trained on Omar’s car.

  The man waved at the arriving white car.

  The car slowly pulled further into the lot, keeping its lights trained on Omar’s car.

  * * *

  He’s waving at me like we’re friends, Officer Maggiore thought as she flipped her head between Rose and Omar’s car. Where’s Rose’s car? Where’s Omar? Something wasn’t sitting right.

  She chambered a round in her gun, then placed the gun in her shoulder holster. She stepped out of the car. “Where’s Omar?” she called out in a hushed voice.

  Rose pointed down the trail. “He there digging a hole,” he whispered back as he slowly approached her.

  “Why?” she responded quietly, slowly backing away from her car and Rose.

  “He thinks we gonna kill you. But we gonna kill him. And I get to keep his car,” Rose whispered as he moved closer.

  Maggiore shook her head. “No. No,” she whispered. “No. I wanted you to follow him, not plan his murder.”

  Rose stopped. “He dying tonight. You an accessory, either way. So help me or don’t. Ain’t it self-defense since he want to kill you?” Rose asked in a normal voice.

  Maggiore shushed him quietly, stepping closer. “Shh.”

  “What?” he whispered.

  Maggiore couldn’t hear what Rose said so she stepped a little closer.

  “Did you hear that?” she asked in a whisper.

  “What?”

  “Sounded like ‘got it,’” Maggiore looked down the trail. “Was that Omar?”

  Maggiore and Rose stared quietly at the trail. Rose reached his hand to his back waistband and grasped the hilt of a hunting knife.

  Rose looked at her. “I don’t hear nothing. Could be Omar.”

  Maggiore felt his intense stare. “We’re leaving him here. If you don’t leave now, I’ll arrest you. No one is dying tonight.”

  Something’s wrong. Maggiore noticed Rose’s hand was behind his back. She started to reach for her gun.

  “Wrong, bitch,” Rose said as he lunged to close the distance and arched his knife towards her neck.

  Maggiore lifted her left arm up to block the knife as her right hand fumbled with the clasp on her holster to free her gun.

  The knife slashed through her white long sleeve t-shirt. Her arm felt hot. There wasn’t that much pain, but she could feel the warmth of the blood as it changed the color of her sleeve. She couldn’t reach her gun. Her hand was being pushed down by his.

  Panic washed over her, triggering her self-defense training in the academy. She kicked at his knee. The kick barely pushed him back. The knife was headed for her stomach – her left hand shot down to grab it.

  She squeezed at the knife trying to pull it away from Rose, but when he withdrew from her grasp, a hunk of her hand came with it. “Eeowww!” Maggiore squealed out in pain.

  Rose felt encouraged by her squeal. “Die, little piggy,” Rose said as he kept hold of Maggiore’s right hand and reared back to stab again. His knife found the flesh of her stomach. She stopped fighting for her gun. He withdrew the knife and stabbed at her neck.

  -- “Now.” --

  The knife plunged. Rose pressed as Maggiore crumpled to the ground. Drops of sweat fell onto Maggiore’s bloody neck.

  With the knife still in her neck, he unbuttoned her holster and took her gun, putting it in the rear of his waistband.

  He pulled the knife from her neck and blood spurted out. Her glassy eyes bugged out with her pain. She gurgled and writhed.

  The roar of a powerful motorcycle without a muffler startled Rose. As he stood up to figure out where the sound was coming from, he felt a bite in the back of his head. If he had have been alive for a moment longer, he would have heard the crack of Santiago’s gunshot.

  Maggiore felt the weight of Rose land on her. As consciousness left her body, she had one final thought, Omar tried to save me.

  With adrenaline surging almost to the point of making him pass out, Santiago removed the scope and the warm barrel, jamming them into his backpack. He separated the action from the stock and put them in the backpack. The twenty seconds it too
k to break down and stow the rifle felt like an eternity. The roar of Milk’s motorcycle was almost out of earshot when he was swapping his latex gloves for his biking gloves.

  With everything but the blanket back in his backpack, he jumped on the mountain bike and peddled like hell up the slow incline. His ears were ringing from the bang of the gunshot.

  “Heavy breathing, fucker,” he heard in his earpiece.

  “I. Didn’t. Hear. You. On. Bike. Thought. You. Hung. Up.” Santiago gasped out when he had the air in his lungs, thankful he wasn’t alone.

  “Mute.”

  “Could. You. Hear. The. Shot?”

  “Naw. Bike so loud I couldn’t hear shit.”

  Santiago looked at his progress. He was only halfway up a steep three-hundred-foot incline. “I’m. Dying. On. This. Hill.”

  “Walk up. Ride down,” Milk suggested.

  Santiago looked behind him. Darkness. No one was coming. He put his feet down and got off. “Good. Idea.” Pushing the bike up the hill was a lot easier, and almost as fast. “You waiting? For me?”

  “Cheng.”

  Johnny Cheng. Santiago knew of Omar’s guy. Didn’t know much about him, but he should be a good pickup. “Still no sirens.”

  “Be cool. Be quick.”

  Santiago approached the top of the hill. “Got it.” With his lungs and legs burning, he hopped back on the bike. He had to constantly pull the brakes to slow his progress on the way down, the moonlight allowed him to see, but not well.

  After peddling his ass off through the next flat stretch, he saw the parking lot of the west entrance. There were no cars in it. Where the fuck is Cheng?

  Santiago rode into the parking lot before he saw a buff Asian guy wearing the same t-shirt, shorts, and baseball cap as he was wearing. Cheng, also covered in sweat, pointed to a brown Honda Accord parked on the street.

  Santiago’s blood boiled. In a hushed voice he called out, “Bike won’t fit.”

  Cheng stood next to him, whispering, “Keys are in it. I’ll ride the bike.”

  Santiago looked at the houses and streets, it was quiet. “Cameras?” he whispered, looking at the houses.

  “Nothing with wifi.” Cheng pulled a box from his pocket and gave it to Santiago.

  Santiago nodded.

  Cheng peddled down street after street through the residential neighborhood until he approached a thoroughfare with a gas station. He ditched the bike against the fence of a house that would be visible from the gas station. He was three miles from home and knew the bike would be stolen, for the second time tonight, before he got there.

  15

  [Sorry it took so long to respond. Medical emergency yesterday.] Omar smirked at Jo’s late response to his text message.

  [When can we talk?] he responded.

  He clicked to the next message from Bao. [Will you take a referral?]

  Omar looked out the second-story window at a beige Crown Victoria in the parking lot of his PI office. Detectives got here quick. [Yes. But I am busy.]

  He watched a heavyset man wearing a brown suit exit the driver’s side door and walk to the outdoor stairwell in the center of the office complex, apparently headed for #324, his vaguely named office, Private Investigator.

  The detective opened the door without knocking. Omar’s desk was at the window. He could reach out and touch the detective as he entered. “Morning,” Omar said.

  “Morning. Mr. Omar?”

  Omar stood and shook the detective’s meaty hand.

  “Detective Browning,” he responded, with a look at the two rigid wooden chairs along the back wall of the office.

  “Have a seat.”

  “Thanks,” Browning said, carefully lowering his heft onto one of the small chairs. He pulled out a notepad. “You called at eight thirty this morning to report a vehicle stolen. What car was it?”

  “A black Audi S5. Thanks for coming so quickly.”

  Omar scanned the detective, pausing at his chest, to see if he could spot the body camera that he assumed was recording everything. “Would you like some coffee?” Omar asked.

  “No, thank you.” Browning looked over his shoulder out the window. “When’s the last time you saw your car?”

  “I stopped in the office at eight last night and took an Uber at around eight thirty out to Barona for dinner and gambling. I took Uber home, took my other car in to the office this morning, and noticed my Audi was gone. I called the police right away.”

  “I saw some cameras in the parking lot and on the building. You got access to the recordings?”

  “Of course,” Omar responded with a slight smirk.

  Browning raised an eyebrow.

  “I own the building.”

  Browning’s head snapped back. “The whole thing? There’s like twenty offices here.”

  Omar gave a quick head nod.“I put the footage of when the car was stolen on a thumb drive for you.” He pointed at a little drive on the desk.

  “Thanks. Can you pull it up so I can see it now?”

  “Sure.” Omar watched the detective scoot the little chair closer.

  A shake of the mouse and two clicks revealed a grainy video of Filthy Rose wearing a gray hoodie opening the door to Omar’s car, then driving out of the parking lot. The time stamp read ten fifty-one pm.

  “Unlocked?” Browning asked.

  Omar looked down at the keyboard and feigned shame. “My car keys are on a different chain than my office and home keys. I must have left them in the car. I do that at my garage at home all the time, but not usually at the office.”

  Browning pointed at the screen. “Know that guy?”

  With a quick head shake, Omar said, “Don’t think so. Looks like a typical thug with that hoodie.”

  Browning looked close at the image. “He looks taller than you, but it’s hard to tell. You got footage of you leaving just so I can rule out that it isn’t you?”

  Omar scrolled back on the video to show footage of him getting into the back seat of a blue Nissan Maxima.

  “Can I get the whole night for my records?”

  “Sure.” Omar put the thumb drive in his computer and clicked around. When the file started to transfer, he asked, “You got access to border cameras? See if it went to TJ?”

  Browning leaned back. “Your car’s not in Tijuana. We found it.”

  Omar feigned surprise with a smile. “That’s great. Can I get a ride to it? I don’t want my car towed.” Omar felt Browning’s stare.

  “Your car was found this morning by some hikers at the scene of a double homicide.”

  Omar let his mouth fall open with shock. “What happened?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me. You know an Officer Kristy Maggiore?”

  Omar paused. “Is she the cop that gave me a fix-it ticket for a taillight? What’s she got to do with it?”

  “She’s dead. Stabbed to death. Based on the outfit of the guy who stole your car, I’m thinking by him.” Browning pointed at the monitor.

  “So you caught him already. Good,” Omar said, with a head nod.

  “He’s dead too. Shot in the back of the head. A third person was there.”

  Omar inhaled slowly. “And my car was there. And Maggiore didn’t like me. So I’m a suspect.” With a subtle shake of the head, Omar said, “I want to cooperate, but I’ve seen some investigations go sideways based on words taken out of context. I want a lawyer before I say more.”

  Browning shrugged. “That’s your right. People with something to hide usually do lawyer up.”

  Omar smirked. “When can I get my car back?”

  “After it’s been processed. It’ll be a while.”

  The silence built as Omar didn’t speak.

  “How did you know Office Maggiore exactly? You said she gave you a ticket, right?”

  Omar shrugged. “I’ve got some work to do. Will you please just let me know when I can get my car. If you have other questions that could implicate me in a crime, I want a lawyer present.”<
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  “I guess we can continue this at the station another day.”

  Omar stood and opened the door to his office. “Guess so.”

  Browning picked up the thumb drive. “Thank you for this. I’ll be seeing you soon.”

  Omar closed the door behind the detective. He pulled out the phone and wrote Bao. [I’ll be on vacation soon. Can the guy meet me now?]

  The phone rang in his hand. “Omar.”

  “Hi, Omar. It Bao. I at doctor office with friend. Here,” Bao said before the phone went silent for a few seconds.

  “Hi. This is Markus,” an old voice spoke. “Bao said you helped him. When can we talk?”

  “I can meet now.”

  “Let’s do it. I’m in La Jolla at my doctor’s office. Can you come here?”

  “What’s the address?”

  Markus gave the address, after which Omar hung up, watching Detective Browning and a passenger pull out of the parking lot. With a quick look around his office, thinking a warrant could be issued and everything searched, he thought through anything potentially incriminating. Omar smirked with contentment. There was nothing he could think of at the office that needed to be hidden. A few seconds later, he was out the door and in his little white SUV.

  On the drive to the doctor’s office, Omar thought about all the disposable cell phones he’d been burning through with his guys. No matter how careful he was, it was impossible to know what witness might have seen something, what camera might have caught something, and what cop might have the passion to investigate him for Officer Maggiore’s murder. At the very least, Omar knew he had to lay low for a while – not a good time for Gangster’s Court to be taking off.

  The parking gods shined bright upon Omar as he found a two-hour meterless spot less than a block from the doctor’s office complex. He approached the large grey stucco three-story building trying to focus his mind on the meeting he was about to take.

  He pulled one of the glass double doors, entered the white marble-floored lobby, and located a large touch screen. He tapped on the screen and got the floor and number for the doctor’s office. A few quick strides in the chilly air conditioned building led him to the elevator bank.