The Red Zone

by Tim Green

  Smoke crept toward the ceiling like a living thing. Kratch had his own office, and not just a cubicle like most other detectives. Kratch was the top man in homicide and he knew that to solve crimes you had to wade right into the muck. You had to wallow in it, rake your fingers through its murky sediments, dig in with your toes, and breathe deeply of the fetid odor. Crime was another world. Kratch was comfortable in that world. He could pass in and out of the real world and the criminal world like a warlock, and he liked the power it gave him. Those in the real world revered him. Those in the criminal world feared him. Those who knew him best did both.

  He was an innocuous-looking character with a lanky frame and a vacant walleyed stare. In the early days, there were those who hadn't respected him because of his harmless, science-teacher appearance. His lazy eye created the immediate impression of intellectual deficiency. So, in the early days, he had to make examples of people, until gradually he became known as the kind of cop who would pistol-whip a brother and then plant a bag of smack on him, before charging him with possession, intent to distribute, and assaulting an officer.

  Once, while investigating the death of a small-time crack dealer, some punk he was questioning told Kratch to kiss his black ass. Kratch beat the man so brutally he thought the little shit might die. Afterward, Kratch used his victims gun to shoot himself in the head. He knew that his use of deadly force would have been condoned only if it were an act of self-defense. Of course, Kratch did nothing more than graze his own scalp. It healed in three weeks without a trace, but it looked real scary for the photos at trial. He'd bled like hell. The color prints showed a beleaguered Kratch with blood streaming down his face and into his eye and over his ear. The punk, who hadn't even been involved with the dealer, ended up doing ten to twenty in a maximum-security prison. That was Kratch. He always came out on top.

  And, when dead bodies turned up, as they inevitably did in South Florida, Kratch was the man to find out how they got that way. He had a penchant for getting information no one else could get, and seemed to have a keen understanding of the criminal mind. As a lieutenant, Kratch had become more of an administrator now than he was an investigator. But, whenever a tough case popped up, Kratch always seemed to find his way into the middle of the investigation. Palm Beach County didn't have the same depraved reputation as Dade, but there were more than enough grisly murders to keep Kratch fishing year-round.

  Chapter 14

  Vivian was a prisoner in her own home. She'd made the necessary funeral arrangements, answered the necessary questions, and shed the necessary tears. Her tears, however, were more from anxiety and fear than grief.

  Could it be? she asked herself. Was he really gone?

  It was almost too good, and that's what scared her. That's what made her cry. It had taken her so long. She had endured so much humiliation and so much frustration along the way Now, finally, she seemed to have it all. She wanted to flee. She wanted to get away from the police, the reporters, the funeral. Evan's parents would be there. They had never liked her. Who were they to judge? They were no better than her own stock, crude blue-collar people. Their only asset had been a son who was a self-serving egomaniac and who, with some luck and some ruthlessness, had become a multimillionaire.

  Where Vivian really wanted to be was in Italy. There was a small town on the Amalfi coast, just south of Naples, Positano. That was where she belonged, on a terrace beside a pool, looking out over the emerald sea to the island of Capri, drinking the local wine, living. And wouldn't it be grand if Luther could be there with her? A scandal with his Moorish skin and his sculpted body. She, the American heiress. He, her kept man. But Luther was no ones kept man. And Luther was tainted. That was too bad. Vivian felt close to Luther. He was more like her than any other man she had ever met. Still, she would settle for just Positano. More than anything, Vivian wanted to be there. But there were motions that had to be gone through. She wasn't free, yet.

  To help herself along, Vivian had begun drinking gin and tonics. No one could blame her for that, could they? She was trying to deal with the shock. The thought made her smile a wicked little smile. She pursed her lips, then fished the lime from her drink and bit into it. It wouldn't do for the help to see her socializing, or making plans, or smiling for that matter. That could be used against her. Instead, she sat alone on her bedroom terrace in an oversized rattan chair with her bare feet tucked snugly underneath her. Wearing a well-worn pair of jeans and an oversized cotton blouse, drinking gin and tonics, and staring at the endless surf. She looked quite forlorn. That was where one of the maids found her to announce that Mr. Wilburn and Mr. Rivet were downstairs to offer their condolences.

  "Tell them I'm upset and don't want visitors, Amelia," Vivian said after a hard swig of her drink. "And please bring me another ..."

  Amelia returned after several minutes with her drink and the disturbing message that Mr. Wilburn and Mr. PJvet wanted her to know that it was quite important that they see her immediately, for business as well as personal reasons.

  "I'm sorry, Mrs. Chase," Amelia fretted. "I told them they should leave, but they would not. No, they said I must give this message to you. What should I do, Mrs. Chase?" Amelia said, her blood rising. "You want me to get Hector and have Hector tell them to go? I think they might not be so stubborn with Hector . . ."

  "No, Amelia. Thank you/' Vivian said, exhaling a long low breath. "Go tell them I'll be down, and show them into the living room."

  When Amelia had gone, Vivian stood up from the chair. She stumbled slightly, but steadied herself on the chair. She picked up her drink and started to bring it with her, but thought better of it and gulped it down instead before returning the empty glass to its place on a little wicker table.

  "Gentlemen," Vivian said in a subdued voice as she stepped into the sunken living room with her head held high. They stood.

  "Please," she said graciously, "sit down."

  Both men sat without offering her any of the usual condolences. It made her uneasy to see them so callous. Vivian had never cared for Martin Wilburn, and she didn't trust him. Even Evan had been wary of him, and Evan hadn't been wary of many things at all. Swimming, for instance--he had gone swimming in the ocean in even the worst weather. People had warned him. He never listened. That was Evan.

  "Vivian," Wilburn said, his voice echoing off the hand-carved vaulted ceiling, "come sit down with us. I want to make you an offer."

  The room was large. Pastel paintings in bleached frames adorned the plaster walls. There was a large pink granite fireplace in the center of the exterior wall. Vivian could only recall building a fire there on one occasion. Wilburn sat opposite the lawyer on one of two facing white couches. Vivian sat in a high-backed chair and crossed her legs.

  "What are you talking about?" she said, with as much disdain as she could muster. Talk of this nature with her husband not yet buried was gauche.

  "I'm talking about a deal between you and me," Wilburn said. His face was expressionless. "I want the Marauders in Memphis. You want this team. I'll help you keep the team. You help me move it to Memphis."

  "I can't think about this right now, Martin," she said somberly. "My husband--"

  "Let me get straight to it, Vivian," Wilburn interrupted rudely. "We all know Evan's dead, and lets be frank, no one in this room is heartbroken. YDU don't have to play that game with me. Let's talk about the facts. You're having an affair with Luther Zorn."

  He held up his hand to cut off her protest.

  "Now, I don't know if it was you, or Luther, or both of you, but I do know something ugly is behind your husband's death. We're talking about murder."

  Vivian blanched.

  "How dare you!" she blurted, starting to rise.

  "Sit down!" Wilburn commanded, rising to his feet and pointing toward her chair. "You'll listen to what I have to say! He was killed! It won't be long before Luther Zorn is arrested and convicted of murdering your husband, Vivian. I know you sent him a note, telling him to come
here today! This morning! I can prove it! I have the note! I know all about how you have been contacting Luther Zorn, arranging to meet, using phone messages. I'm one step ahead of you, Vivian! So, sit down!"

  Vivian plunked herself down on the chair so hard her teeth rattled. His words cut through her little alcoholic buzz like a cold bucket of seawater. She looked at Wilburn as a prisoner might look at her executioner. There were so many things she wanted to say, but none of them would come out.

  "Good," Wilburn said calmly. "Now, no one else knows about these notes, and no one has to know. I don't want you to go to jail, Vivian. But even if you didn't go to jail. . . well,>, our good friend Mr. Rivet can tell you better than I that if you were found to have any involvement whatsoever in your husbands death, his will could be challenged. He has two parents who'd love nothing more than to get their hands on everything. You'd get nothing, and I want you to have it all, Vivian. I want you to have it all because you're going to do just what I tell you . . ."

  Vivian looked at Rivet.

  He nodded his head. "It's true, Vivian," he said finally "Evan's alternative beneficiaries are his parents. They could have you disinherited, completely, even if you were never convicted of a crime. The burden of proof in a civil court is much less than that in a criminal court. And, if you were found to be an accomplice in a criminal court, quite honestly, you could receive the death penalty"

  "Hah!" Vivian huffed in disbelief. "What the hell are you talking about? I may have been having an affair with Luther, but I didn't tell him to come here today, and I certainly didn't have him kill my husband! That's insane!"

  "I have the note, and a pattern of notes that speak quite to the contrary," Wilburn said bitterly, still on his feet. "And when Luther realizes he's going to take a fall? Who knows? It wouldn't surprise me to see him bargain you away to save what he can of himself.

  "But none of this has to be, Vivian," Wilburn said, his voice suddenly as pleasant as if the whole thing were nothing more than a bad dream. "I'm not asking you to do anything that isn't good for you anyway. You don't care about this team staying in Florida. It was Evan who cared about that. You'll make millions, as will I. That's all I want. That and control of this team, which would also be in your best interest. What, after all, do you know about running a football team? * "You see," Wilburn said gently, turning his gaze briefly to Rivet, then observing as Vivian digested what he said and made her calculations. "We're all on the same side here."

  "What if, as you said . . . Luther tries to drag me down with him?" Vivian asked, mortified.

  "I think when the police question you more thoroughly, which they'll get around to doing very shortly after the funeral," Wilburn answered, "you will break down and admit, despite yourself, that you saw the man who was your lover outside on the beach this morning. You'll sell him before he can sell you. That's what you'll do. That's the only way you aren't going to get dragged down with him. I have the note. Without that, it will be Luther's word against yours. That's no contest. No matter what you've come to think of him, he's still a black man, and he's still a football player, and this is still Palm Beach, not L. A. You, on the other hand, are a rich white woman whose husband has been murdered."

  She felt as if she were entangled in barbed wire. She sat without speaking for a long while, pondering the possibilities, weighing the potential outcomes.

  "All right," she said, finally. "I'll tell them."

  "You can even suggest a polygraph," Wilburn said. "That's always a nice touch when you're telling the truth."

  She nodded absently, thinking that she wanted a drink.

  Pdvet took a folder out of the briefcase that was sitting on the floor between his legs and handed it to Vivian along with a pen.

  "This is a five-year contract that designates Martin as the president of the Marauders organization," the lawyer explained. "Nothing financially is being taken away from you, Vivian. It simply lets Martin manage the team in the best interests of you both."

  Vivian looked blankly from Pdvet to Wilburn. Wilburn nodded and waited. She signed the papers. Martin Wilburn gripped his hands tightly behind his back but said nothing.

  Chapter 15

  Blood and cotton leaked out of Luther's nose, a steady stream of viscous blood running down his upper lip and draining into his mouth. He was gasping for air. The blood filled the cracks between his teeth and gave him the ghastly appearance of a well-fed vampire. His eyes had that wild animal look, wide open and extremely alert. He searched the sideline and found the defensive coordinator. The coach tugged on the bill of his hat, twirled both forefingers in the air, then made a sign as if to cut his own throat. Luther nodded and turned to his assembled teammates, ten of them, waiting for his words. It was a powerful feeling, but one that Luther took for granted. They were an impressive bunch, big, fast, strong, and mean. They looked to him for answers. They looked to him when things were going wrong and when things were going right. On the field of play, Luther dominated, physically and mentally.

  "Switch coverage, tackles spin, cutthroat blitz," Luther commanded. "Ready, break!"

  Eleven pairs of hands snapped sharply together in a unified clap. It was a comforting sound, like the beat of a war drum.

  To each man it meant that there were others beside him, others who would help. No one was alone.

  To Luther it meant that his people were in sync. Each man had heard him. Each man knew the job he had to do. If someone lagged, Luther sensed it, and he did something about it.

  There was not a thought, in any of their minds, of the brutal murder of the teams owner during the week. To most players, Evan Chase wasn't a person anyway He was an overseer who made money on their efforts, their sweat, their blood. His death was nothing more than a subject for locker room conversation. For Luther, of course, Chase's death was much more significant. It was like a disease he had been exposed to, but didn't yet know if he had contracted. It was a bad thing that could ruin his life. Still, here, in the middle of a game, even for Luther Zorn, Evan Chase's murder was not a distraction. That was part of the beauty of playing the game. When you were in its midst, there was nothing else.

  This game was in sudden-death overtime. Because Luther had broken the leg of the Vikings' star running back, their ground game was useless. They were trying to pass their way into scoring range. The impact of Luther's helmet, which had snapped the runner's tibia, had also jammed Luther's helmet down into his nose, rupturing it and causing it to bleed profusely. If not for the pungent taste of blood in his mouth, Luther wouldn't have given it a second thought.

  Luther's men lined up. The Viking offense lined up. Luther barked out the formation, letting his men know exactly what they were up against, where the enemy was, how they would attack. Luther watched carefully. He'd seen this formation a hundred times during the week, sitting in dark meeting rooms, watching film of the Vikings' previous games. The formation shifted, and a receiver jogged from one side of the field to the other. Luther knew what it meant.

  "Pass, pass, pass, PASS!" Luther yelled.

  The ball was snapped and Luther turned his hips, as though he was going to drop back to help cover one of the wide receivers streaking by. He counted a beat, just enough to let the offensive linemen think he wasn't going to cross the line of scrimmage. Then he came, and he came fast. Two three-hundred-pound defensive tackles crossed paths in front of Luther and a hole opened up between the bodies. Luther never slowed.

  Going through the line, he pumped his knees to avoid being tripped. A mammoth guard peeled off and slammed into Luther. Luther spun, using the guard's momentum to propel himself. He came clear again, and still the quarterback was holding the ball, unable to find a target. Luther leapt. The quarterback lurched and Luther was jerked backward in midair at the same time. His body crashed to the turf, the wind blasted from his lungs. He saw stars. He heard wild cheers. He rolled over and tried to raise himself off the field.

  Whoever had grabbed him from behind was already gone. It di
dn't matter. There was no yellow flag. It should have been a ten-yard holding penalty. Offensive linemen weren't allowed to use their hands that way. This was not the time to be contemplating broken rules, Luther decided, assessing the situation.

  The Vikings had completed a pass, but worse yet, Chris James, Luther's right cornerback and the team's best coverman, was also lying on the turf, writhing in pain. Luther jogged toward the other end of the field. He could see Antone Ellison running toward the huddle from the sideline. Antone was the third-string cornerback, the team's last resort. James's normal backup had torn the cartilage in his knee only two weeks ago. Luther moaned. There were some Marauders who kidded that Antone had to have something on someone to have even made the roster. He was an average player during his prime, and that was several years ago. The Vikings would know Antone was an exceptionally weak link. Every team had extensive information on every other opposing player in the league. In that way, the game of football really was like a war. Everyone scouted his enemy. They would go after Antone.

  Luther approached the huddle and looked Antone in the eye.

  "Focus, Antone," he commanded. "We need you, man. You can do it."

  Antone nodded, but looked nervous.

  James was carted off the field on a gurney. Luther looked to the sideline for his instructions. The situation was desperate. Ten more yards, and the Vikings would be in field goal range. In sudden death, the first team to score won whether the points came from a touchdown or a field goal. The defensive coordinator waved his hand in a broad circle above his head. Luther closed his eyes briefly, as if meditating. A moment later they snapped open, sharp and clear.