by David Grace
Since he’d gotten out he’d pulled some small jobs, penny-ante stuff, breaking into parked cars, stealing the coins out of newspaper racks, barely making enough to feed himself and keep a roof over his head, but he couldn’t keep doing that much longer. If he didn’t find a way out soon he’d have to pull some real jobs, which is why he went with Latwan in the first place, that and the fact that Chain Boy was buying and Troy couldn’t stand another minute staring at the walls of his shit-hole room.
It might have been all right if Latwan’s crew was breaking into stores or warehouses, just loading crates on a truck and fencing them off. He could do a few jobs like that, take the cash and run, maybe go to California, get himself a fake ID and work construction. He’d heard that they had some high-tech boom going on out there and that they were hiring anybody who knew how to pound a nail. Maybe if he got enough money together he could buy himself a really good set of papers, get himself a whole new life, become a whole new man.
They had schools where you could learn to drive a big rig. You could always get a job hauling freight if you had the right license and a clean ID. Shit, that would be the life. Out on the road, nobody looking cross-eyed at me, seeing more than shit-hole alleys and living in a cage.
But Latwan’s gig wasn’t stealing refrigerators or big-screen TVs out of some warehouse. This was that fucking Mad Dog crew everybody was talking about. This was fucking mass murder – men, women and children. Shit, he’d never killed anybody, never even come close. Of course, that’s not what he told people.
The cops had figured him for a string of check-cashing jobs where the robbers had left no witnesses behind. Six hits, nine bodies. They sweated Troy for three days and they would’ve pinned it on him too except that he was on video buying a bunch of burglary tools at a Home Depot fifty miles away from where the last job went down. He knew who did it, of course. So did the cops, which was why they grabbed him up in the first place.
His old cell mate from Stateville, Freddy Nardone, the sick fuck, had pulled the jobs with a tweaker friend of his cousin’s who looked enough like Troy to put Warner at the top of the cops’ suspect list.
Freddy and his partner, Colin Kretzner, spent half their last score on a mountain of drugs. Kretzner did so much speed that his heart exploded and Freddy decided to dump Colin’s corpse in the next body of water he ran into which turned out to be the Mackinaw River. Freddy had just levered the stiff over the railing when a couple of Tazewell County deputy sheriffs got curious about what he was doing stopped in the middle of the bridge. Freddy figured they were after him for the robbery he and Colin had pulled the night before and made a run for it. He was so stoned that he crashed his car before he crossed the county line, and then he decided to try to shoot his way out. He failed.
The deputies found enough evidence in the back seat from the latest robbery to tie Freddy to the crime. If they ever found Kretzner’s body they never connected it with Freddy, which, as far as the cops were concerned meant that there was still one crazed killer on the loose. Freddy’s ex-cell mate, Troy Warner, was a perfect fit, except that the Home Depot video proved it wasn’t him. None of that kept Troy from letting people think that he was the bad ass who had done the crimes. In prison street cred goes a long way to keeping you alive.
But now, Warner’s reputation as a stone-cold killer had gotten him a job offer he didn’t want. The problem was that he wouldn’t live long if he turned it down. He knew too much. Only a moron would tell Latwan Monroe, “Thanks for telling me that you and your friends are the Mad Dog Killers but I think I’ll pass.”
So, now what? Troy asked himself. He could skip town but how far could he go on a hundred forty-three dollars and how would he eat once he got there? Waiting to cross Vernor he watched a bus whine past. A billboard behind an abandoned Citgo station caught his eye:
$100,000 Reward!
For Information Leading To The
Arrest And Conviction Of The
Killers Of Herbert and Natalie Samuelson
Next to the text was a photo of a smiling man and woman taken at some kind of party. An oversize 800 number was printed at both the top and the bottom. The murders had been all over the news. The Samuelsons had been killed in one of the Mad Dog home invasions, killed by Latwan Monroe and his crew. $100,000. Troy stared at the phone number until it was burned into his brain.
* * *
He made the call the next morning, a little after nine.
“Samuelson tip line,” a woman’s voice answered.
“I know one of the men who killed those people,” Troy said, unsure how this was supposed to work.
“Yes, sir. Please let me have your name and address,” she asked in a bored voice.
“I need to speak to the person in charge.”
“That would be Mr. Etheridge. He’s not here right now, but I can ask him to call you back if you’ll leave your name and number.”
Leave his name and number? Did they think he was crazy?
“It’s too dangerous. Just let me speak to the guy in charge.”
“I’m sorry sir, but that’s not possible. I’d be happy to–”
“I’ll call back. When will he be there?”
“Sir, I assure you that any information you give us is confidential.”
Troy thought about that for a moment but decided that he didn’t dare leave his name. Even if word didn’t get back to Latwan, what if they just grabbed Latwan up and refused to pay him?
“Look, I know one of the guys who did it. I can lead you to him, but I’m not leaving my name. How about I meet this Mr. Etheridge someplace public? Maybe he can bring me a form to fill out or something,” Troy suggested.
There was a long pause then the woman said, “Sir, please hang on and I’ll ask my supervisor.” Two minutes later a man came on the line.
“Hello? My name is Craig Benedict. I’m Mr. Etheridge’s assistant. I understand you’d like to register some information about the Samuelsons’ killers?”
“Yeah, that’s right. I know who they are, at least who one of them is.”
“Good, that’s very good. If you like, you can fill out a tip form on our website to register your claim to the reward.”
“I don’t have any way to do that.”
“We have an app on iTunes and Google Play that you can download to your phone,” Benedict suggested.
“It’s not that kind of phone,” Troy snapped. “Look, I can give you this guy, but I’m not telling my name to some voice on the phone, and I don’t have access to the Internet. Can’t your Mr. Etheridge just meet me? How about the lobby of the MGM Hotel on Third? I can fill out one of your forms, and I’ll give him my cell number. I’ll tell you everything I know but I have to protect myself. They’ll kill me if they find out I talked.”
Benedict didn’t say anything and Troy wondered if he was going to just sit there until Troy got tired and hung up. Finally, Benedict came back on the line.
“Sorry to make you wait,” he said. “I called Mr. Etheridge. Can you meet him in the MGM lobby at one o’clock?”
“Yes, I can do that. What does he look like?”
“Let me think. How about this – he’ll be carrying a copy of, uhhhhh, Car And Driver and you have a copy of, I don’t know, Popular Science?”
“Popular Science? Sure, I guess,” Troy said uncertainly. Was that some kind of magazine. It must be.
“Good. Mr. Etheridge will meet you in the lobby of the MGM Grand on Third Street at one o’clock today. What’s your name please?”
“John Smith,” Troy said and hung up.
* * *
It was almost eleven when Virgil found himself back in the Felony Fugitive squad room. Peter Fineman had told him to delay his arrival until the Mayor’s orders placing Quinn in charge had percolated down to Lieutenant Parker.
“Welcome back,” Stan Kudlacik said when Virgil walked through the door. “Parker gave us the good news twenty minutes ago.”
Virgil took a minute to gree
t the rest of the squad then uneasily eyed Janet’s office.
“Anybody using my old desk?” he asked.
“We kept it warm for you,” Carl said, pulling out the chair.
Instead, Virgil half-sat on the corner and waved the detectives over.
“Why don’t you guys catch me up. Did we get any leads on Sturdevant’s friends or Latwan Monroe?”
“We’re still beating the bushes,” Stan told him, “but this might be something.” He handed Virgil a phone message slip.
“Who’s Irvin Etheridge?”
“He’s running the tip line the Samuelson family set up. They’re offering a hundred thousand dollar reward for information on who killed their parents. Etheridge called a little while ago. He says a guy who wouldn’t leave his name contacted them this morning claiming he knows the identity of one of the killers. Etheridge set up a meet for one o’clock in the lobby of the MGM Grand. He thought one of our guys should be there.”
“What makes him think the caller is legit and not just some nut job?” Virgil asked, frowning.
“He says his people think it could be something. He says he’s got a hunch.”
“A hunch?”
Stan shrugged. Virgil thought about it for a moment then shrugged as well.
“All right. Since you guys all have stuff you’re working on, I’ll take it.”
“You’ll need a copy of Car And Driver,” Stan said.
“What?”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Not being sure how long the bus would take to get him to the hotel Troy gave himself extra time and ended up arriving half an hour early. The marble and glass lobby seemed like a place that had never been meant for someone like him, and he noticed the watchful stares of the desk clerk and the concierge. After a few minutes he rolled his copy of Popular Science into a tight coil and pushed out through the thick, glass doors.
The sky was a brilliant blue and the street was awash in harsh, brittle light. For several minutes he paced there in front of the hotel and at five to one he spotted a tall, slender man with long arms approaching the lobby doors. The man’s right hand held a folded-over copy of the same Car And Driver magazine Troy had seen at the news stand where he’d bought his Popular Science. The guy looked like a cop.
Shit! They had no intention of dealing straight with me, he thought, of actually paying me the reward like they’d promised. He could see it all like some dumb movie where you knew from the beginning how it was going to end. They’re going to lie about paying me the money and then if I don’t tell them everything I know they’ll threaten to lock me up, and if I still don’t talk they’ll promise to ruin what little is left of my life. That’s how cops always work – lies and threats.
He saw now that all his plans were just stupid dreams, and his gut turned hollow and cold. For half a minute he stood there on the sidewalk, watching the reflections of the people and the cars in the plate-glass doors. Now what? Twice he turned around, eyeing the bus stop at the end of the block, but each time he looked back at the well-dressed men and women on the other side of the glass.
His phone buzzed. The screen said it was three minutes after one. The center of the display held the word: “Chains.” Troy glanced back down the street and squinted into the glare off the river of windshields and chrome. It all seemed as cold and sterile as a morgue. Fuck it! He pushed through the heavy doors and unrolled his magazine.
The lobby was high-ceilinged and done up in shades of reds and grays. Virgil sat facing the hallway leading to the front desk and instantly spotted the beefy, pale man holding up a wrinkled copy of Popular Science like a flag. Virgil stood and showed his own magazine.
“You Etheridge?” Troy asked, almost as an accusation.
Virgil hesitated half a second then gave his head the tiniest of shakes.
“Virgil Quinn. Detroit PD. What should I call you?”
“My name’s Troy Warner,” he said, all thoughts of clever plans and anonymous exchanges dead and gone.
“Why don’t we sit down.” Virgil gestured to the gray couch behind him. Warner waited for Virgil to go first then sat a couple of feet away and angled his shoulders toward Quinn.
“They were never going to pay me the reward, were they?” Troy said with more bitter disappointment than anger.
Originally, Virgil had figured this was all a scam, that Mr. Smith was just some punk blinded by the notion that here was a desperate family out there who would pay him a hundred thousand dollars for some made-up villain and a story he’d seen on the Soprano’s. Now, looking at the bitter desperation radiating from Warner’s face, Virgil wasn’t so sure.
“As far as I know they’re legit,” Virgil answered. “They gave me this form for you to register your claim to the reward.” Virgil handed over a single sheet of paper and a black, Jelly Stick pen. He watched Warner’s eyes as he held the sheet out in front of him, distrustful and almost, but not quite, without hope.
Troy looked up briefly when he got to the bottom of the page, then set it on the glass table and laboriously began to fill in the blanks. He stopped when he got to the box that said: “State your information concerning the murders of Natalie and Herbert Samuelson.”
“I’m supposed to fill this out then you walk away with it and I never hear from you again?”
Virgil shrugged. “I’m just the lead detective on the case. They asked me to talk to you because you said you had information on the killers. I don’t have anything to do with the reward.”
“I should have known they were going to screw me,” Troy said, leaning back against the couch. “What else is new, right?”
“How long were you inside?” Virgil asked.
Troy closed his eyes then turned back to Quinn.
“Six the first time. Five the second.”
Virgil recognized the tone. It was the same voice reporters used when they read the death toll from an earthquake or a plane crash.
“You don’t want to go back,” Virgil said.
“This was going to be my way out.” Troy closed then opened his eyes. “My fresh start,” he added, giving Virgil a twisted smile.
Virgil extended his arms, palms up. “So, you want to tell me?”
Troy thought about that for a heartbeat then laughed.
“Sure. Why not? . . . Yesterday one of my old cell mates from Saginaw stopped me on the street and offered to buy me a drink. I thought, ‘Hey, great. I can use a free drink even if the guy is a dirt-bag psycho.’ Then it all turned to shit. He told me what he’d been doing and asked me to join his crew.”
“Your old cell mate, what’s his name?”
“Latwan Monroe,” Troy said, unconsciously hanging his head and missing Virgil’s shocked expression.
“What did you tell him?” Virgil asked in a rush.
“What do you think I told him? I either said ‘yes’ or I was a dead man.”
“What’s the next step?” Virgil leaned forward. Troy took out his phone and showed Virgil the list of missed calls. “So, you didn’t talk to him?”
“And tell him what? ‘Let’s get together so I can help you with your next massacre?’ Shit!”
“I’m going to need you to call him and set up a meeting.”
“I’m not meeting him. I may not have much of a life, but I want to keep on breathing.”
Virgil could have cuffed Warner, locked him up, threatened to let it out that he was a snitch, but those were sucker plays. Virgil knew that people always worked five times harder to gain an advantage than they did to avoid a punishment. So, instead of threats he took out his phone.
“Mr. Etheridge, it’s Virgil Quinn. I’m here with Mr. Smith. He’s the real deal. He can lead us to one of the killers. If we can grab that man up, he could lead us to the rest of the gang. We could get all of them. . . . Yes, it is great news, but helping us is going to be very dangerous for Mr. Smith. He’s willing to do it,” Virgil glanced at Troy, “but he needs your assurance that if he gets us this killer that you’ll a
pprove his claim for the reward. . . . Yes, I understand that the reward is for the identification of all the perpetrators, but there is no way anyone can guarantee that. We need his help. What can you do for him? . . . All right. I want you to tell him that.”
Virgil handed Warner the phone.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Smith, my name is Irvin Etheridge. I’m the director of the Samuelson reward fund. If you will help the police capture this . . . person, we’ll pay you half the reward, fifty-thousand dollars. If because of your help the police are able to capture the rest of the killers, we’ll pay you the entire one-hundred thousand dollars. Is that acceptable to you?”
Troy thought about that for a moment then asked, “You said that the cops have to capture him. What if they kill him?”
“Don’t quote me, Mr. Smith, but Herbert and Natalie were my friends for over thirty years. As far as I’m concerned killing that bastard would be even better. I hope they shoot him. I hope they shoot him a hundred times! Yes, if they kill him I’ll pay you the fifty thousand and if they kill all of them I’ll very, very happily pay you the whole hundred thousand. Do we have a deal?”
“We have a deal,” Troy said, struggling to keep the jolt of pure pleasure from his face. Quinn gave Warner an expectant look.
“Tell me what you want me to do,” Troy said as he handed Virgil back his phone.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Virgil had forgotten how weak he still was. Pale and sweating he left Warner with Stan Kudlacik and stumbled into the squad’s men’s room. He had barely closed the cubicle door when he was doubled over by a racking cough. When the spasm finally passed, eyes closed, Virgil leaned against the wall while air whistled in and out of his lungs. Now, ten minutes after they had entered the building Quinn returned to the squad room and motioned for Kudlacik to join him in the commander’s office. Stan gave Virgil a worried glance and closed the door.