Hell, then again, all I really have to do is make a lot of noise kicking over the motorcycle.
I’ll bet that bastard Jay-Cee comes flying outside.
When he reached the door and had put the canteen on the sidewalk beside it, he decided, just for the hell of it, to try the doorknob.
With his right hand holding his Glock, he carefully grabbed the knob with his left hand and slowly started to turn it.
It was unlocked.
Why am I not surprised? Jay-Cee’s a dumbass.
The heavy metal door swung outward with a squeak of its hinges.
And then Curtis realized why it had been unlocked: It was a common door for the multiple individual offices within the building.
He now stood in an empty corridor, a short and very narrow one, with the inner door to Gartner’s office immediately to his left, a flight of well-worn wooden stairs leading to the offices on the upper floors a little farther down on the right, and, at the end of the corridor, an exit door to the alleyway.
Curtis decided to press his luck and turn the dirty tin knob on Gartner’s interior door to see if just maybe JC might have left it unlocked, too. As he reached for the knob, he heard someone directly on the other side of the door, then saw the knob turn. He barely had time to flatten himself against the wall by the door hinges before the door flew open toward him, blocking his view.
Then came the sound of feet moving quickly, then the exterior door squeaking open and closed.
Curtis didn’t see who had gone outside. But now he leaned over to peer through the gap between the door edge and the frame into Gartner’s office.
It was mostly dark except for the glow of the television-out of Curtis’s field of view, but he could hear its sound, which seemed to be a lot of heavy breathing with rock music blaring in the background-and a single short lamp on what he guessed to be Gartner’s desk.
There were two other desks, smaller ones, their tops not nearly as messy, though one had the crumpled greasy Chinese takeout bags on it. Against a far wall stood a pair of old six-foot-long folding tables. They sagged at the center under the weight of loose fat file folders and white cardboard storage boxes. Under the tables, and all along the walls, were books and more stacks of file folders and piles of legal-size papers. And there was trash, or what could have been more legal papers, littering the worn, dirty industrial carpeting.
Curtis could see Gartner behind the desk-a big wooden one piled ridiculously high with papers-standing bent over at the waist with his face close to the desktop. He held something to his face and slowly pivoted his head from left to right while inhaling deeply.
Then he suddenly stood erect and, rubbing his nose, looked wide-eyed at the open office door, then spun on his heels and looked at the cracked plate-glass window.
After a second, apparently satisfied, Gartner then bent back over the desk again.
Will Curtis carefully stepped to the left so he could peer around the far edge of the open door. He saw that the heavy metal door to the street was closed. He started to move toward it to lock its deadbolts. But then he thought that might reveal him to Gartner, if only for a second or two, which would ruin the element of surprise.
Fuck it. Get it over with…
Will Curtis quickly moved around the open door and, gun up and ready, entered Danny Gartner’s office. As he scanned the interior-Gartner was alone-he pulled the door closed behind him. This time, he did throw the lock on the door.
Before Curtis could say anything, Gartner, his face still close to the desk, casually said, “You find it?”
When Gartner looked up for a response, his eyes became huge again. He dropped what he had in his hand and staggered two steps backward, almost tripping over his own feet.
“What the hell?” Danny Gartner asked, his voice almost a squeak. “Who-”
“Shut the fuck up,” Will Curtis said calmly but forcefully, aiming at him with the Glock.
“Who-” Gartner repeated.
“I said shut the fuck up!”
Curtis glanced at the desktop. He saw the black nylon bag JC had brought. It was open, and held a plastic sandwich bag, not quite a quarter full, of what looked like ground-up chalk. Beside that on the desktop were two lines-actually, a line and a half left-of the powder, and a stub of a thin plastic straw.
Coke? Maybe meth?
Goddamn drugs.
He glanced around the room. He now had a clear view of the TV, and the pulsing lights were of a very raw pornographic scene. It was hard-core-nothing but writhing naked women and close-up shots of the sex toys probing their genitalia filled the flat screen.
Sick sonsofbitches! he thought as he walked over to the TV.
There’s no end to their depravity!
He hit the ON-OFF switch and the room got darker.
Curtis looked back at Gartner, then motioned quickly with the pistol. “Step out here in front of the desk.”
Gartner didn’t move. Curtis saw his eyes glance out the plate-glass window.
“Where’d JC go?” Curtis asked.
It was clear by Gartner’s expression that he was surprised the intruder knew JC’s name. Then that expression changed to one of found opportunity.
Gartner, his tone more controlled, said, “You’re after JC? I can-”
“Damn it! Just answer the question.” He motioned more aggressively with the pistol. “And get your ass over here, slowly.”
Staring at the Glock, Gartner began moving as told. When he was in the middle of the floor, Curtis motioned again with the gun and said, “Now, on your knees.”
As Gartner complied, Curtis looked around the room quickly. Over on one of the sagging folding tables was a roll of three-inch-wide clear packing tape. He walked over and picked it up, then went back to Gartner.
“Hands behind your back,” Curtis said, and when Gartner had complied, Curtis wrapped his wrists tightly together with the tape. He pulled a folding knife from his pocket and cut the tape roll free. Then he pushed Gartner hard between the shoulder blades so that he fell forward and smacked his face on the dirty carpeting.
“Shit!” Gartner said. “What’d you do that for?”
Curtis didn’t reply. He put his right knee in the small of Gartner’s back- and on top of the taped wrists-then quickly wrapped Gartner’s ankles with the tape.
The locked doorknob rattled, followed by a knock.
“Dan!” JC’s muffled voice called. “What’s up?”
Will Curtis put the muzzle of the pistol against Gartner’s left temple. “Don’t say a word.”
He looked at Gartner’s eyes, then decided he didn’t trust him to do as ordered. He ran the tape through Gartner’s open mouth and wrapped it twice around his head.
As Curtis stood and went to the door, JC began banging on it.
“Dan! You okay in there?” JC called.
At the door, Curtis held his pistol at the point where he expected to find JC’s head. Then he reached for the knob and unlocked it.
At the sound of the click, the knob spun and the door was yanked open.
JC stood there, an envelope in his right hand and-surprising Curtis-the green plastic canteen in his left. He froze as he saw he was looking at the muzzle of a big-bore pistol.
And, judging how his facial expression changed, he recognized the angry man who was aiming the weapon between his eyes.
“Ahhh,” JC said, dropping the envelope and canteen, and holding up his hands, palms out.
Curtis then noticed some kind of movement in JC’s midsection. When he glanced down, he saw that the crotch of JC’s blue jeans was darkening and the stain was quickly spreading, moving mostly down the inside of the right leg of his pants.
Curtis snorted.
Not so smug now, huh?
Not so tough and cocky, either.
You chickenshit. You just pissed yourself.
“C’mon,” Curtis said, motioning with the pistol for JC to come in. “Strut in over there. Beside your lawyer buddy. And g
et on your knees.”
After JC reluctantly moved inside the office, Curtis quickly stepped out and grabbed the envelope and the canteen, then pulled the door shut and relocked it.
The envelope was hefty, and packed with a thick wad of paper. Will Curtis put one end of the envelope in his teeth and tore it open. He blew into the hole, then looked inside-then whistled.
He walked over to the desk and started shaking the envelope to dump out its contents.
A stack of well-worn bills-twenties, fifties, and hundreds, easily totaling at least a couple grand-landed by the zip-top bag of white powder. He shook the envelope once more and out fell a cellophane packet of pills.
He looked at JC, who had gotten on his knees.
Curtis then went to him and said, “Hands behind your back.”
As Curtis wrapped JC’s wrists, he asked, “What’s that bag of powder? Meth?”
JC shook his head. “Uh-uh,” he said nervously. “Coke. Take all you want.”
Curtis ignored that. “And those pills in the packet?”
He saw JC and Gartner exchange nervous glances. He pushed JC to the floor and put a knee in his back.
“What the fuck are they?” Curtis said. “Tell me, or I’ll just shoot you now.”
“Roofies,” JC said quietly, closing his eyes.
Curtis said nothing as he considered that while taping together JC’s ankles.
Then, with an amused tone to his voice, he said: “Roofies? Really!”
Curtis then leaned over Gartner and, using the pocketknife, cut the tape that was wrapped around his head and pulled the gag from his mouth.
“I think we all need a drink,” Curtis said. “I know you’ve got to have something here, Danny Boy.”
Gartner made a forced smile. “Sure. Bourbon. Vodka. Gin. What do you want?”
“Where is it?”
Gartner nodded toward a bookshelf across the room.
Will Curtis grabbed the first bottle he saw on the bookself. It was vodka, Stolichnaya, specifically Stoli Razberi. Beside it was a bottle of Jack Black and one of Bombay Sapphire. And next to those were six somewhat clean highball glasses.
As he walked back to the desk, Curtis didn’t know what pissed him off more about the vodka.
That it’s goddamned Russian, or that it’s candy-ass flavored.
Well, maybe the raspberry will make the pills easier to swallow.
Gartner and JC watched Curtis’s every move as he splashed about an inch of Stoli into each of two glasses. Then he took from the cellophane packet four of the Rohypnol pills and dropped two in each of the glasses of vodka. There was a little fizz as the pills began to dissolve in the alcohol.
He took the bottle of Stoli Razberi back to the bookshelf, picked up another glass, then the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. As he poured, he turned to glance at Gartner and JC.
“If you’re getting the clear stuff,” Curtis said, “then I’m getting the dark stuff. Wouldn’t want to get them confused, no?”
He carried the glass of Jack Black to the desk and set it down. Then he picked up one of the glasses of vodka. He took it over to where Gartner lay on the carpet. Grabbing Gartner by the arm, Curtis got him back up on his knees. Then he held the glass to his lips. Gartner shook his head. Curtis grabbed him by his thinning gray-black hair and yanked back. Gartner’s jaw dropped open and Curtis poured in the vodka, then moved his hand under the jaw and closed Gartner’s mouth. It took a moment, but Gartner finally swallowed most of it.
He repeated the process with JC, though he had to hit JC on the head with his pistol after he spit out the first glass of vodka. Curtis had then mixed two more roofies with another three inches of Stoli Razberi, then grabbed a stunned JC by his blood-soaked thick black hair and poured the drink down his throat.
Then Will Curtis went back to the desk, sat in the chair, and began sipping from the Jack Daniel’s while watching the alcohol-fueled roofies take effect.
And for reasons he did not understand, particularly considering the circumstances, he suffered not one single flashback.
Maybe this is what they mean by finding peace through justice.
“Okay, let’s go, you assholes.”
Curtis didn’t expect a reply. Under the influence of the Stoli-Rohypnol mixture, Gartner and JC were more or less out cold. Even when he kicked them in the ass with his boot toe, they barely responded.
For the first ten minutes after he’d forced them to swallow the powerful sedative, he’d watched them slowly get sleepier and sleepier. Gartner faded faster, and Curtis thought that might be because of the cocaine he’d also consumed.
By the time fifteen minutes had passed, they’d basically become incoherent, slurring their words.
After the twenty-minute mark, with them curled up babylike on the carpet, Curtis had felt confident that they posed no problem whatsoever and had gone out to move the car behind the building.
Now, a half hour later, he struggled to get them-very groggy but agreeable, despite their wrists still being bound-one at a time down the corridor and out the back door of the office building.
He’d parked the Malibu in the dark alley and left its truck open.
He dumped JC and Gartner inside the trunk, then took the clear adhesive tape and wrapped their heads so that the tape sealed the nose and mouth of both men.
As he watched their bodies begin to convulse at the blockage of their airways, Curtis wondered, Why don’t I feel bad about this?
Then-boom!-a vision came of Wendy.
It was the one of her, spread-eagled, bound to the bed with her nylon stockings.
Shit! That’s the hell why!
He looked at JC.
Because of what you did to my baby and to whoever else, you miserable bastard.
Then his eyes went to the other bucking body.
And you, Danny Boy, kept him out of jail so that he could.
Kept him and who the hell knows how many other miserable shits on the streets.
Curtis, suddenly furious, shook his head angrily as he took one last look at the pair.
Then he quickly pulled from his pocket two plastic garbage bags he’d grabbed in Gartner’s office and covered their heads with them. He took the Glock from his jacket and put its muzzle at the base of JC’s skull, angled toward the top of his head, and squeezed the trigger.
The. 45-caliber round fired with a loud bang, JC made a primal groan, his legs kicked out straight, and the garbage bag on his head billowed briefly, the top of it moving violently as bullet fragments flew out, accompanied by bits of brain and blood, and lodged in the trunk floorboard.
The pistol automatically ejected the empty brass casing, which flew up, hitting the trunk lid, then landed beside JC’s body, near where a dark stream of blood flowed from the bag, staining the white shirt and pooling on the football jersey.
Now you won’t be going after those high school girls-or any others.
Then he moved the pistol muzzle to the same place at the base of Gartner’s skull and squeezed off another round.
This time the ejected spent casing landed on the concrete of the alleyway. The brass made a tinkling sound in the darkness as it tumbled to a stop against a curb.
Rot in hell, you scum! Will Curtis thought, then slammed down the lid.
[TWO]
Loft Number 2180 Hops Haus Tower 1100 N. Lee Street, Philadelphia Saturday, October 31, 11:10 P.M.
As Matt Payne looked out of Amanda Law’s penthouse window, thinking about how much damn truth Amanda had written in his would-be obituary, he took a sip from the beer bottle and swallowed hard.
So then why do I feel the pull to be out there running down those animals?
Because of what else Amanda said, long before writing the obit? That it takes cops like me and her dad to keep the city as safe as possible from the bad guys loose on the streets.
Which she’d told me, more than a little ironically, right before those shits snatched her off the street.
At the mem
ory of finding her bound in the gutted kitchen of that abandoned row house, Payne suddenly felt his throat constrict.
That place wasn’t a house. It was a slum, and a fucking prison slum at that.
But there it is: I’ll take the door of any place like that a hundred times over. That may or may not make me a good cop, but bagging bad guys is the right thing to do.
Proof of that being that Amanda is alive.
And further proof being that bastard Jimenez is on the fast track to serving a life sentence in Graterford.
Following his arrest at the row house, Jesus Jimenez had confessed to killing twenty-seven-year-old J. Warren “Skipper” Olde over what Juan Paulo Delgado claimed was a bad drug debt. In exchange for avoiding the death penalty, Jimenez also ratted out everyone in their small band of thugs in a signed confession.
Payne drained the beer bottle, which helped ease the constriction. Then he grinned as he thought:
Too bad the bastard’s about to become somebody’s bitch.
Jimenez will hope he gets thrown alone in an RHU.
The door to the bathroom swung open and Amanda Law, still starkers, stood momentarily backlit in the doorway.
My God, she’s stunning! Matt thought.
“You take my breath away,” he said. “In more ways than one, it would appear.”
She flashed a sly smile. “That, Romeo, is my evil plan.”
She clicked off the bathroom light and said sweetly to the dog, “Good girl, Luna. Lie down.”
Then she smoothly and swiftly moved across the dimly lit bedroom, completely comfortable in her birthday suit. It reminded Matt of the second time he’d met her, just last month in Liberties Bar, when she seemed to float effortlessly across the well-worn wooden floor. Clothed, of course, but even then he’d been mentally undressing her.
As she crawled back into bed, Matt smelled the delicate floral scent of her perfume. It became stronger as she moved in closer to put a hand on his chest and kiss him on the forehead. He smoothly turned his head so that his lips were on hers. She moaned softy and appreciatively, and then-hearing a brief familiar vibrating sound-made an unhappy groan.
The Vigilantes boh-10 Page 4