A pair of cars was parked in the center of the lot as Reed approached, both looking to have been new in the ‘70s. Against each of them leaned a single black male, both openly staring as he pulled into the lot.
“Come,” Reed said, his voice sharp, letting Billie know they were on-duty the moment they exited the car. She responded in kind as he climbed out and opened the rear door, her ears raised, her body poised.
“Hey man, you lost?” a voice called out to him, a trace of amusement and a bit of a challenge in the tone.
Reed ignored it as he walked around the front of his car, letting Billie and his badge both be seen at the same time. On sight both men exchanged a glance, placing the brown paper bags in their hands at arm’s length away from them.
What good they thought that would do, Reed wasn’t sure, though at the moment he didn’t much care what they were drinking.
“William Pryor?” Reed asked, coming to a stop at the end of the two cars. On his right was the tail of a Buick Skylark with a faded orange paint job. To the left was the front grille of a purple Pontiac Tempest.
Both looked like they had at one point a great deal of money sunk into them, though years of abuse and neglect had ebbed away their luster.
In response to his question, one of the men cast a glare at Reed before looking at his cohort.
Taking the glare as a cue, Reed shifted his focus to him, his hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatshirt, trying to seem as unimposing as possible.
“I take it you must be William?” Reed asked.
The man started laughing. He was lean, his hair cropped tight to his head, skin blue-black. A diamond stud was in his ear, a thick braided chain flashing around his neck.
“Man, ain’t nobody named William here,” he said. Anger was apparent as he continued to glare at Reed. “My name is Dub-P.”
It was a common form of slang Reed had learned over the years, using initials for a moniker. In the case of the letter W the word dub was inserted, making William Pryor now Dub-P.
Why he couldn’t have just answered the question, Reed wasn’t sure.
“Alright,” Reed said, moving on without acknowledging the name. “Do the names Edwin Mentor, A.J. Wright or Mason Durell mean anything to you?”
The amusement faded from the other man’s face as the two exchanged a glance, neither saying anything.
“Is that a yes?” Reed asked again.
Sidestepping the question, Pryor made a face, pushing himself up from the hood of his car. “Man, what the hell is this? We’re not doing anything wrong here. You can’t roll up and start harassing us, hiding behind some damn badge.”
“Yeah, I think you might be best served to take your dog for a walk somewhere else,” the other man added, raising his head to look down his nose, trying to appear tough.
Reed had seen both of the moves so many times before, it almost brought out a chuckle. Normally, he would go back and forth with them for a while, letting them think they had the upper hand, trying to get them talking by placating.
Tonight, he had neither the time nor inclination.
“Alright,” he said, the jovial manner gone, his voice and features both hardening, “here’s how this is going to go. I tried to be nice, but at this point I need information, and you’re going to give it to me.”
“And if we don’t?” Pryor asked, taking another half step forward.
Reed had anticipated the move, responding by raising his fist by his shoulder, a lightning quick movement that he had practiced 100 times but never performed on the street before.
It had the intended effect as beside him, Billie lowered herself into a crouch, her teeth bared, all four legs bent, ready to burst forward.
“If you don’t, my partner here will tear you apart,” Reed said, letting them know he was enjoying the sudden shift of power.
“What you see beside me is a Belgian Malinois, 65 pounds of pissed-off muscle with a bite so tight they nicknamed her breed Maligators. If my fist drops, she will be on you in two seconds, shredding every bit of exposed skin she can find.”
Pryor stopped where he stood, unsure how to proceed. He glanced to his friend, neither saying a word.
“And since I’ve come here with information that could save both your asses,” Reed continued, “how about you cut the tough guy bullshit so we get this over with?”
Both men kept their attention on Billie as she quivered with anticipation, waiting for him to give her the green light to move on them. Reed could almost feel it rolling off of her like electricity, her body aching to explode forward.
After a moment they both seemed to sense there was no bluff in Reed or Billie, each taking a step back and resuming their pose against the cars.
“Alright, let’s get this over with,” Pryor said. “Just call that damn dog off before she does something stupid and gets herself hurt.”
“That dog is a police officer,” Reed corrected. “Touching her would be the something stupid.”
Again, they seemed to consider his words, both looking at Billie.
“Yeah, I knew them, why?” Pryor finally managed, the answer slow and begrudging.
“Kings of The Bottoms, right?” Reed asked, jumping straight to the conclusion, watching as both men’s eyes bulged with surprise.
“Man, how the hell...” Pryor started.
“Did you know we have no idea what you’re talking about?” his friend finished, reaching out a hand to Pryor to stop him from speaking further.
“Oh, come off it,” Reed said, leaving his hand raised, letting the threat of Billie stand a few moments longer. “This isn’t a very big community. People see stuff, they talk.”
Another glance was exchanged as Reed pushed on, feeling his own ire rise. “Yeah, somebody near here gave you guys up. You all did something to piss someone off, and they ratted the first chance they got.”
The only reason Reed felt remotely safe saying such a thing was he knew there was no way the men would ever piece it back to Pearlman. As far as they were concerned, people like her didn’t exist, just faceless bodies in the crowd.
“My question is, what happened that was so bad you guys decided to disband all of a sudden? One day you’re there, the next you’re gone.”
“Man, we didn’t do shit,” Pryor snapped, hatred on his face.
“And we ain’t telling you shit,” the other man added.
For a moment Reed considered asking the man his name, certain that if he raised the sleeve on his right arm, a KOTB tattoo would be there. He was just as sure, though, that whatever the guy told him would be a lie, just one more way to try to mess with the police.
Instead, he would run the license plate the moment he got back in his car.
“Alright, fine,” Reed said, “be that way. Just stand there, and keep your mouths shut while I tell you something instead then.
“Whatever happened a couple years ago, whoever you did it to, is back, and he’s pissed. I’m sure you’ve figured out by now that your boys are being picked off, and I’m sure you even think that what you’re doing out here, making yourselves open targets, is a way to lure him to you.
“Let me tell you, though, that would be a mistake. This guy is on a mission, and he is much, much smarter than you.”
Reed lowered his hand, careful to drop it in a slow circular pattern so as to not incite Billie. Beside him the growl ceased as her jowls lowered back over her teeth, her legs losing just a bit of tension.
“If you guys know anything, you’d better get your ass down to the precinct and ask to see me, Detective Mattox.”
He looked at each of them in turn, their anger having receded a bit. Both held their mouths drawn into tight lines, waiting for him to continue.
“I’ve processed three of the most horrific crimes scenes I’ve ever seen in the last four days. I hope I don’t soon have to do yours, too, because you were too damn proud to ask for help.”
Chapter Forty-One
The Boat Man could feel
his pulse quicken. The car wasn’t familiar, though if it were coming to meet the others at the corner lot, it was a fair assumption that whoever was driving was affiliated with them.
The details from that night were still a bit fuzzy, his own scattered consciousness making the last few months so much more difficult than necessary. Everything still drifted back to him in spliced snapshots, a combination of what happened and his natural defense mechanisms trying to cope by blocking it out.
Had there been more for him to go on, an official report of any kind, his task would have been so much easier. By the time he was able to deliver a statement or pursue the matter, so much time had passed it had become a losing proposition.
Besides, doing so might have had the unintended consequence of protecting those responsible. Society’s idea of justice was to take perpetrators such as them and lock them away, letting taxpayers provide their food and clothing, even provide them cable television.
It had taken a long time for the Boat Man to prepare, the only way to ensure that true justice was ever really served. Once that moment of inspiration hit, there was no doubt in his mind about what must be done, his entire life becoming a mission hell-bent on setting things right.
For that reason, the surge of adrenaline that first passed through his system fell away just as fast as he saw the gold badge swinging from the man’s neck as he exited the car, light from the diner across the street reflecting off it. The intense sense of dread flooded in right behind it as he beckoned the black police dog from the backseat, both looking determined and capable.
The mishap with the blade had cost him, wasting precious time, allowing the police to finally catch up. Somehow, they had managed to put together what each of the victims had in common, finding their way to the abandoned gas station to warn the low-life’s congregating there every night.
For the briefest moment the Boat Man raised his right hand behind his head, squeezing the handle of the sword tight. Just touching it filled him with resolve.
The opening between him and the small gathering was no more than 25 yards, an easy distance for a man in his position, well hidden in the shadows. He could clear half of it before anybody so much as looked his way, their own conversation serving as the distraction he needed to close the gap.
One on one, armed with his ken blade, there was no way any of the men could best him. Not even two on one.
Three on one would be a long shot, though, even for the best of swordsmen. Adding in the presence of the dog, looking like a small wolf, trained to react in such instances, would make any move the Boat Man made a fool’s errand, a kamikaze run he couldn’t hope to return from.
Slowly, he released his grip on the handle, lowering his arm back to his side. As much as he ached to rush them and complete his vow, make right a wrong that had been done years before, he couldn’t allow himself to do something foolish.
The objective would not, could not, be completed tonight, regardless how things went with the two men who deserved to die.
Settling himself back against the trash piled around him, the Boat Man remained tucked in the shadows, watching as the encounter played out beneath the street lights. He watched as the cop approached and the two sides conversed, saw the men give him a hard time, showing as little respect for the law as they had for him.
He observed as the man flipped the power dynamic on them, setting his partner at the ready, an oversized animal bred for the purpose of handling criminals such as them.
A thin smile grew on the Boat Man’s face as he watched the rendezvous grow tense, neither side wanting to back down, finally both parties climbing back into their cars and driving away.
This had merely been a warning shot, a courtesy call to let the two men know that they could be next in the line of fire, counsel that they had obviously cast aside.
His opening still existed. It was obvious from the body language of the meeting that the presence of the cop was neither appreciated nor wanted.
It was only a matter of time before the Boat Man would have his opportunity.
Chapter Forty-Two
Traffic was lined up nose-to-tail on the opposite side of the median, just a thin band of grass separating Reed from the early morning gridlock. Brake lights flaring as far as he could see, the freeway reduced to a parking lot, the early morning crowd rushing in from the suburbs for the start of a new day.
Having bypassed another potentially awful coffee-based experience, Reed raised a bottle of Mountain Dew to his lips, a wet ring of condensation left on his pants leg. Taking a long pull, he shook his head at the sight of the people jockeying to get somewhere they had no desire to be, his continuing battle with his body clock only serving to make his mood worse.
In the backseat Billie seemed to be fighting the same war, her usual early morning patter reduced to nothing, her body flat on the cool plastic. Not once since leaving home had he heard a peep from her, her entire body going limp after climbing in.
Reed knew the feeling.
After leaving the gas station the previous evening, he had again driven by the homes of Edwin Mentor and A.J. Wright, trying to pretend that he was hoping to spot something, knowing more than anything he was just hiding.
From the precinct and the chance of running into Iaconelli and Bishop, from home and the stack of case files strewn across his table, from sleep and whatever horrors his body continued to play out every night but refused to let him see.
Shortly after midnight he gave up on the voluntary patrol, having passed three blue-and-whites in the process, the chatter over the radio no doubt wondering what he was up to. The whole time he had it off, trying to collect his thoughts, formulate some sense from what he knew.
As best he could tell, the things he had to follow up on were both numerous and elusive. He knew for a fact that the Kings of The Bottoms had existed and that all three victims were once affiliated. He also knew that William Pryor was at one time a member.
A quick call to Jackie the night before had shown the man with Pryor to be Marcus Knighton, who Reed also suspected used to be an active gang member.
Beyond that, the complete lack of mention of the Kings in the system left him puzzled and with precious little to follow up on. Both men the night before had shown signs of recognition when he asked, but shut down tight when he tried to press the matter.
Their reaction, taken with the statement from Pearlman, proved that they had existed. The fact that there was so little mention of them in the system was something Reed could only speculate on, his morning venture an exercise in trying to do just that.
The sole mention Deek had been able to ferret out of the system about the Kings was a complaint from a shop owner named Fareed Rasul. He had owned a convenience store in The Bottoms for six years, a search through local records showing his permits running from 2005 to 2011. In May of that year he had filed a formal complaint against the Kings, citing theft and vandalism on multiple occasions.
Two weeks later all charges were dropped.
Three weeks after that he chose not to renew his lease, moving across town and opening a similar store in Gahanna.
The address for the new shop was scribbled across the top of a sheet of paper in Reed’s spiral-bound notebook, a quick series of directions jotted down beneath it. The blue ink of the lettering stood out against the white paper as he glanced down every few minutes, following the freeway across town before exiting onto smaller side streets, avoiding the main boulevards.
The journey from one side of Columbus to the other took him 35 minutes, the first half a crawl with the incoming traffic, the backend opening up as he crossed downtown. By the time he arrived, the bottle of soda was gone and nestled on the floor against Crime and Punishment, the jolt of caffeine just starting to take hold.
He could feel his neurons beginning to fire and his heart rate increasing as he pulled up in front of Rasul’s shop, Billie remaining prone in the back.
The convenience store stood as the end unit in a smal
l strip mall. Most of the window space for Rasul’s was covered in advertisements for various products, ranging from cigarettes and beer to cereal and cookies. A neon sign flashed that it was open.
Parking in the front stall, Reed turned off the ignition and surveyed the place, comparing it to what he had seen in The Bottoms the night before. Despite just 15 miles separating the two geographically, they were different in virtually every way. Gone were any traces of graffiti on the walls, any need for bars on the windows.
Glancing over his shoulder, Reed saw Billie raise her eyelids, questioning if her presence was required, her chin pressed flat to the seat relaying she was less than excited by the notion.
“Stay here, girl,” Reed said, wrenching the door open and stepping out, the smell of coffee and pastries hitting his nose. Behind him he could hear the sound of a school bus pulling to a stop on the corner, air brakes engaging and the muted din of children laughing.
The sound fell away as he stepped through the front door, the smells of breakfast-on-the-go hitting him full in the face. A reflexive groan from his stomach cried out as he stepped to the front counter, a young girl in her early 20s behind it, head aimed down at the cell phone in her hands.
“Good morning,” Reed said, his voice just a little bit louder than necessary to be heard over the video game on the phone.
“Uh-huh,” the girl said, the sound coming out as a low garble, delivered without looking up.
A bevy of smart remarks came to Reed’s mind as she continued punching at the phone with both thumbs, but he let them go. “I’m looking for Fareed Rasul, please.”
“In the back,” the girl replied, snapping her head to the side, directing him to a door along the far wall. Just as fast, she returned to her game.
Reed moved on without thanking her, following her directions to the back wall and knocking on the door twice before pausing and pounding once more.
“Yes!” a heavily accented voice said from the other side, traces of irritation present as Reed shoved it open and stood in the doorway.
The Boat Man: A Thriller (A Reed & Billie Novel Book 1) Page 15