Double Dead

by Gary Hardwick

  It was uncomfortable sitting with him like this, but Randall was a high-ranking mayoral assistant. She desperately needed information to help Jesse, and he was the one person in that nest of vipers that she knew she could trust.

  “How's Michelle and the kids?” Florence asked, lighting a cigarette. She thought she could stop his impending flirtations by reminding him of his family.

  “Everyone's good,” said Randall. He smiled as if he knew what she was trying to do. “The kids are all grown-up now. How about you?”

  “I'm okay,” Florence said.

  “Well, you look great,” Randall said.

  “Thanks for that lie. Denial is my best friend these days.” She smiled and hated herself for it. Maybe he still has a little magic left in him, she thought.

  Randall pulled out a big manila envelope and placed it on the table. Then he took the cigarette from Florence's mouth and put it in his own.

  “Don't have any smokes, princess,” he said, and smiled at her.

  Florence wasn't surprised. Randall was always working. The cigarette goes from your lips to his lips, a connection of flesh. And now, if he were still the old Randall, he would touch her in some way, completing the promise of physical contact.

  On cue Randall reached out and took her hand, rubbing the back with his thumb. Florence pulled her hand back and took another cigarette.

  “I've missed you now and then,” he said. His voice was soothing.

  Florence looked in his eyes, and for a moment she was twenty-five again. Her hair was shimmering red, her hips were thinner, and her heart beat faster.

  “We have business,” she said.

  “Okay, princess,” Randall said. “The info is in that envelope, but there are some things I can't verify because they're only rumors.”

  “What's in the package?” asked Florence.

  “Just memos on the circulation of money in the city treasuries,” said Randall. “Crawford is moving money around like a madman. He even pulled several accounts from a bank when they gave him shit about it.”

  “So what's he up to?”

  “Don't know,” said Randall. “But the rumor is that it has something to do with muni bonds.”

  “Municipal bonds?” said Florence. “But the city hasn't had a major bond issue for years.”

  “I only know what I heard,” said Randall, shrugging. “Yancy, God rest his soul, was trying to cover up the money problems too. He was pushing hard on that casino business. I think he really thought it was our salvation.”

  “This is all very vague,” said Florence. “Don't you have anything concrete?”

  Randall raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, sure, the mayor is gonna tell me the city's most important secrets. I'm lucky I know the rumors. When Crawford got in, he issued a gag order. I could be fired just for talking to you.”

  This wasn't getting her anywhere. “Hear anything about Michael Talli?” she asked.

  “The Mafia guy? Well, he's been chasing Crawford and Steven Brownhill and his partners trying to get a meeting. Think he wanted in on that new neighborhood renovation thing. Looks like he got what he wanted because I hear he's been added to the committee.”

  “Hmm,” said Florence. “Anyone else chasing down Crawford?”

  “Uh, no,” said Randall. “Well, except the prosecutor, D’Estenne. He's looking for an endorsement in the election. I hear Crawford's going to do it. Against a brother, can you believe that?”

  Florence opened the manila envelope and looked at some of the contents. “So, money's moving around?” she said.

  “I've never seen anything like this,” said Randall. “Crawford managed to stave off the special election for a new mayor, and while no one is looking, he's cooking the books.”

  “Any rumors on who killed the mayor?”

  Randall grinned wryly. “Man, all anyone is talking about is how that woman got Jesse King to help her escape. She must have the best stuff in the world.” He laughed. “I saw her picture. She's fine, but not that fine. I heard the cops picked up a witness, a cop who was there that night, but they're keeping it hush-hush.”

  “Nicks?” asked Florence. “They found Walter Nicks?”

  “Yeah, I think that's the name I heard,” said Randall. “He was Mayor Yancy's bodyguard.”

  “Where'd they find him? How?”

  “I don't know. I just heard people talking. He must not be a suspect, or it would be in the papers.” Florence said nothing. It would be easy enough to check out. “Well, I'd appreciate a call if you find out anything else.”

  “You wanna tell me what you're working on?”

  “Do you really wanna know?” asked Florence.

  Randall laughed. He took her coffee cup and drank from it. Then he took her hand again. “How about you and me getting together again, princess? For old times.”

  “Now why would I want to do that?” Florence asked.

  Randall played with her hand, shifting it in his own. He smiled slyly at her. “Well, you know, once you've been intimate with a person, you just want to remember what you were, you know, feel like you used to feel when you were younger.”

  Florence pulled her hand away again. Years ago it would have worked. The young Florence with the mane of fire on her head would have melted. But now she was too old and too jaded to feel romance. She wondered how many young girls Randall had seduced with those eyes and that voice over the years. The thought that she was perhaps the first in a long list of conquests made her suddenly angry. He didn't want her; he just needed to seduce women. But right now she needed him.

  “I'll think about it,” she said.

  “Teasing,” said Randall. “I like that. You were never easy, princess. So, you need to know anything else?”

  “Who were Yancy's biggest opponents on the casino thing?” asked Florence.

  “The usual suspects,” said Randall. “Baptist Church, Catholic Church, community groups, neighborhood this and that. Self-righteous assholes. Oh, and of course the MACs.”

  “The ministers at that big church.”

  “Yeah, COG, the designer church,” said Randall. “Reverend Junior was a holy terror, excuse the joke. He even threatened Mayor Yancy with a recall if he went through with bringing in casinos. But it doesn't matter anymore. As soon as he got in office, Crawford killed all Yancy's casino plans.”

  “I didn't read anything about that!” said Florence. She raised her voice and then lowered it.

  “Because Crawford is a smart bastard. The mayor can run his house any way he sees fit. Yancy set up that casino commission to study how to bring casinos to the city. Well, Crawford took office and immediately said the casino task force was no longer a priority. He diverted all his attention to Brownhill, his partners, and the New City deal. That means attention, time, and, most of all, money are diverted from the casino task force. So without ever taking any official action, the kind of action that draws attention, he's killed it.”

  “Something's rotten here,” said Florence. “I can smell it.” She made the statement not to Randall but to herself.

  “Princess, you know that woman killed Yancy,” said Randall. “Just like the newspapers said. And for some reason Jesse King helped her get away.”

  “That's not what my instinct tells me,” said Florence. She was sorry she'd said anything to Randall, but she had to trust someone. “This city has always been full of slick men. Black or white, they're all greased up with the same slime. Jesse King was one of the good ones. And so was Harris Yancy. Yancy was too smart to get knifed by some whore.”

  “Don't go chasing ghosts, princess,” Randall said. He was sudden1y stern, like a parent. “Don't go screwing around with things that are beyond you.” He gazed at Florence with deep affection and said, “If anything ever happened to you, I swear, I'd never forgive myself.”

  And for the first time since he came, Randall's eyes held real sincerity. Now Florence remembered his real magic: Underneath all the BS he had a heart.

  Randall g
ot up. “Gotta get home. It was good to see you.”

  Florence stood up and folded the manila envelope. Her mind was processing all the information she'd just gotten. Then Randall leaned in to kiss her on the lips again. Florence was caught off guard and couldn't stop him.

  8

  Maintenance

  The big man popped the gun's magazine and caught it in his hand. He placed the clip on the table as he prepared to clean the big gun. He pulled the slide catch and moved the slide itself off the long barrel of the 9 mm Smith & Wesson.

  Things were completely out of hand. The botched contract had now escalated into a full-scale manhunt. No one was in prison for the murder, and the heat was on everyone in town.

  The lady lawyer and Jesse King had gone back to the crime scene. That was highly unusual. They were up to something, and the killers just had to know why. They were closing in on that black case, and they could not afford to let it slip through their hands. They had to take her. They put on masks and caught her just as she stepped into her house.

  It was bad from the start. She had fought them, throwing things and screaming. The big killer had hit her, but that only made her more defiant.

  They tied her up and questioned her but got nothing. She was a tough chick, but they had to get something out of her. They had exposed themselves, so there was no turning back. He had pulled his gun and forced her to make that call to Jesse King. Maybe he would know something. His plan had been to make them both talk and find that case.

  Then he made the fatal mistake of leaving the woman with his partner. He went to the bathroom, and when he returned, his partner was cutting up the lady lawyer in a mad frenzy. He pulled the sick bastard off her, but it was too late. Karen Bell was dead.

  His mobile phone rang loudly, startling the man. He looked at the phone but did not answer it. It kept ringing, a sound that sounded like angry thunder. He knew who it was. His employer was probably enraged by the new murders. A few more rings, and it stopped.

  The killer went back to cleaning the weapon. He slid the barrel out and removed the recoil spring and its guide. He dropped the pieces into a cleaning solution and wiped his hands.

  He had chosen the wrong man for this mission. His partner was a nutcase. Ever since the Blake woman had injured him, he had a short trigger and was looking to do some damage.

  “How long do we have to stay here, North?”

  “I told you never to use my fuckin' name! What if this hotel room is bugged? Huh?”

  “Who gives a pissy wet fuck?” said the smaller man. “Say it again and I'll kill you,” North said seriously. He glared at his partner, and the smaller man walked away into the other room.

  North cursed. He would have to kill his partner, but not yet. He needed him until he could close out the case. Two men were better than one. But when he got his hands on that black case, his next action would be to put a bullet into his big, stupid head.

  When Jesse King arrived at Karen Bell's home, they'd had no time to interrogate him. They set him up and left the scene, praying that the frame would take. It did, but it was a mixed blessing. King was on the hook for the kill, but he'd sprung the Blake woman. North thought King would be like most people and panic, then run to the police with a crazy story. But King had a big set of balls. He busted her out right under the cops' noses. He was smart, that one. It would be a shame when they killed him.

  Now King knew what the girl knew, and that was not good. He had to find them and the black case. It was his life or theirs now.

  9

  Gas ‘N Food

  The old Ford rolled down Seven Mile Road. The street needed paving, and it was a rough ride. It was dark, and Jesse was having trouble seeing as the car lights jumped on.

  Jesse and Ramona were traveling due west and making good time, but the car was acting up. It wasn't in very good shape, and they needed gas.

  Jesse had an all-news radio station on, listening for anything that might help. The police were saying only that extra patrols were out, and all access to get out of the state was covered.

  The car jerked hard to the right. Jesse compensated, grabbing the wheel tightly. A moment passed; then the car sputtered and jerked again.

  “Damn, something's wrong,” he said.

  “We probably should be getting a different car anyway,” said Ramona. “It takes them awhile, but the cops will be stopping all suspicious vehicles pretty soon, and this car has crime written all over it.”

  “Speak of the devil,” Jesse said ominously.

  He was looking down the road. A half mile away he saw a Detroit police cruiser, and on the other side of the street, farther down, he saw a state trooper's car. The troopers had been patrolling traffic for a long time, but they almost never sat on the street like this.

  “Shit,” said Jesse.

  Suddenly changing lanes, he cut off a car whose driver hit the horn loudly.

  “Hey, what the--” said Ramona.

  “Sorry, but they're laying for us.”

  Jesse turned a corner a few blocks before the two police cruisers. After pulling onto a side street, he traveled south for a while. Finally he spotted a gas station on a corner and headed for it.

  “What was that all about?” asked Ramona.

  “The cops. The state troopers and the Detroit police. When there's a manhunt, they work together. They sit on the road with space between them and stop any car that looks suspicious.”

  “So?”

  “So they probably have this car on a list. We can't take the chance that they'll pull us over.”

  “This is whack,” Ramona mumbled. “Look, let's ditch this car and I'll cop us another one.”

  “When the time is right. Until then we have to make do,” said Jesse. He pulled into the service station with the catchy name of Gas 'N Food.

  “Food,” said Ramona. “I’m starvin'.”

  Jesse was too. They had not eaten all day. It wasn't a priority right now. He could only think about getting to Packer's and seeing Florence. He hoped she could shed some light on what was going on.

  Jesse pulled the old car next to a pump. He and Ramona got out. At the pumps there was a Mustang with a young black man in it. Behind him was an old Volkswagen van. Two white men were inside. The black kid's stereo loudly pumped a rap tune.

  Ramona walked toward the gas station's mini store. Jesse stopped her before she went inside. He looked in. Behind the counter, surrounded by thick bulletproof glass, was a Chaldean clerk. The place was filled with big mirrors to deter theft, but he spotted no cameras.

  “Good,” he said. They went in. The clerk walked to one side of the counter so that he could watch Ramona as she took items from the shelves.

  Jesse had forgotten how the influx of Chaldean businessmen had affected the city. Many of the black small-business owners had sold their businesses to the Chaldeans, who were Iraqi immigrants. They'd come to Detroit and immediately opened businesses in the all-black neighborhoods.

  In the corner of the store was a little door with a small mirror in it. Jesse knew from prosecuting robbery cases that there was a man with a gun back there, just waiting for anyone to do anything wrong.

  Ramona walked up with an armful of junk food and soft drinks.

  “Okay, let's get out of here,” she said. “I hate these damned camel jockeys.”

  Jesse looked at her with disgust as she went to the counter and paid for the items. Not only was she a pain, but she was prejudiced to boot.

  “Hey, don't add the shit up but once,” Ramona said to the clerk. “I'm watching your ass.”

  “I watch you too,” said the clerk. He smiled at her.

  “And give me five dollars of gas on number five,” Ramona said.

  The Chaldeans and blacks had an uneasy relationship at best. Blacks resented yet another minority group coming into their community, opening businesses selling alcohol and cigarettes and charging high prices when blacks could not even get loans to start a business.

  Ramon
a had probably grown up learning anti-Chaldean sentiment. She turned to Jesse and shook her head as the clerk pushed the food through a big bulletproof glass door.

  Suddenly a shot rang out. It came from outside. Ramona and Jesse stopped in their tracks. Behind them the little door in the corner burst open, and a big Chaldean man holding a semiautomatic gun ran to the door. The clerk pulled out a huge handgun.

  “Down! Get down!” yelled the clerk.

  Jesse and Ramona moved to a window. Outside the Mustang roared off. On the ground the young black man lay facedown on the pavement. The white van sat where it was, doors open.

  The big man ran back in, holding the gun, and said something in his native tongue. He went behind the counter with the clerk and yelled at him frantically. The clerk picked up a phone and dialed.

  “Shit, let's get out of here,” Ramona said. “These fuckin' people are crazy.”

  “We're taking that van,” Jesse said to Ramona.

  “What? Those guys--”

  “Just follow me.”

  Jesse walked out the door and crossed over to the van. He got in but immediately saw there were no keys. “Fuck,” he said.

  “Let's go,” said Ramona. “Before the cops-”

  “Hey, what the fuck are you doin'?” the big man yelled out of the store window. He moved from behind the counter.

  “Shit, that guy with the gun is coming,” said Ramona.

  They ran back to their car and got in. The big man charged out of the front door with the gun. Jesse pulled off then, but the big man stood in his path. The gun was pointed right at Jesse.

  Jesse hit the gas, and the old car jerked forward. The big man tensed and realized that Jesse was going to ram him. He jumped out of the car's path. Jesse pulled the car onto the street and zoomed through an intersection.

  “Damn, I ain't never seen a brother get jacked by some white boys,” said Ramona.

  “Why did they take those damned keys?” asked Jesse to himself.