by Paul Herron
The actual plan, though. How I’m going to frame him. I’m not too sure about that. I can’t rush it. Not if I want it to work. That means biding my time. But all the while I’m planning, thinking, watching for an opportunity.
Preparing.
Over the next few months, I shake down every dealer I can find and confiscate their wares. I don’t arrest them. I take their stash and tell them to count themselves lucky I’m not taking them in. Doesn’t matter what they’re holding—meth, Ecstasy, coke, PCP, LSD, fentanyl, methamphetamine, heroin, oxy. Doesn’t matter how much they have, either—a bag, a bundle, ten pills, a single rock, I don’t care. I take it all and I add it to my collection. I take a gun from one of them too, an old Beretta that’s seen better days. Untraceable. On top of that, I buy myself a burner phone. I know I’ll need it eventually.
After four months I have enough drugs to fill a backpack. It weighs about four kilograms. More than enough to nail someone on drug-trafficking charges.
And that includes me. Federal trafficking charges are ten years to life for holding a kilo of heroin. I’ve got 1.2 kilos. I’ve also got 2.8 kilos of cocaine. That’s a minimum of five years. That means what I have in the bag is enough to put someone away for a fifteen stretch. The grass, the Molly, the oxy, that’s all small-scale stuff. Icing on the cake. It’s the coke and the heroin that will do the job.
Least it would if Kincaid was anyone else. As it stands, I don’t think it’s anywhere near enough. Evidence goes missing from the station all the time. Even a massive backpack of drugs.
That’s fine, because the drugs aren’t my whole plan. All that—the gun, the phone, the backpack—it’s just groundwork. I’m still not sure how I’m going to nail Kincaid. I’m waiting for inspiration to strike.
Which it does one day in winter.
Not that you can really call it winter in Miami. Seventy-three degrees, and I’ve had my sleeves rolled up all day. It’s about six in the evening now. The sun is low, shining directly into my eyes as I drive home from a malicious-damage call-out. Some disgruntled employee trashing a factory in the Hialeah warehouse district.
I almost miss it. As I sit at a red light I happen to glance to my left, where a narrow alley sits between two abandoned buildings. I see two guys struggling. One wearing a football jersey, baggy pants, and high-tops that look like they’re just out of the box; the other wearing dirty jeans and a stained T-shirt. I recognize the guy in the high-tops. He’s a dealer I’ve already shaken down. Devon, I think he’s called.
The guy with the dirty jeans throws Devon against the wall and yanks a knife out of his back pocket. He lunges forward, his arm a blur as he stabs Devon again and again in the chest.
It’s over before I’ve even registered what’s happening. Devon slumps to the ground and the other guy rummages through his clothes, grabbing money and bags of drugs before running for the opposite end of the alley.
I look around. The place is deserted. There’s an old Cadillac parked about twenty feet from the alley, but that’s it.
When the light turns green, I swing around and park directly in front of the alley entrance. I drum my fingers on the wheel, pondering. Is this it? The final piece of the puzzle I’ve been waiting for?
I grab a pair of latex gloves from the cubby. I pull them on as I enter the alley and crouch down by Devon. I feel for a pulse.
Nothing.
I search his pockets and find a set of car keys. I leave the body where it is, slumped between sodden cardboard boxes and mildewed packing crates, and exit the alley. I test the keys in the Cadillac parked on the street. They fit. I make sure the doors are locked, then get back into my own car and head home.
The way I see it, if no one reports the body in the next few hours, the plan is a go. If someone does report it, then it wasn’t meant to be.
But I have a feeling this is it. This is what I’ve been waiting for.
I make a call. This has been part of my plan since the beginning. I researched everyone who works behind the computers at the alarm company Kincaid uses. A surprisingly high number of employees have some kind of criminal record, but there was one guy in particular I was drawn to. I knew his face. I’d bust him myself a couple times already. Only thing is, his record didn’t show any of that. Which means he had someone on the inside wipe it clean.
“Simon?” I say.
“Who’s this?”
“You still at work?”
“What? Yeah, who is this?”
“Doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I know about your past. I know you paid someone to wipe your record.”
I hear his breathing speed up.
“Simon?”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing big. Just the floor plans and access code to one of your properties.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You sure? I mean, this climate we’re in. Tough to get a job, you know? Especially when you’ve got a record.”
“Why you want that stuff ?”
“None of your business. And relax. Nobody’s going to get hurt. All you have to ask yourself is how much you need your job. I’ll call back in one minute. Give you time to think about it.”
I hang up, pacing the garage for the full minute before calling him back.
“I’ll do it,” he says grudgingly.
“Smart guy.”
I give him a burner email address. He sends the code and the plans while I have him on the phone. I check. It’s what I need.
“I’ve written an email to your employers,” I say. “With details of your arrests. It’s scheduled to go out tomorrow morning unless I stop it. You tell anyone about this, if anything happens to me, you’re going down. Got it?”
“Yeah, man. I got it.”
I hang up, feeling sick in my stomach. This isn’t me. It doesn’t sit well. My whole career I’ve been around cops who cut corners. Nothing big. At least not to start with. But I’ve seen how it affects them. Once they cross that line, it’s easier to do it again. Easier to let things slide. Then it becomes a simple progression to pocketing evidence. Looking the other way when they owe people favors.
That was never me.
Until now.
Later that night, I gather up all the items I’ve prepared and drive back to the alley. I park a hundred feet down the street and take a stroll along the sidewalk, checking the buildings as I go. There are some security cameras, but if no crime has been reported, they won’t be checked.
I glance into the alley as I pass. The body is still there. I can just see Devon’s foot.
Nobody’s reported it.
Am I really going to do this? I can still back out. I haven’t done anything I can’t make go away. The drugs can be flushed. The email deleted.
And Kincaid is free to kill again. To corrupt how many more lives? Destroy how many more families?
No. I’m not backing out now.
I use Devon’s keys and get into the driver’s seat of his Cadillac. I wait for ten minutes, just to be sure. In that time I see three cars, but none of them show any interest in me.
After the ten minutes are up, I start the car and reverse into the mouth of the alley. I pop the trunk and get out.
Rigor mortis is setting in, Devon’s neck and upper arms already seizing up. I take out the new toothbrush I bought and poke it around inside the evidence bag that holds Kincaid’s blood. I gently scrape the bristles beneath Devon’s fingernails, making sure the flakes go deep.
I put the toothbrush and evidence bag away. I pause, still crouching. Why not just leave him here? Call in an anonymous tip-off ? Kincaid’s blood and DNA are on the body now.
No. It won’t be enough. His lawyers would just come up with some story about Devon attacking him in the street.
I grab Devon’s feet and drag him across the asphalt, heaving him headfirst into the trunk.
Then I climb into the driver’s seat and start the engine.
I park down the street from Kincaid’s m
ansion. There are lights everywhere, halogen floods chasing away the shadows. That makes it trickier. Not impossible. Just… tricky. I can’t even see the house from where I am. The grounds are too big. Kincaid bought the five properties surrounding his and knocked them down for the land.
There’s something going on. Expensive cars arriving in ones and twos, stopping outside the gates to show the guards something before being let inside. I recognize a few of the faces. Heavy hitters in the Miami underworld.
Shit. Is he having a party or something? What do I do? Cancel?
No, don’t be stupid. I’m driving around with a corpse in the car. The hell am I supposed to do with it? Put it back?
Actually, this might be good for me. A distraction. I might not even need the alarm codes now. Why would he activate the security system when people are coming and going?
I drive around the back of the house. The rear of the property faces onto a park. I drive slowly over the grass and stop next to Kincaid’s wall. I pull on the balaclava I brought with me, get out of the car, pop the trunk, and drag Devon out onto the grass. I grab his legs, look up—
—and realize there’s a problem.
The wall is ten feet high. How the hell am I supposed to get him over?
I drop him onto the grass again, then maneuver the car as close to the wall as I can get it. I grab his feet and climb up the bumper onto the trunk. I try to pull him up with me, but I’m not far enough back. I can’t get any leverage to lift him off the ground.
This is just fucking perfect.
I keep hold of the ankles and slide up the back window to sit on the car roof. I shuffle back and pull the body up, but Devon’s stupid baggy pants get caught on the bumper.
“Honest to God, Devon. If you were alive, I’d fucking arrest you for wearing those things.”
I have to let the body slide back down to free the material. I pull him up again, so now he looks like he’s doing a handstand against the car. I shuffle back all the way to the front windshield, then get to my knees and pull him up. First by the legs, then the waist, until I finally have him sprawled on the roof next to me.
I pat him on the head. “Could do with losing a few pounds there, bud.”
I stand up and survey the distance between the car and the wall. It’s about a foot. At least I didn’t screw that up. I check Kincaid’s yard. No one around this side of the house. Plenty of lights, but no people.
I push Devon’s legs over the wall. They drop down, almost pulling him out of my grasp. I just manage to grab him, then wonder what the hell I’m doing and let go. The body slithers noisily over the wall, hitting the ground on the other side with a heavy thud.
I jump down, grabbing the backpack of drugs from inside the Cadillac and shrugging it over my shoulders. Then I clamber back up onto the car and climb over the wall into Kincaid’s yard.
I drag Devon across the dew-wet grass, dumping him behind a gazebo close to the rear of the house. That’s phase one.
Next: the drugs. This is the part I’ve been stuck on. There were too many variables to plan it out in advance. But now I’m here, I need to just pick an approach and go with it.
So—what do I have? I have the alarm codes and floor plans. I have a major distraction already going on, with Kincaid having some kind of meeting or party or whatever the hell it is. And I have lots of drugs I need to plant.
I could just dump the bag next to his car. Or maybe hide it beneath a bush. But once again it doesn’t tie the drugs directly to Kincaid. He could just say it belongs to one of his guests. I want something definitive.
Which means I need to get inside the house.
Glass doors look out onto a stone veranda about fifteen feet to my right. I approach, finding a tiny gap in the floor-to-ceiling blinds. A dark dining room lies beyond. Thanks to the floor plan, I know there’s a hallway directly outside the dining room. Left leads toward the front of the house and the entertainment area, where I assume Kincaid will be. Right leads toward a set of stairs to the second floor. That’s the way I need to go.
I need a distraction, though. Separate from whatever is going on inside the house. Something that will cover the sound of me breaking the glass.
I move along the wall and check the front of the house. There are about ten expensive cars parked on the gravel driveway. Two guards lounge against a small building separate from the main house. They don’t look too alert. Why would they? Kincaid has the whole city under his thumb, and from what I’ve seen, most of the heavy hitters are here. Who would the guards be watching out for?
I came prepared for this. I shrug the backpack off my shoulders and unzip the pouch at the front. I take out a can of lighter fluid and move at a crouch toward the closest car. I spray the fluid all over the vehicle. Over the roof, the tires, the windshield. Once the can is empty, I stuff it in my pocket and take out a box of matches. I strike one and flick it toward the car, slipping back around the house and stopping once I get to the glass doors.
I wait until the shouting starts and slam my elbow into the glass. I clear the shards away and reach through to unlock the door, pulling it open and stepping into the dining room.
I pause, all my senses straining. I can’t hear the beeping of an alarm system that needs to be deactivated. That’s good. I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t think they’d put the alarm on with all those people here.
I hurry through the dining room and into the passage. No one around. I move quickly, heading to the rear of the house and up the back stairs. Another corridor. Spare rooms, bathrooms, and then the main bedroom. I head straight for the walk-in closet. It’s huge, about the size of my living room. I shrug off the backpack and push it high onto one of the shelves.
I take a deep breath. That’s it. My plan is nearly done. I head back into the bedroom, but freeze before I reach the door.
A brand-new Rolex Daytona sits on the nightstand next to the bed. I stare at it. It’s easily worth thirty-five grand. It would be so easy to just slip it into my pocket.
But I don’t. That’s the line I was thinking about. Nobody would know, especially not if my plan works out. But… I’m not a thief. I’m not a criminal. I’m a cop, and what I’m doing right now is getting justice, saving future lives.
I tear my eyes away from the watch and slip out of the bedroom. I can hear more shouting now. It’s louder, more frantic. My heart thuds heavily in my chest as I take the stairs and head back along the passage. Nearly there. Nearly out.
I turn into the dining room—
—and find myself standing face-to-face with a startled man. He’s young, barely out of his teens. Mediterranean looks, eyes wide with fear.
He raises his hands in the air. “I don’t want trouble,” he says.
“Bit late for that.”
“Seriously, I just want to leave.”
“I can’t let you do that. You step out that—”
He doesn’t let me finish. He rushes me, but it’s a clumsy attack. I step aside and grab his arm, using the kid’s own momentum to ram his face into the wall.
He drops to the floor and doesn’t move. I feel his neck. Pulse is strong. He’ll wake up with a killer headache, but that’s it.
I reach inside my jacket as I exit the house, taking out the old Beretta I confiscated from one of the drug dealers. I fire it into the air, emptying the magazine as I run toward the garden wall. Then I throw the gun aside and take the burner phone out, dialing 911.
“Hello? I can hear gunfire! 147 Plantation Boulevard. Please hurry. There are people screaming.”
I kill the call, stuff the phone into my pocket, and launch myself at the wall, hauling myself over the top. I drop to the grass and climb behind the wheel of the Cadillac, starting the engine and driving back to the alley. The street is still deserted. I grab the jerry can of gasoline I placed on the backseat and pour it over the car, then toss another match.
The Cadillac bursts into flames and I hurry to my own car. I peel the gloves and balaclava off, stuffing t
hem beneath the seat. I turn the police radio up.
“… repeat, more units needed at 147 Plantation Boulevard. Multiple suspects on site resisting arrest.”
After that, things pretty much take care of themselves. By the time I get back to Kincaid’s house, there are squad cars everywhere, red and blue flashing, wailing sirens bringing down property values.
I hang back on the periphery, letting others take the lead. It doesn’t take long before the body and the drugs are discovered.
I watch as Mason leads a cuffed Kincaid to her car. His wife watches from the front door, a kid to either side of her. Kincaid says something to Mason and she shakes her head.
He pulls away from her and runs back to his wife. He kisses her, then crouches down next to his kids, laying his forehead against theirs. First the girl, then the boy.
I look away. I don’t want to see that. Kincaid is not a father. He’s not a husband.
He’s a killer.
And this time he’s going to prison.
Five
8:15 a.m.
That was four years ago now.
Kincaid was charged with murder. The blood under Devon’s fingernails nailed him. The drugs were secondary charges, not really worth pursuing. Bit of a waste of time on my part, but I wasn’t complaining.
I’d known he was serving time at Ravenhill, but our paths had never crossed. I was in A Wing and he was in Unit 4 of Gen Pop. Don’t ask me how he managed to swing that—he should have been in ACU right from the beginning. But money talks, even in here.
He doesn’t look too different. Still has the thick gray hair swept back from his forehead.
I force a smile onto my face as he enters the cell. “How you doing, Malcolm? You look good. Lost some weight. You on a diet?”
Yup. Bravado and cockiness. My instinctive responses to everything. It’s a defense mechanism. Most cops have it. Most veterans too. Even at Amy’s funeral I’d cracked a tasteless joke when I was giving her eulogy. Something about her at least not having to kill herself now when we got stuck in the rut of middle-age life and she started hating the sight of me.
Everyone thought I’d gone crazy, but Amy would have found it funny. That was enough for me.