by Rick Murcer
“Ex-military?” asked Josh.
Manny shrugged. “Maybe. But there are plenty of good shooters who never had formal training. There are a couple of other things that might zero in on that possibility, however.”
“Like what?” asked Barb.
Sophie pointed to the desk. “Underneath the desk, located on the wide panel facing where we’re standing, are two small panels that can only be opened from behind and underneath the desk. It’s crude, but I think it worked as a form of camouflage designed to keep one of the shooters concealed until the time was right and also a way to shoot from more than one angle.”
“Or maybe even if it was necessary to start shooting. Sort of a security measure,” said Manny. “But I get the impression that these two meant to kill this group from the beginning.”
“Why?” asked Josh.
“I think whatever was going on here, whatever deal was being made, the killers wanted no loose ends. Whoever these victims really were, including the cop’s husband, I’m betting they weren’t here selling Girl Scout cookies. The fewer people who knew what was going on, the better. The perps who shot these people were damn good with a gun, a handgun to boot, and loaded with reasons not to let anyone leave with knowledge of what went down.”
Braxton released a long exhale. “Dis is feelin’ worse all da time. Someting is shitty here. We need to know dese people and why dey came to dis place.”
Alex’s voice rattled through their earpieces. “I can answer the ‘who’ for five of these people, including the cop’s husband, so far. That is if Josh thinks it’s time. We’re still working on the last one, the woman. I gotta tell you, based on their profiles and arrest records, they weren’t going to get any presents from Santa this year or until hell freezes over.”
“Fire away,” said Josh. “It can only help now that I’ve heard the latest theory.”
“I will. The three big men had a history of working as hired muscle for various people and organizations. Two were from Germany originally, Klaus Richter and David Feighner. They became American citizens when they were children after their families relocated to Baton Rouge.
“Amy Brooks’s husband, Daryl, and the other one, Robert Donald, were American born and raised. None of them were military, but each of them, except Daryl, had some association with organized crime on their records, at least on local levels. Three of the four were arrested for assault at least twice and did time for it more than once. Daryl Brooks was the exception, only going to the pen a single time.”
There was a pause, then Alex continued. “Nothing really new there for these kinds of people, and I won’t bore you with the other particulars. Here’s what I want to tell you though.
“They were all at the Louisiana State Penitentiary in Angola at the same time and were released within months of each other. That was about six years ago. But what’s really interesting is that all of them sort of dropped off the grid after their release, except Brooks. He married the New Orleans cop a year later and, by all appearances, tried to lead a normal life.”
Manny’s mind was running a mile a minute with the new info. But he kept the festival of questions at bay for the moment because he really needed what was coming next.
“Who’s the other man?” he asked.
“Yeah, this guy is a piece of work. His name is Gerhardt Wanger, also German born. We don’t have any DNA or anything in IFAIS for him but the facial recognition brought him up at ninety-six percent likely. This kind of thing fits his profile to a tee, to boot.”
“He’s had several aliases, but Wanger’s his real name. Like the other two German nationals, he and his family, eight strong, came to the US when he was a kid and settled in the New Orleans area.
“Average kid with average life, though his IQ was high. His dad worked the boats and apparently his mother stayed home and took care of the kids. Not much on him after he graduated from high school, but over the last ten years, his list of suspected activities is long, yet he had no convictions. He’s been as slippery as a snake.”
“Like what activities?” asked Manny.
“Glad you asked. He’s been involved in illegal interests since he was hatched, it seems. His biggest and most profitable mode of business is, er, was, weapons dealing. INTERPOL, DEA, ATF, and our own terrorist units knew of him but could never quite put him away.”
“Damn, I hate guys like that,” said Sophie.
“And there’s more of them out there than you think,” said Barb, shifting her feet.
“Then about five years ago, he fell completely off the map until today. Weird. These people don’t just retire. But they do reinvent themselves from time to time.”
Scanning the warehouse room, Manny was struck with something that this whole scene reeked of but wasn’t evident until he looked back toward the desk and began moving that way.
“Alex. What sort of weapons? Does the file say anything about that?”
There was a brief silence then the earphone came alive.
“Not really. He was thought to have sold a shipment of around a hundred AKs stolen from a gun dealer in Kentucky and there are . . . whoa!”
“What?” said Manny.
“Here’s one report that he was suspected of trying to move some modified mustard gas to a radical supremacist group in Wisconsin, but the ATF could never put a finger on him or the intended customers or the meeting place. Another one having to do with liquid explosives. Then the really scary report that says he was a suspect in a stolen cache of sarin from the CDC. But—”
“The nerve gas? Damn. Let me guess, they couldn’t pin it on him,” said Sophie.
“That’s right. They couldn’t even find him alone talk to him, until yesterday, that is.”
“So this guy might have been dealing in some kind of chemical weapon?” asked Josh, his voice growing low.
Reaching the desk without responding, Manny studied the surface for a few seconds, then stepped back, running his hand through his hair. His pulse began to race as the whole reason for this meeting came to him in a heated rush; the telltale movie that his gift revealed inside his head was almost as vivid as the floor on which he stood.
“What are you staring at, Manny?” asked Sophie.
Manny looked back down at the desk and motioned for the others to come to him.
Once they’d gathered, he showed them the vague outline of a wide side of a ribbed metal briefcase nestled in the thin layer of dust on the desk’s surface.
“Dat impression looks like da design of those metal cases we used to transport drugs and udder bad shit wit. And it ain’t big enough for a box of AKs,” said Braxton in a near whisper.
“No, it’s not. Not at all. It could be that six bodies are the least of our worries,” Manny said quietly.
CHAPTER-11
Amy Brooks frowned, the way people do when they are trying to sort out the implacable facts from the unfathomable emotions to the real-life circumstances that, for the very near future, rule their lives. Not even the beautiful New Orleans sunrise could mitigate her anxiety.
Daryl was dead.
Her husband of five years, her friend, her lover, and her confidant was now on to the great mystery beyond this life, leaving her heart in an emotional lurch.
While it was true they hadn’t exactly been on the same page over the last month or so, the situation was a far cry from divorce and an ocean away from wanting him dead.
Two oceans.
The fragrance of the red azaleas drew her down from the stoop; and she inhaled it gratefully. Stealing beauty from the realm of nature was always an appreciated reprieve, no matter how short the duration.
And there was more of that damned dread coming, wasn’t there?
She’d known about Daryl’s time in Angola. Of course. He’d been totally upfront on their first date. He’d explained how he ended up there in that shithole of a prison.
How the bar fight hadn’t been his fault. How he’d been on the wagon and only came in to the bar a
nd grill for its famous Southern-fried chicken dinner. He’d told her how the drunk cop had hit his own wife after blaming her for him falling on his ass. How Daryl had stood up to protect her and had been attacked. That he’d hit the cop, and the blue boy had bounced his ugly face off the floor, leaving blood and tissue in a large, scarlet pool.
Unfortunately for Darryl, the judge saw it the cop’s way, and since Daryl had been arrested some ten years prior for a different kind of fight outside the Aloft hotel in downtown New Orleans, the justice saw fit to teach Daryl a lesson. A year later he was out of the Louisiana State Pen. All for being a good boy. But his visit had changed how he looked at life, mostly in a good way. Mostly.
She wouldn’t have bothered checking out his story if he hadn’t been, well, so damn charming, good looking, bright, and built like Hercules.
Amy crossed her arms again.
He’d told the truth, and she’d allowed herself to fall hopelessly in love with Daryl Brooks. They were married about six months after that and had been relatively happy. Until now.
The tears wanted to make another grand entrance but they stayed away this time. She didn’t know how many she had left after soaking her pillow in a sleepless night.
The stay of relief from tears was good for now. Phil was on the way to pick her up and take her to headquarters for meetings with Internal Affairs, her captain, and whoever else wanted to take a shot at her, and Daryl.
Not to mention, the CSU would be out to the house when she was away to do what they do, including the complete implementation of new cyber procedures designed to catch child-porn scum, illegal financial hacking, and terrorists in the act of communicating via computer.
Good God. She’d never dreamed any of those situations might affect her or her husband. Yet here it was.
It was hard to ignore the fact that he had been found shot dead with five others in a warehouse, where she was pretty sure they weren’t up to anything legal. She didn’t know details yet, but she was a detective, for crying out loud. Besides, obvious was obvious.
But why? Why had Daryl been there? Why had he been with those people? Who were they? Important questions, but not as important as the one burning in her soul.
Why had he risked it, taken the chance on not growing old together? What was she going to do?
Love was still love no matter what temporary bump in the road people were navigating.
She shook her head again, positive that dying hadn’t been on his agenda either.
Yeah, but your pain is over; mine isn’t.
Pondering that truth, she wondered if the Bible was right and that everyone had a chance to have Jesus wipe their tears away. She found some comfort in that idea and hoped so, because those rivulets of saline were going to do a return tour.
Not now, maybe not tomorrow, but they would return, as sure as Louisiana was hot.
Exhaling, she tried to clear her mind and prepare for the long day ahead. Cop-mode wasn’t always a bad place to retreat to, and that precarious sanctuary was where she wanted to go. Now. Thinking about the logistics of any crime was always better than dwelling on the victims, especially this one.
Reaching up with both hands, she placed her hair behind her ears and walked toward the street in anticipation of Phil’s arrival. As she did, she noticed a smallish woman with long, blond hair walking in her direction. She’d appeared out of nowhere.
Amy watched the blonde as she strode up the street directly at her. She wasn’t walking on the sidewalk, like most people do, but on the road itself, hugging the curb, her eyes riveted on Amy.
Grief and pain can dull the senses—she knew that—but she was a cop. It only took her a split second to realize this woman was a predator, a dedicated hunter, and for some unknown reason, Amy was the prey.
She reached for her service weapon at her right hip, feeling her fingers wrap around the warm grip.
She was a fraction too late. The imp of a woman had already raised her own weapon, leveling it at her with an eerie quickness.
Diving to the ground, Amy heard the first shot come so close to her head that she swore she felt the heat of the bullet. She had no time to dwell on how good a shot the woman must be, almost hitting a moving target like that.
The second shot convinced her of the woman’s ability. The bullet slammed into her shoulder, creating the blinding pain she’d only heard about.
She screamed.
The sudden sensation of warm blood running underneath her blouse was an unexpected and sobering rush; pain be damned, she hated how it felt rushing down her shoulder.
And the damn blouse was brand new.
What the hell is going on here? Why is this woman shooting at me?
In her semi-shocked state, she found herself oddly thinking how rude it was to take shots at someone on such a pretty morning.
The temporary shock gave way to the moment. The mingling of painful and fearful sensations cleared her head. That and the desire to survive sent waves of adrenaline surging through her body.
Somehow, she raised her Sig Sauer 226 and fired in the direction of her assailant. She fired again. She fired a third time, not really seeing, but counting on her heightened sense of direction . . . or her desperation. She thought she heard a moan, but it could have been her after she’d bit her lip.
Another round slammed into the ground close to her face. The gritty Louisiana dirt sprayed into her eyes like it had come from a desert sandstorm, causing her to yelp in agony.
The next one soared over her head. Barely. Amy tried to raise her weapon a second time, but the pain in her shoulder revealed a mote of stars. The gun dropped to the ground, a foot from her hand.
This is it, woman. It’s been fun. I’ll see Daryl sooner than I thought I would.
She steeled herself for the inevitable.
The sudden roar of an engine and the subsequent squeal of rubber skidding along the concrete to her left invaded her senses. It might have been the most wonderful thing her ears had ever heard.
Phil.
The car door slammed open, and she heard her partner yell for the woman to stop. He repeated himself, this time with more conviction. There came a quick report of gunfire from Phil’s direction, followed quickly by a second. Then came a quick two-shot answer from the woman’s direction and the sound of bullets hitting metal. Phil swore. Then silence.
Gathering all of her strength, doing her best to ignore the pain in her shoulder, she managed to struggle to a sitting position, expecting to see the woman hovering over her with a gun pointed at her head. But that wasn’t what she saw. Instead, she caught a glimpse of her attacker running toward the corner and then onto the next cross street, before disappearing.
Relief flooded her emotions. She wasn’t going to die this morning after all.
“Amy! Amy! Shit. You be all right, girl?”
Phil was down on one knee, his hand on her back, his other holding her arm.
“I-I think so. Other than having a hole in my shoulder.”
“What the hell was that?” he asked.
“I don’t rightly know.”
Amy Brooks’s world swirled from light to gray to black, and she felt herself fall into Phil’s arms, embracing that darkness.
CHAPTER-12
“Do you really think that a possible imprint of a briefcase on the desk means this Wanger asshole sold his buyer chemical agents?” asked Barb, her arms folded in what was now becoming a familiar pose. “I mean, that’s a hell of a leap, Manny. Even for you.”
Tilting his head toward Barb, he ran his deductions through his mind for about the millionth time, then answered her. “Yes, I do. Especially in light of the two imprints in the dust of cases showing up near Wanger’s body. I’d bet those were money cases, or maybe even diamonds.”
“Okay. That makes some sense. But tell me how, because this could be as simple as a drug deal gone south or some other illegal contraband worth a few dollars.”
“That’s a fair statement. Let me explai
n.”
Sophie laughed, looking at Barb. “Just remember, you asked for it.”
“I’ll make it quick,” said Manny.
“You’d better. If you’re right, this could get ugly fast,” said Josh.
“Listen. If it had been a gun deal or a drug deal or even something less serious than contraband, three things would have been different about this scene, besides the fact that there were three bags carrying something here.”
He exhaled, sending the musty air away from him.
“One. There wouldn’t have been six people here for something like that. I believe Wanger and his people had kept as low a profile as possible. Like Alex said, nothing for around five years on him. If anyone had spotted six people, far more visible than one or two, leaving a deserted warehouse, that may have led to a phone call to the police or, at the very minimum, cause the six to be remembered. That part is risky.”
“I’ll buy dat,” said Braxton.
“Secondly. I’ve never seen drug dealers, gun buyers, or any part of an organized-crime group shoot like this. Never. Those scenes are typically riddled with bullet holes and shot damage that end up nowhere near the intended target. The expert marksmanship alone forces us to think in a different direction.”
“You’re making good points as usual,” said Josh, “but don’t you think there’s at least a chance these killings were ‘wrong place at the right time’? I mean, come on, Manny, these people were glorified thugs.”
Manny shook his head. “No, I don’t. These killers have a pointed logic. A very specific purpose. They are extremely specialized in their approach to, I’d say, everything. Details. Details. Details. The car they drive, the clothes they wear, maybe even the way they look, to an extent, is very normal and ordinary. I absolutely believe there was never going to be any chance of a loose tongue or unraveled end with these people.
“The minute Wanger said yes to this deal, he and his minions were going to die. That tells me the people who killed the six are careful and aggressive, willing to do whatever it takes to protect their one mission.”