Black Water Transit

by Carsten Stroud

  “Ida May.”

  “What?”

  Captain Frick turned and walked away, stopped short, looked back. “I said Ida May. Ida May Barbaree. She works at the Wal-Mart down the road. Come take a look at this mess. No consideration. Private property too.”

  They followed Captain Frick’s wiry little frame as he strut-walked across the parking area like a rooster with a blister until they reached a section at the rear, cordoned off, guarded by three uniformed state troopers and a Hazleton cop. All four cops straightened up as Frick came boot-thumping across the floor.

  “All right, boys. We got the NY-damned-PD here for a goggle. Go ahead, you three. Enjoy.”

  He stepped away, and they walked up to the yellow crime scene ribbon, stopped there. Three bodies lay inside the ribbon, stiffened in death, blood pooling in dry green paint. The smell of sewage and turpentine was stifling. The heat still in the day wasn’t helping. The wounds were massive, the scene a butcher’s nightmare.

  “Holy Mother of God,” said Nicky.

  “Don’t blaspheme, boy,” said Frick. “We ID’d them. One in the Penn State jacket is Jason Bulger. Useless little shit, got a juvie sheet longer than my … sorry, ma’am. Big kid there, on his side, skull whacked in and the big hole where his face used to be, he’s Ratko Krukovac. Another waste of space. Looks better now. And the sorry-looking bastard with the surprised expression on his face is Dylan Currie, who is, as we like to say, known to the police. A drug-dealing asshole. He got two in the forehead and it has improved him greatly.”

  Frick stopped to light up a short nasty-looking cigar and push his hat backward. He spat out a shred of tobacco and chuckled.

  “All three got serious whup-ass before they got their nine-millimeter therapy. Guess they picked a fight with the wrong guy this time. Only a dumb little shit like Jason Bulger would be stupid enough to take a piece of rebar to a gunfight.”

  Dexter looked at Casey, whose face was gray with shock.

  “Christ. Jack Vermillion wouldn’t do this,” he said.

  “Heck he wouldn’t,” said Frick. “Ask Ida May Barbaree.”

  There was a sudden massive roaring howl that settled into a steady thundering beat. Dust flew in the grating and whirled across the floor. Frick went straight up into the air, bellowing in solid brass.

  “Goddamn those people. Henry!”

  One of the state troopers jerked upright again.

  “Get down there, see if that’s those fools from the ATF. If they’re landing on the roof here, you have my permission to shoot them all. Now scat!”

  Henry scatted. Dexter tried to stay on topic while the chopper noise buffeted and slammed the air and the dust clouds choked them all. In less than thirty seconds they were lost in a cloud of drifting dust. Frick was a ghostly figure in front of them.

  “There goes the crime scene,” he said. “Damned idiots.”

  Frick kicked at a paint can nearby.

  “Two of these was bought at the Wal-Mart down the road. Any damn fool could see they was a clue. I went over there myself, talked to the people. Ida May Barbaree sold this paint to a guy, answers the description of your Jack Vermillion pecker-head. Ida May says he had words with Jason Bulger over there. Way I figure it, Bulger followed the man back here, brought some friends to help, maybe looking for that reward money, and they got more than they was expecting.”

  They heard the sounds of angry voices echoing in the ramp and the shuffle-stamp of boots. Henry, the state trooper, reappeared at the top of the ramp with five people hard on his heels, a slender black-haired woman in a black jumpsuit in the lead, four ATF men in field gear shuffling up in her wake. Casey recognized Valeriana Greco from the CNN news brief that morning. Dexter Zarnas was busy trying not to recognize Derry Flynn, a slope-shouldered gray-haired man with deep creases around his brown eyes, a blunt harness-bull face, standing apart from Greco and watching her in action. She came right up to Frick, ignoring the three people standing beside him.

  “Captain Frick, Greco, U.S. attorney. Who are these people?”

  “Lady,” said Frick, “don’t you come sharp with me in front of my own troopers. I told you damn idiots not to come swooping in here on your whirlybird. Look what you done to my crime scene.”

  Greco looked as if he’d slapped her, but she came right back at him, her voice raspy, her face bright with battle.

  “Captain Frick, this is a federal investigation. This is not your crime scene. This is my crime scene. I can take control of any jurisdiction I damn well please. I am doing that now. Any interference in a federal investigation will result in strong disciplinary action. Do I make myself clear, Captain?”

  Nicky, Dexter, and Casey, who had gained some insight into the captain, braced themselves. They were not disappointed.

  “Henry!”

  His bark made them all jump. Henry scrambled around the fringe and came up to stand beside Frick.

  “Henry, you’re my witness. Young woman, until the governor of this great state advises me that I am no longer in charge of this investigation—which, I take no pleasure in advising you, miss, is how the statute actually reads in Pennsylvania—I will conduct this investigation as I see fit. Now you and your whirlybird pals have scattered my crime scene to the four winds, and although we are recent acquaintances, miss, I find you a most abrupt and unpleasant person and Henry here—stand up straight, Henry!—is going to assist you as you all delocate my area of operations. Now.”

  Greco looked from one face to another and Casey expected her to go off like a pipe bomb. But she just froze solid, turned on a heel, and walked away. Three of the ATF escort shuffled their feet, looked at each other, and then followed her down the ramp. Derry Flynn stayed behind and a huge grin spread across his grizzled face.

  “Captain Frick, I’ve been waiting for days for someone to do that. It was a pleasure to watch.”

  Frick didn’t bend.

  “Why are you still here?”

  Dexter spoke up for Flynn.

  “Captain, Agent Flynn here is a good man. We’re sorry for the … jurisdictional disputes. This is your crime scene. Can we just get a little information from you?”

  “You can tell me what the devil all this is about.”

  Dexter nodded to Casey, who sketched out the background of the investigation, the Red Hook shootings, their suspicions about Earl Pike, their belief that Jack Vermillion couldn’t be responsible for this level of violence. Frick took it all in but he was shaking his little round skull before Casey finished speaking.

  “Don’t know this Pike fellow. But it was Vermillion did this. Got him on a video. He walks into the Wal-Mart big as life, stops and looks up at the camera like he was admiring himself. Had them print me a still. See for yourself.”

  Frick extracted a rumpled sheet from an inside pocket, unfolded it, smoothed it out on his chest, handed it to Nicky. The image was black-and-white but clear, a big rangy man in jeans and boots, a white T-shirt, big cowboy mustache, long hair combed right back. His face in the photo was hard, worn-down, and bleak, his eyes hidden in darkness. He looked dangerous as hell. Nicky handed the shot to Dexter, who stared at it.

  “This still doesn’t prove that Vermillion did … this.”

  Frick tapped the picture. “See them boots?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nice pair of tan boots.”

  “Yes.”

  “Found them at the bottom of a construction tube. Right over there. Even got the same stitching.”

  “But …”

  “Son, you’re a cop. You got to follow where the trail goes.”

  Dexter shook his head. “Even that doesn’t …”

  Frick shook his head sadly, walked over to a plastic storage box, popped the lid, lifted out a big plastic bag with a pair of tan leather boots inside. He brought it back over to Dexter.

  “What’s that on these boots, son?”

  “Green paint.”

  “Yep. And …?”

  “And blood.�
�

  “And blood. That nail it down a bit, son?”

  “Yes sir,” said Dexter. “It does.”

  SATURDAY, JUNE 24

  BLUE MOUNTAINS BAR AND GRILL

  SAINT JOHN’S, PENNSYLVANIA

  2145 HOURS

  They got away from Hazleton about an hour later, after Dexter had stopped to talk with Pepper the state trooper, keeping a promise to fill her in. He was glad he had; she turned out to be Captain Billy’s niece. Then they drove north on 81 until they reached the intersection of Interstate 80.

  Casey stopped at the entrance to the Ramada to call her mother. Nicky and Dexter went into the bar. Derry Flynn was waiting for them, alone. They filed into the booth and sat back. Derry Flynn was shaking his head slowly before they got settled.

  “Damn, you two are a sorry-looking lot. Que pasa?”

  “I blew it,” said Dexter. “I called this whole thing wrong.”

  Derry Flynn raised a hand, got the waitress over, ordered something called a bucket o’ brewskies. It took two waitresses to haul it to the table. Nicky slapped a brand-new box of Marlboros on the table and fumbled for a lighter. Casey came into the bar as they were cracking open the first cold bottles. She peeled the pack and slipped one out, waited while Nicky lit hers and then his own, and Dexter watched this ceremony with a yellow glitter of flame in his deep brown eyes. He grinned at Casey, shook his finger.

  “Casey, you fraternizing with this horrid little trooper?”

  Casey, to her surprise, managed a blush.

  Nicky looked a bit puffed out and then he laughed too.

  “Casey’s slumming. It amuses her. How’s your mom, Casey?”

  “She’s okay. Somebody called her just now, asking for me.”

  “Yeah? Who?”

  “A guy. Deep voice. She didn’t get a name. She said he sounded sexy. He asked where I was.”

  “She tell him?”

  “Yeah. She’s … a little under the weather, Nicky.”

  Nicky understood that. It worried him.

  “You have call display?”

  “Yeah. She can’t work it. Don’t worry. Probably a bill collector. I’ll check the call list when I get home. Forget about it. Agent Flynn, nice to see you. Thanks for coming.”

  Nicky looked at her face. She was worried. He could see that. Very worried. He opened his mouth to say something to her, but she shook her head and gave him a not-now look. He shut up. Derry Flynn took a long swallow, set the glass down hard.

  “What is it you people wanted, anyway? I thought you were all fired up about Earl Pike. Why the interest in Jack Vermillion?”

  “They’re connected,” said Nicky, and told Flynn the basic story, all the way from the double homicide at Blue Stores through the Red Hook disaster. Earl Pike was the link, the consistent thread throughout the case. And Pike led straight to Jack Vermillion. You couldn’t separate them. Flynn listened with his eyes on the tabletop. When Nicky wrapped it up, he studied them, clearly making a decision.

  “You know anything about Earl Pike?”

  “We know about CCS,” said Casey. “And we’ve met him.”

  “Have you? Well, then. You can see he’s a handful. I got my theory about what’s going on here, but I can’t get Greco to pay any attention. She’s got Vermillion on the brain. What did you people make of that mess back in Hazleton?”

  Dexter’s face darkened slightly.

  Nicky answered for him.

  “We were working on the theory that Jack Vermillion wasn’t a hard guy. That he was basically straight. We were wrong.”

  Flynn nodded.

  “Captain Frick made the wounds as nine-mills, right? And we figure Vermillion is carrying Deputy Callahan’s piece. That was a Glock nine-mill. So yeah, I figure he did the thing. But killing three scum-sacks isn’t the same as shooting two guards in cold blood.”

  “You figure the captain was right? About the reward?”

  “Why else would they tangle with him?”

  Casey shook her head.

  “We all looked at the bodies. Each one of them was already down. The fight was over. He didn’t just kill those kids. He executed them. If he could do that, he could do anything. I think Greco’s right about him. If it quacks like a duck, it’s a duck, right?”

  Flynn didn’t buy it.

  “Do you people know anything about Vermillion? About the case against him?”

  Dexter shook his head.

  “Not much. Our target here is Pike. We know this Greco number, she’s been on TV, she’s painting a picture of a bent guy with Mafia connections, running stolen cars, drug money. Now also a stone killer. I’d say that makes him a bad guy.”

  “It’s not as simple as that,” said Flynn.

  “Never is,” said Nicky. “Fill us in, then.”

  Derry Flynn sketched out the basic case against Vermillion, the Red Hook connection, the transfer deal for Danny Vermillion, the link with Earl Pike, what had been found in the container, the stolen cars, the cocaine-tainted cash. The three NYPD cops listened quietly, but nothing they heard outweighed what they had seen back in that garage. When Flynn had wrapped it up, Dexter spoke for all of them.

  “A guy who could do what we just saw could do anything.”

  Flynn didn’t back down.

  “I’m just not convinced Vermillion’s as dirty as Greco wants him to be. There’s no proof that his transport company is mob-connected. He grew up with some mob guys. So what? He had a good reputation in Albany, fought hard for his workers, treated them right. Even the Teamsters couldn’t break his shop floor. Now everything he had is gone, snapped up by Greco under the RICO laws. People have limits. You take a basically solid guy, businessman, do him like Greco’s doing him, sooner or later he’s gonna get cranky. Okay, cranky is not the word. This guy’s life has just been ripped up, everything he ever had taken away. Maybe he deserves it. The stuff we found is hard to explain. But a murderer? I don’t know about those guards. I talked to the witness up there. She didn’t actually see Vermillion shooting anyone. She heard two shots, real close together, then the female guard comes out of a phone booth, goes pounding back to the washrooms. She hears the guard screaming, ‘Drop your weapons.’ Get it? Like she was talking to two people. Then three more shots. Then she hears a man say something like ‘Never look away.’ ”

  “So Vermillion was saying something to the guard. After he shot her. That’s what the waitress heard. Vermillion’s voice.”

  “No. She took Vermillion’s order, a Grand Slam breakfast. She says this voice was softer, deeper, and had a sort of a western drawl to it. Vermillion’s voice is real New York. He grew up in Queens.”

  “This is a very good witness,” said Dexter.

  “Oh yes. Smart kid, Annie. She wants to be a criminologist.”

  “Pike has a western drawl,” said Nicky.

  “So I’m told. Also, the rounds we got out of the guards, none of them was from a Glock, and that’s all the guards were carrying. They were killed with a big Smith. Whose Smith? Not Vermillion’s. He’s a prisoner, and the marshals would have shaken him down thoroughly. So who brought the Smith? Earl Pike owns three, according to the register. Greco doesn’t like that information one bit. She says it’s all guesswork. Something else. Somebody threw up all over the shooting scene. We figure it was Vermillion. Try to imagine a kind of Grand Slam in reverse. Better yet, don’t. But it tells me that, whatever happened there, it got to him. Got to him so much he vomited. That’s not what you call cold-blooded. If Jack Vermillion’s a killer, then he’s a hot-blooded killer. About the van, I wouldn’t worry too much. Let’s just say we’re on it. He’ll turn up.”

  “You’re on it?” said Nicky. “How?”

  “I just mean we have assets, resources. We’ll find him.”

  “Something I don’t get,” said Casey. “Pike’s the best bet for the shooter at Red Hook. But Greco’s been all over Vermillion, and I don’t see you people doing much about finding Earl Pike. Why?”
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br />   “One thing, there’s not even a warrant out for him. Vermillion gives us the original heads-up on Pike. We do the sting at Red Hook, you were there. What’s the word?”

  “Fubar,” said Casey.

  Derry nodded in appreciation.

  “Exactly. Fucked up beyond all recognition. Everybody got shot to shit. Smoke clears, I lost good friends. Lee Ford. Luther Campbell’s hanging on by a thread. Farrell Garber, one of our snipers. Bunny Kreuger. So we crack open Pike’s box. What do we find? Antique weapons, Winchesters, Sharps, a lot of swords, flags, medals, militaria, that kind of thing. All of it connected to his family in some way. Went back two hundred years. Most of it was nothing we’d care about, but there were some pieces, full-auto stuff, M-sixteens, a couple Garands, some M-fourteens—Vietnam-era—a Stoner, an M-sixty—also full auto, takes a seven-point-six-two round—they had them in Vietnam too—and all this stuff, it’s now banned under the Brady laws. So there’s a lot of technical violations, but seeing as how Pike’s a decorated soldier, connected all over DC, known inside the Beltway, the usual course would be to work out a fine, let him off with a reprimand. No headlines in that for La Greco, see?”

  “Would he get anything back?”

  “No. It’s all marked for destruction. Of course, some of our guys will get a chance to pick through it. It’s a perk, sort of. We call it ‘extracted from source for training purposes.’ The rest will get sold off or sent to the crusher. Proceeds will go to DOJ revenue.”

  “So still no warrant?”

  Derry shook his head.

  “What have we got? Sure, I like him for the shooting at Red Hook, but I have zero proof. We found the sniper location. Not a single shell casing, no boot marks, no used cigarettes, no candy wrappers. Some abrasions on a railing that looked like bipod marks. Since nobody heard anything, we figure the weapon was sound-suppressed. In short, we have dick on the guy. He’s too sharp.”

  “We have something,” said Casey. “We have DNA.”

  “How the hell did you do that?” asked Flynn, his eyes wide.

  Nicky explained the injury on Pike’s hand, the connection to the double homicide in Blue Stores. Flynn liked it very much.