Random Victim

by Michael A. Black

  “They got him?” Leal asked.

  “No, a Detective Brown in Joliet says they’ve got someone using one of his credit cards.”

  “Give me his number,” Leal said, reaching for a pad and pencil.

  After he hung up he quickly dialed.

  “Detective Brown,” the voice on the other end of the line said, its deeply resonant timbre suggesting a black man.

  Leal explained who he was and about the type-threes.

  “Yeah, I read them last week,” Brown said. “Here’s what we got. One of our local hypes was charging up a storm at the mall using a Visa card belonging to Martin Walker. The card wasn’t coming back stolen, or anything, but the credit card company had some kind of security alert on it. They notified the store security, and they grabbed her and called us. She had a syringe on her, too. I remembered the name on the type-threes and thought I’d give you a call. Still interested?”

  “Am I ever,” Leal said. “My partner and I will be right out.”

  After calling Sharon and explaining that he wouldn’t be able to meet her folks for dinner, he called Hart. She answered on the first ring.

  “Hey, pretty lady, you up to doing some police work?”

  “Sure. What you got?”

  “I’ll fill you in on the way,” he said. “We gotta drive to Joliet. A break in the Walker case.”

  Hart was standing in the doorway of her apartment building when he pulled up. She was wearing dressy-looking blue jeans, a white blouse, and tan jacket. Leal had told her to dress casual and dress quickly. They took I-57 to I-80 and headed west. It was close to four when they got to Jefferson Street.

  Detective Brown met them at the front desk and shook both their hands. He was a black man, as Leal surmised, but he was a lot bigger and younger. He had the physique of someone who spent a lot of time in the weight room.

  “Connie Arpegio,” he said as he led them to the lockup area. “One of our locals. You want anything out of her you can usually get it.”

  The lockup was cinder block walls covered with blue paint. They followed Brown through a corridor with several heavy metal doors, and finally came to a narrow table.

  A twenty-something-looking girl sat on a bench talking on the phone, her dark brown hair drawn back from her face in a frizzy perm. The heavy mascara gave her eyes a stark look in comparison to her drawn cheeks.

  “Come on, Mom, it’s only a hundred fucking dollars,” she yelled into the phone. “Whaddya mean, not this time? I’ll pay you back with that check I got coming.”

  She continued her litany of profanity into the phone until the uniformed officer who’d been sitting across from her snapped his fingers and motioned for her to hang up.

  She nodded but continued to plead. He made the gesture again, and she nodded once more.

  “Come on, Mom, I gotta get off the phone. You coming, or what?” She paused, listened, and then yelled into the receiver, “Oh, Mother, you’re such a fucking bitch.” She slammed down the phone and stared up at Brown. He smiled amiably.

  “Connie, these are Detectives Leal and Hart,” he said.

  The girl’s feral eyes scanned both of them, lingering longer on Hart than Leal.

  “They’d like to talk to you about the card,” Brown said.

  “If I want to talk to somebody, it better be about getting the fuck outta here,” Connie said.

  “So you want to cooperate then?” asked Leal.

  “Fuck you, asshole,” she said. Then added, “Can I have a cigarette?”

  “Looks like she’s coming down,” Leal said, pointing to the bruises and scabs where her left forearm met the biceps.

  Brown nodded.

  “Where’d you get the card, babe?” Leal asked.

  “What card? I don’t know nothing about no card.”

  “Maybe we should let her sit all night and come back tomorrow,” Leal said.

  “We could do that,” Brown said.

  “What are you talking about?” Connie said. “You told me I could walk with a hundred.”

  Brown shrugged and smiled. “That was before I knew we were holding you for investigation.”

  “Investigation?”

  “Right, babe,” Leal said. “We got a couple of days before we even have to think about what we want to charge you with.”

  “You big pricks,” she said. “Always fucking with people. That’s what you like to do, ain’t it?”

  “We live for nothing else,” Leal said.

  Connie jumped up suddenly and before Leal could grab her, Hart moved forward and slammed the girl’s back against the wall.

  “You just be cool,” Hart said.

  “Don’t put your hands on me, bitch,” Connie said, spitting in Hart’s face.

  Hart’s fingers seized Connie’s jaw and racked her head back hard against the cinder blocks, making a plunking sound. Connie emitted what passed for a muffled scream and then sunk back down to the bench. Leal took out his handkerchief and handed it to Hart.

  “This is getting to be a habit,” she said, dabbing at her face.

  “I’ll have to buy you one of your own,” Leal said.

  “That little bit of bullshit just elevated your charges to a felony,” Brown said. “This is Will County, bitch. Battery to a police officer is something our state’s attorney takes a real dim view of.” He turned to the uniformed officer. “Go place her in a cell. I’ll call Felony Review.”

  Connie looked up at them, the heavy black lines descending from her eyes and the mucous bubbling from her nose making her face a grotesque mask.

  “You just blew your fucking chances for an I-Bond, babe,” Leal said.

  With the mention of the last words, the sobbing abruptly ceased. Connie wiped at her face, and leaned back against the wall. Brown handed her a paper towel for her nose.

  “Can I have a cigarette?” she asked. Brown nodded and the uniformed copper gave her one from his pack.

  She sucked on the cigarette so hard, Leal noticed, that he thought she’d take half of it down in one long drag.

  “Okay, what is it you wanna know?” she said with a cloudy breath.

  “The White Wolves,” Brown said, placing a heavy tan folder on the desk in front of Leal and Hart. Brown seated himself and began sorting through the papers, some of which had photographs attached.

  “They used to hang out on Collins Street, not far from the correctional center. We didn’t originally have them classified as a one-percent gang,” he said. “That is, most of the members had some kinda jobs and just met on the weekends, instead of being full-time assholes like the Hell’s Angels.”

  Leal nodded.

  “They got some hard-core leadership from this guy, though.” Brown handed them a paper with a photograph attached to it. The face staring back at them from the black-and-white mug shot was a bearded white male with a crazed Charles Manson–type look. “Raymond Griggs, aka Marauder. All these motorcycle assholes go for these crazy-ass nicknames. He tried to transform them into a real one-percent club. Got in over his head when he got into a turf war with one of the bigger, tougher established gangs. Griggs was shot to death. His lieutenant, a guy named Nick Stevens, aka Nick Smith,” he flipped a second sheet onto the table. This one showed another white guy with a slender face and longish hair. “He went to Stateville for robbery back about ten years ago at age twenty. Pulled two years, came out looking for a surrogate family and took up with the Wolves.

  “Well, him and Griggs hit it off pretty well.” Brown stopped and poured a cup of coffee from the pot behind him. He held the cup toward Hart, who smiled and took it. Then Brown did the same for Leal. He poured his own cup last.

  “There may have been some kind of homosexual bond between the two of them,” he said, tapping the photos. “They both did hard time together. When Griggs got it trying to make the Wolves into a big power gang, Stevens went down for murder. He killed the guy who iced his buddy.” Brown put another photo on the table. It was a picture of the same face as the sle
nder, long-haired boy, but this one was more mature and much more massive-looking.

  “This is one of our more recent pictures of him,” Brown said. “Calls himself Nuke.”

  “Look at his traps,” Hart said, indicating the sloping bulge on either side of the bull neck. “And his jawline. See that bloat? He’s on juice.”

  Brown nodded and smiled. “Very perceptive. He built up a real jailhouse body, all right. Did four years on the murder rap—typical, right? Then got out. Nobody’s been able to get anything on him since. A couple arrests for possession of a syringe, and PCS, but no convictions.”

  “A syringe?” Leal asked. “He a hype?”

  Brown shook his head.

  “He probably injects the steroids,” Hart said. “Less strain on the liver than taking them orally.” Leal noticed her blush as they both looked at her.

  “Can we run his ISB number and get a rap sheet?” Leal asked. “I’d like to see where he’s been arrested lately.”

  “Sure,” Brown said. “He’s had some top quality attorneys since he got out. The Wolves kind of went by the wayside after Griggs got killed and Nuke went to prison. Now our boy kinda just hangs out at a local gym, pushing steroids to the rest of the muscle heads. Real cautious, though. It’s a members-only thing.”

  Leal nodded. “Who’s the one Connie was telling us about?”

  “Him,” Brown said, dropping a third picture on the table. “Stanley Willard, one of Nuke’s little asshole buddies. There’s another young punk that hangs out, too, but we haven’t got anything on him. Only seen him a couple of times. Got something wrong with one of his eyes.” He pointed off to the side. “Wall-eyed. Calls himself Moose, or something. But Willard I know from way back. A little fucking burglar. Did a couple of stretches here and in Chicago, but never any hard time.”

  “How about the address that shows up on the printout?” Leal asked. “Think it’s current?”

  “That’s his mother’s house,” Brown said. “It’s over in the older section of the city. Connie said something about an apartment. That’s probably where the stuff is.”

  Leal skimmed the printouts. “Any idea what kind of car he drives? There’s a Ford van listed here that comes back to him.”

  “That sounds like Stanley,” Brown said. “He was always a van man. His little ass looks pretty funny bouncing around on top of one of those big Harleys.”

  Leal smiled.

  “You want me to have one of the marked units look for him and Nuke?” Brown asked. “Maybe pull ’em down on a traffic stop or something?”

  Leal considered this, then shook his head.

  “Thanks, but I don’t want to take a chance on spooking them just yet,” he said. “At least not until we get a fix on where this place actually is.”

  “Okay,” Brown said. “We’ll keep Connie on ice for you tonight. You’ll be back in the morning for her, then?”

  “Right,” Leal said. “Thanks for all the help, brother.” He extended his hand toward Brown, who shook it. “Oh, by the way, I forgot to ask you. What’s Stanley’s street name?”

  Brown smiled broadly.

  “It’s Snake,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Clockwork

  God, he looks hungover, Leal thought the next morning as he briefed Ryan on the new developments and the interrogation of Connie. Ryan sat, his left hand supporting his head, occasionally sipping from his coffee cup and massaging his temples. Murphy, Ryan told them at the start of the meeting, had been handpicked by Brice to replace Smith, who was now on vacation.

  Man, I’m gonna miss Joe, Leal thought as he shook hands with Murphy. But with a new baby he won’t feel like working long hours of surveillance, either. The bags under Murphy’s eyes rivaled Ryan’s, and his color seemed to darken as Leal explained how the case had developed over the weekend.

  “We’re gonna pick her up this morning,” Leal said. “Brown will arrange an I-Bond for the hypo charge. Then we’ll sign a complaint on her for the credit card.”

  “But them cards ain’t even been reported stolen yet, have they?” Murphy asked.

  “It doesn’t matter at this point,” Leal said. “We’ll sign for receiving the card of another. That’ll keep her on ice tonight in the Will County jail.”

  “Will County?” Murphy said.

  “Technically,” Hart said, “she has to be brought before a judge in the county where she’s arrested.”

  “Yeah, I know that,” Murphy said, his head bobbling angrily. “Just seems that we ain’t doing much as a team, that’s all.”

  “All right,” Leal said. “She’s agreed to show us the apartment building where the stuff’s at if we get her into a drug treatment program. We’re going to take her for some methadone this morning. I know somebody at a clinic in Joliet. When we get the address, we sit on it until the warrant comes through.”

  “This is the boyfriend’s place?” Ryan asked. “The guy who gave her the card?”

  “Actually, he didn’t give it to her,” Hart said. “They partied hard for a couple of days with some heroin and coke that Stanley had. It seems his nose is falling apart fast, and he’s just started mainlining. She was teaching him.”

  “Nice girl,” Ryan said, taking out one of his cigarettes.

  “Maybe we can get her cleaned up in time for the Miss America Pageant,” Murphy said. He took out a cigar and motioned for Ryan’s lighter.

  “How about holding up on the smokes, guys?” Leal said. They both stared at him, but didn’t light up. “Anyway, after a few days of sex, drugs, and rock and roll she lifted the card and decided to go shopping. She played it pretty smart, telling people she was Martin Walker’s daughter, and just buying stuff she could fence real easy. Jewelry, sheets, CDs.”

  “So she could buy more shit,” Ryan said. He stuck the unlit cigarette between his lips.

  “Then she tried to get some cash refunds on some of the stuff she bought,” Hart said. “That’s when the store security checked with the credit card company and saw the alert.”

  “And the rest is history,” Ryan said. “So where’s this taking us?”

  “She gives us the apartment where Snake stashed the stuff,” Leal said, “and they give her an I-Bond tomorrow and take her to the drug rehab place.”

  “Christ,” Ryan said. “I hate working with hypes. What if she tips the fucker off we’re coming?”

  Leal shook his head. “After we get her the methadone and she shows us the house, Brown will keep her for us.”

  “She’ll probably just sleep all day anyway,” Hart said.

  “Just so she doesn’t make any calls to shithead,” Ryan said. “What’s he supposedly got?”

  “The DVD/VCR definitely,” Leal said. “They used it to watch porno flicks. We’ll have to make the warrant nonspecific, though.”

  “Too bad we missed the party,” Ryan said. “So we get this guy Willard—Snake to his friends and lovers—and maybe we get the connection between him and Walker, huh? Maybe he’s one of Walker’s boys.”

  “Or his supplier,” Leal said. “Anyway, once we get him we find out the connection. I think these wannabe motorcycle gangsters are involved somehow.”

  “Sounds like you’re kinda stretching it,” Murphy said.

  Leal just shot him an angry look. If I can get through the rest of this investigation without punching this fat fucker’s lights out, I’ll be happy.

  “Okay,” Ryan said, standing. “One step at a time, okay? You guys go out there and take care of business. Murphy, go in with a second car. I’ll get with the state’s attorney. As soon as you got the address, call me and I’ll set up the warrant. You guys can sit on the apartment until it comes through.”

  Leal nodded and handed Ryan copies of Connie’s statement and the report.

  “I want to make sure Snake’s in there when we hit it,” he said.

  Ryan nodded, looking over the paperwork. “You got a picture of this bitch?”

  Leal handed him a P
olaroid mug shot.

  “Jesus Christ,” Ryan said. “Talk about coyote ugly. That’s where you wake up next to her in the morning and have to gnaw your arm off to get out of the bed.”

  Murphy guffawed with a heavy chuckle.

  Those two fit together like a perverse Laurel and Hardy, Leal thought.

  “I’d better touch bases with Brice on this, too,” Ryan said. “He took a personal day today, so I’ll beep him. At a reasonable hour, of course.”

  “Get started on the warrant first,” Leal said. “I don’t want to lose the momentum on this.”

  “Roger that, Franko,” Ryan said, with a grin and a salute. “Just get me the address and I’ll start the ball rolling.”

  It went like clockwork once they got back to Joliet. Connie was “enrolled” in the drug counseling program, thanks to Leal’s connection, a middle-aged Hispanic woman named Maria. She and Leal talked in Spanish for a good five minutes before she turned to Connie and greeted her with a cordial firmness.

  “How have you been, Connie?”

  The girl mumbled something unintelligible, her gaze on the floor.

  “So are you ready to reinstate yourself?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All right, I’ll set up your counseling sessions and support group,” Maria said.

  “I don’t have to go through that shit again, do I?”

  “You know the rules. Either you agree, or it’s no deal.” Leal watched as Maria met the girl’s insolent-looking stare. “I’m already stretching things by letting you bypass our waiting list.”

  “Okay, okay, for Christ’s sake,” Connie said. “I’ll do whatever the fuck you say. Now can I please just have my medicine?”

  Maria exhaled, then took out a book and a set of keys. After making a few notations in the ledger, she left the room. When she returned she had a small plastic vial filled with a pink liquid.

  “Cisco,” she said. “Lo quieres?”

  “Sí,” Leal said, taking the vial. Then to Connie, “I’ll just hold on to this for now, babe.”

  They ignored her pleading protests as they escorted her back to the squad car. Murphy was sitting behind the wheel of his car, smoking.

  “Can the cigar and get in with us,” Leal said, directing him to the front passenger seat. Hart opened the back door for Connie, whose eyes stayed on the vial as Leal stuck it by the windshield.