by Scott Gamboe
"Like what?"
"These mob bastards only understand one thing: violence. Let's give it back to them."
Jim shook his head. "No, Matt, I won't stoop to their level. We'll do this the right way. I'll throw every member of that family in jail if I have to, down to their fourth cousins."
Matt let out an explosive breath, dropping his shoulders as he nodded. "Okay, have it your way. But we need to do some serious planning. These guys have taken off the kid gloves. The time may come when we have to do something more drastic."
#
The small refrigerator beneath Jim's desk opened to reveal several energy drinks. Jim selected one of the larger cans, cracked open the top, and took a long drink. He cast an appraising eye at his ballistic vest propped against the wall. He had thought he was done wearing the bulky protector once he left patrol, but that illusion had rapidly crumbled. First, there was the hostage situation at the office building. Now, he had resolved to wear it whenever he was outside. Obviously, he wouldn't wear it while playing softball. Or on a date, for that matter.
Matt would have laughed at him on that count. Jim hadn't been on a date in six months. Despite the constant ribbing from his roommate, he simply had found neither the time nor the right girl.
His phone rang, and he started slightly. "Hunter."
"This is Matt. A McLean County Deputy found the shooter's car outside of town, on a little farm road about a mile north of I-74. Someone torched it. You want to come out?"
"Yeah. I'm on my way."
"Jimbo . . . seriously. Don't forget your vest."
"Thanks."
Matt provided directions, and Jim drove to the spot where the car had been dumped. The still-smoldering vehicle was found on a narrow dirt road, which divided a cornfield from a bean field. The corn was as high as Jim's shoulder, partially obscuring his view of a decrepit barn standing nearby. He felt a small measure of satisfaction when he saw that the car was, indeed, an old Mercury Grand Marquis. Donald Scott, the crime scene officer, pointed out the remains of what looked to be a Russian assault rifle in the front seat. The wooden stock had mostly burned away, but the telltale banana-shaped magazine announced its identity as loud as words. Jim stood motionless for several minutes while the other officers did their jobs.
Matt soon joined him. He thrust his jaw toward the car. "Did you see the rifle in the front seat?"
"Yeah," Jim replied. "Looks like an AK-47. Definitely a professional hit. If this was some group of local gang bangers, they would have kept the rifle. But the Marcels have enough money to not worry about losing one weapon. And this way, they can't be found with it later."
Donald stepped away from the burnt-out hulk, brushing debris from his hands. "With the heat of the fire, plus the contribution of water from the fire department, you can forget fingerprints or DNA."
A member of the Illinois Secretary of State Police approached the small group with a stack of papers in hand. "They removed the VIN tags from the dashboard and the doors, but I managed to find one in the engine compartment. This vehicle was reported stolen two weeks ago from Schaumburg."
Matt shrugged. "Maybe the owner is connected to Tony Marcel."
Jim read through the papers they had acquired on the vehicle. "It says here the owner was an eighty-year-old man named . . . well, I can't pronounce the name. Something Middle Eastern, I guess. Anyway, I doubt he was the shooter."
"This doesn't make sense," Matt said. "If the car was stolen to make the hit on you, why would the theft have occurred two weeks ago? That was before the whole incident with Perkins happened. In fact, we were still in Mexico."
"Maybe this will shed some light on it," said Donald, lying on the ground beside the front bumper. "This looks like a parking sticker for Illinois State University. Whoever put it on here put it low on the bumper. The sticker was partially shielded from the heat. It's damaged, but it's not completely melted."
Jim quickly crossed the distance between them and dropped to the dirt beside Donald. "Why would an elderly man from Schaumburg have an ISU parking sticker?"
Matt stood behind them, arms folded across his chest. "Maybe he has a son or a grandson at the school."
"Possibly." Jim tapped a finger on his chin. "Or maybe this was a surveillance vehicle to watch Perkins whenever he went on campus."
"Do you think they used this one the day they killed him?"
"Doubtful." Jim shook his head. "If they had, they would have used a different car today. Using the same car twice would connect the two crimes too easily. It's just a shame the parking sticker number melted away." He rose to his feet, hands on his hips. "I'm going back to the station, if you need me."
He took a different route back through town and avoided the interstate. His thoughts were in complete disarray. Was Tony Marcel responsible for the death of Albert Perkins? Was it a contract killing? And why now, of all times, when he is expecting a major shipment worth more money than Jim could count?
The ringing of his cell phone snapped him back to reality. "Hunter."
"Hey, Hunter. It's Bulldog."
Jim feigned a friendly laugh to the voice on the other end of the line. "Bulldog" was the street name of a local punk kid. Jim had caught him in a drug deal, but Bulldog had agreed to work for him in order to avoid a stay in prison. He occasionally called Jim whenever he had information about a shipment of drugs, or where a new prostitution house had opened.
"What do you have for me today, Bulldog?"
"Word on the street is that you're interested in Tony Marcel."
"Really? I hadn't heard."
"Actually, I hear he's after you. Man, that Tony is bad news. I know of at least two gangs paying him protection money."
"Okay. What's this have to do with me?"
"Tony is in town. Right now. I hear he's hanging with some Gangster Disciples a few blocks west of the jail. He wants to recruit some new enforcers. I just thought you would like to know."
"Thanks, Bulldog."
"Are we even, now?"
"I'll let you know."
#
"Come on, Janice," Jim said with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. The prostitute just smiled, trying to eye him seductively. They faced each other on a shabby street corner. Protruding stands of weeds covered the cracked and pitted sidewalk. Janice leaned against a blue U.S. Post Office mailbox, its aged coat of paint faded and peeled.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Hunter."
"Oh, really? You don't know where Tony Marcel is? Rumor has it you entertained him for quite a while last night."
"It's a lie."
"We'll see." With a lightning grab, Jim ripped her purse from her hands. He dumped the contents onto a nearby bench. Despite her shouted protests, he poked through the items. He smiled as he held aloft the two glass pipes and the small amount of crack cocaine she had hidden in her makeup kit.
"You can't do that," she shouted. "That's an illegal search!"
Jim smiled and gave her a wink. "Not really, Janice. There are two warrants out for you. Technically, you're under arrest. I'm probably too busy to run you in at the moment. But of course, if your probation officer learns what I just found . . ."
Her mouth dropped open. She walked away, her head bowed. She took a shuddering breath before facing Jim once more. "Okay. I'll tell you what I know. But you can't tell him who told you."
"Cross my heart. Where is he?"
"When I left him, he was staying two blocks over. It's a light blue duplex with black shutters. He'll be in the apartment on the right."
"If you're lying to me, I swear . . ."
"I'm not! I promise!"
He started toward his car, but she grabbed his arm. "You aren't going to keep my rock, are you?"
Jim looked at the off-white chunk of cocaine in the palm of his hand. He dropped it to the ground and smashed it under his heel. "Janice . . . go home."
#
The sun had settled low in the western sky when Jim drove past the duplex for
the third time. He saw no movement, but at least this time the front door was ajar and there were lights on inside. He briefly studied the printout of Tony Marcel's driver's license photo. Worried that Tony might have a scanner, he notified the dispatcher of his location by cell phone, rather than use the radio. He pulled his sport coat over his ballistic vest as he stepped out of his car. His senses were on high alert. He scanned every window along the way, watched every car that passed him for signs of another attempt on his life.
The short chain link fence around the house had a front gate. He opened the latch, stepped through, and followed the crumbling sidewalk up to the porch. The porch sagged and creaked under his weight. With the heavy inner door open, he could see through the screen door into the home's interior. Toys were scattered across the living room floor. Empty pizza boxes covered the low table and the couch. Crushed beer cans were in abundance. The reek of old, used ashtrays drifted out to him. He heard a voice in the next room. Based upon the one-sided conversation, he assumed the person was on the phone.
A single push of the doorbell brought a white male around the corner. He carried a cell phone in one hand and a can of beer in the other. He stopped halfway across the room to stare at Jim, his eyes wide. The man was several inches shorter than Jim, with an average build. His dark hair was cut neatly at shoulder length, and he wore a pair of black-framed glasses. The back of the hand holding the cell phone had a jagged, red scar running across it. Jim surmised he had suffered a knife wound in the past. He was certain he had his man.
"Tony Marcel?"
"Who wants to know?"
"Detective Hunter, Bloomington P.D."
"I'll see if he's here."
He backed out of the room, his eyes never leaving Jim's face. He set his beer on the counter and disappeared around the corner. Jim eased off the porch and stepped around the corner of the house. He moved out where he could see the backyard. The chain link fence surrounding the house rattled violently. In the fading light, he saw someone vault over the fence and sprint down the alley. Jim cursed under his breath and took off after him, struggling to pull his radio free and call in the chase.
"This is Ida Five, in foot pursuit of a white male, white t-shirt, blue jean shorts, westbound behind the residence."
"All units in the vicinity of Lee and Water Streets, respond for foot pursuit."
As the dispatcher repeated the physical description, Jim struggled to keep his target in sight. Tony leaped another fence, cut through a yard, and disappeared around the side of the house. Jim smoothly cleared the barricade and continued the chase. Tony had reached the street, where he maintained a fifty yard lead on the officer chasing him. Jim updated his dispatcher on their location. His heavy breathing made his voice come out in short gasps. The feedback on the radio told him two squad cars were close. Now he just had to hope Tony stayed in the street.
Those hopes were crushed moments later when Tony cut to his right. He crossed through another yard and circled around the far side of the house. Two blocks in the distance, the flashing red and blue lights of a squad car came into view. Jim called in the change of direction, then cut through the yard on the near side.
Several people clustered around a bonfire behind the house. They all stood silently at Jim's approach. He saw no sign of Tony. He held his badge up as he caught his breath.
"Police officer! Where did he go?"
They all looked to each other. Jim knew by their hesitation that they wouldn't help him. A man seated at a picnic table answered the question.
"Who?"
"The guy who just ran through your yard."
He gave an insolent smile. "We haven't seen anyone."
Jim leveled a steady gaze at the crowd. "You've been helpful tonight. I'll remember that." He notified his dispatcher that he had lost sight of the subject. Pulling out his flashlight, he checked between the houses. He swept the area for another fifteen minutes, but there was no sign of Tony. He had vanished.
Several squad cars established a perimeter around the neighborhood, in case Tony tried to sneak out past them. A canine officer responded to the blue duplex, and the dog immediately picked up his trail. They followed Tony’s winding track through the neighborhood, but lost the scent in the same general area where Tony had disappeared.
#
The batter smashed a one-hopper down the third base line. Matt dove to his right to snag the ball before it could slip past him. He rolled to his side and threw toward third base, where Jim had already crossed over from shortstop. He completed the force play at third, ending the game.
Jim shouldered his equipment bag as he headed for his car. "Who's going for pizza?"
"You guys go on ahead," Matt said with a wave. "I'm going over to Diane's place tonight."
Donald Scott laughed outrageously. "Skipping beer and pizza for a girl? He's whipped."
"Nah." Jim threw back his head with his best uppity expression. "I think he's secretly playing for another team."
"You have the apartment to yourself tonight, Jimbo. I hope you make good use of it this time."
"Yeah, I'll be right on that."
It was late when Jim pulled his car into the apartment complex. Leaving his softball gear in the trunk, he went inside. Since there was nothing worth watching on cable, he slipped a movie into his Blu-Ray player. He gave a short, ironic laugh. This probably was not what Matt had in mind when he suggested Jim make good use of his time.
He had just dozed off when the sound of breaking glass brought him off the couch with an oath. His heart pounding, he ripped his pistol from its holster and raced into the kitchen. The remains of a Molotov Cocktail lay scattered across the linoleum floor. Flames licked hungrily up one wall. They raced across the ceiling and began to engulf the entire room. He shoved his weapon into his belt and crawled for the door, choking as he went.
The fire alarm shrieked in the smoky haze. He had just reached the living room when a wave of flames raced along the bottom of the wall. The gap under the front door allowed fresh air to reach the fire, and it drew the flames like a chimney. In seconds, the door and the frame were engulfed. His way out was blocked.
Roiling smoke obstructed his view. For a moment, he panicked. The smoke closed in about him and took on an almost palpable presence. The feeling of suffocation left him unable to think, let alone move. Then the table behind him collapsed. The rush of sound and sparks broke the claustrophobic spell. He doffed his shirt and balled it up. With his left hand holding the shirt over his mouth and nose, he crawled back down the hallway. Flames had spread from the kitchen to climb the wall outside his bedroom. He took one more choking breath and rose to his feet. With a burst of speed, he sprinted down the hall and leapt over the flames. His momentum carried him through the door to Matt's room. The door flew from its hinges.
The window was open, obstructed only by the screen. Jim dropped to one knee as a wave of dizziness washed over him. He crawled to the window and hauled himself up to the ledge. Punching the screen out, he rolled over the sill to collapse on the grass outside. He tried to crawl away from the building, but his head began to spin faster. He rolled over to his back just as someone seized him by the arms and dragged him to safety. After one last wheezing breath, everything went black.
#
He opened eyes and realized he was in the back of an ambulance. A tightly-strapped oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth. He felt the claustrophobic fear of suffocation rise once again. He tried to raise a soot-covered hand to rip the mask away, but a set of restraints held him in place.
"Easy, sir, easy." The EMT smiled as he placed a reassuring hand on Jim's arm. "I see you decided to live. Sorry about the restraints. You were only about half-awake, but you kept removing the oxygen mask."
Jim closed his eyes. "Claustrophobic."
"I take it yours is more the fear of suffocation?"
"Mostly."
"We're just getting to the hospital. I'm afraid you'll have to at least spend the night with a mask on. You
know how doctors are."
"At least I'll have a place to stay for one night. Did the whole building go up?"
The EMT shrugged. "We left before it was all over. I would guess the building will be a total loss, but the fire department might have managed to keep parts of it standing."
Jim spent a few hours in the emergency room while the doctors checked to be certain he had not done himself any permanent harm. Matt and Diane were the first visitors to arrive. Matt refused to leave his side. Captain Bates came in about an hour later, accompanied by two officers, whom he stationed at the entrance to Jim's room.
He slept poorly that night. Adding to his problems, his throat was dry from breathing through the oxygen mask. The next morning, Matt stopped back in to report on the condition of their apartment. The fire had spread quickly. Since the kitchen window of the apartment directly above theirs was open, the flames were immediately drawn inside there as well. Other than those two apartments, however, most of the damage was confined to smoke and water. Matt told him that while their clothes would need to be washed, most were still intact. At least, those not shredded during the break-in.
"You're just full of good news," Jim said.
"Well, there's one good thing, though."
"What?"
"We won't have to finish cleaning up from the ransacking they gave us a few days ago."
"There's that."
Matt frowned. "I'm worried about you, Jimbo. No one would blame you for backing off at this point. But if you are set on continuing the case, let's finish it as soon as we can." He folded his arms across his chest. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "You need to learn to fight dirty."
Jim let out a long breath. "I can't break the rules, Matt. Sure, we all push the envelope once in a while. But if you're talking about roughing people up to get information, I can't do it."
"Sorry, buddy, but violence is second nature to these people. When they want something, they either buy it, or they take it. Obviously, they've already decided they can't buy you, so they're working it the other way. They aren't troubled by your sense of morals."
"What are you suggesting, specifically?"