He looked up when I approached and flashed a big grin. His hair had thinned over the years and the overhead lighting reflected off his black skin.
“Colton. And here I thought my day was getting off to a good start.”
“It is,” I said, taking a seat in the chair next to his desk.
“And what do you want?” He leaned back and folded his big hands behind his head.
“What makes you think I want anything?”
“‘Cause you wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
He had a point. Although I had known and worked with Wilkins during my years with the FBI, and even though he was part of my poker group, we were not close friends. Instead, we were more like working acquaintances with a mutual respect. Most of the time.
“What do you know about a Jamal Evans Crane?”
“Nothing. Should I?”
I slipped him a note bearing Jamal’s tag number. “He’s befriended Maurice Norman’s son. Estelle is concerned and Mary asked me to take a look.”
Harley’s expression darkened. “Maurice was a good man.”
“Yeah.”
“A good cop shouldn’t die like that.”
“Yeah.”
He took the note from me and punched it into his computer. The NCIC homepage flashed on the screen within seconds and he entered the number. It wasn’t long before he had the same information as Mary.
“I’ve got that,” I said. “I was hoping you could tell me more.”
“Like?”
I shrugged. “Anything. Something. I need to know what sway this guy has over Malcolm and his friends. If he’s as bad as his record says, I need to know. If not, I need to know that too.”
Wilkins sighed and picked up his phone. “I’ll call records. See what we’ve got.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
He shot a glance at me. “Darn straight you do.”
The Indianapolis office of the FBI had outgrown its space in the Federal Building on north Pennsylvania Street and required new digs. At least that was the official story. In part, it was true. But the world had taken a decidedly different turn since 9-11, and the powers that be decided that a newer complex, one that was more isolated, would provide the extra level of security the bureau needed in the brave new world of the 21st century. So they moved into a new campus located smack dab in the center of the most densely populated section of the city.
The new FBI center was located in Castleton, the boom town of the 1980s, and was situated behind a wrought iron security fence that was manned and patrolled by the bureau’s own police department, a relatively new feature that had come along since I was asked to leave.
I met with Mary Christopher at the new complex, but had to wait for her on the driveway near the guard shack. Because I was no longer a Special Agent, and because I was asked to leave under less than stellar circumstances, I was not invited inside. As soon as she was in the car I handed her one of the two coffees I had picked up at a nearby Hardees and drove around the semicircular street in front of the FBI complex before heading back toward Castleton Square Mall where I parked in the lot and killed the engine.
“I just came from Harley’s office.”
“And?”
“And Jamal’s a bad dude,” I said, blowing on the coffee before sipping.
“His arrest record told us that.”
I shook my head. “There’s more. He was a candidate for a scholarship at I.U. Basketball. A full ride.”
“What happened?”
“The assault. Didn’t you read the details?”
She clucked her tongue. “I was asleep when you called, Sherlock. I gave you what they gave me.”
“Sure. Well, apparently, he lost the scholarship when he assaulted the old woman.”
“How old?’
“Almost eighty. He nearly killed her, then did a little bit of time and got out. He’s been on the streets for less than a year.”
She removed the lid on her coffee and blew before drinking. “What’s he want with Malcolm?”
I shrugged. “Don’t know. But it isn’t basketball pointers.”
“So where do we go from here?”
“We? You dumped this in my lap yesterday, remember? I don’t recall there being any ‘we’ in this.”
“Okay. What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to follow the FBI’s standard protocol for things like this.”
She shook her head. “The FBI doesn’t have a standard protocol for things like this. In fact, we don’t do things like this.”
“I am going to follow Jamal,” I announced.
She took my coffee from me and slid the cup into the cup holder between our seats. “The FBI does have a protocol on surveillance. That means no coffee.”
“What goes in must come out,” I said.
“And you can’t watch anyone in the restroom.”
I shot her a glance.
“You know what I mean,” she said.
Jamal was a good ball player. I sat in my car the next evening, a few dozen yards from a schoolyard where he was shooting hoops with his friends. His athletic skills remained intact and his agility and grace were impressive. He outmaneuvered the others with ease, shot from mid-court and never missed, and could get inside for a layup before anyone even knew he had the ball.
After the last game, the crowd dispersed and Jamal picked up his jacket and water bottle before heading to the Beamer. He started the car and I followed him back to Happy Jack’s where he parked in the side lot and flashed his headlights twice. Within minutes, Malcolm was exiting the restaurant from a rear entrance and slid into the seat next to Jamal. They talked briefly and then drove away with me in tow.
We drove north toward Carmel, an affluent suburb in Hamilton County, located directly north of Indianapolis. Jamal and Malcolm drove to the northern edge of the city before turning left toward the Monon trail. The trail is over sixteen miles long and follows a path that was established by the Monon railroad. The trail cut a swath through the northern edge of the city and was much preferred by Carmel’s walkers, runners, and bicyclers as the place to indulge their passion. On this night it was fairly congested.
I parked several stalls away from the Beamer and sat patiently. I was rewarded within minutes when another car of kids, some who I recognized from Happy Jack’s, parked alongside the BMW. Some of the occupants exited their vehicle and climbed into the back seat of Jamal’s car. Nothing happened for the next twenty minutes, but then the kids climbed out of the Beamer and back into their own car before driving away.
I slid downward in my seat as they passed, but kept an eye on the driver’s side rearview mirror. It was then I saw Jamal’s car back out of the stall. Malcolm was driving.
I followed Malcolm as he drove back the way we came and then east toward the residential section of the city. I remained as far back as I could to avoid detection, yet close enough to make tailing him profitable. But as he crossed into an affluent neighborhood, the distance between us lessened and I eased on the brake. I was grateful to see him turn down a side street, giving me time and space to avoid detection. But then I turned the corner and saw the Beamer parked in front of a house, nose-to-nose with the car the other kids were in when they met with Jamal just a few minutes before.
I extinguished my headlights and parked a hundred yards from where Malcolm was parked. It wasn’t long before I was rewarded for my efforts. The kids from the other car were running from the house, their arms loaded down with computers and other, smaller valuables. They sped away as soon as they were in their car and Malcolm followed in Jamal’s BMW.
For the second time that evening, I slid downward in my seat to avoid detection.
“Was he there?” Mary was leaning across the table at McDonald’s.
“Yes.”
She groaned.
“He was driving.”
Mary sighed and folded her hands on the table in front of her. “I got off the phone with Carmel PD just before
you got here. Those kids invaded the house of an old lady. They cut off the power and then cut her phone line to keep the alarm system from going off. When they tied her up, she was disconnected from her oxygen tank. She died while they were stealing her stuff, Colton.”
“Mary …”
“Colton. Don’t even go there. He’s as guilty as the rest of them, and now an old lady is dead.”
“Mary, he didn’t invade the house. He drove. His worst crime is being stupid.”
“He drove the car, Colton.”
I could feel my anger begin to rise. “Listen, you wanted me involved so now I’m involved. If you think this kid can be saved then I’m willing to try.”
“There’s nothing you can do.”
“Yes there is. This Jamal has power over Malcolm and the others. I need to take him down.”
“By the time you take this guy down, Malcolm will be in jail, Colton. This guy is using these kids to burgle for him and then he’s selling the swag.”
“Probably. He’s staying away from the higher profile stuff like drugs, and keeping his profile low. But I’m not trying to save all of them. I’m trying to help Malcolm. One kid, Mary. Just one out of the lot. It’s worth the effort.”
“I know.” She ran a hand through her hair. “That explains why Estelle keeps finding cash and high ticket items.”
I agreed. “Jamal lets these kids keep some of the fruits of their labors as motivation.”
We sat in silence for a while, each of us alone with our thoughts. Overhead, a TV was playing a pre-game commentary for the evening’s playoffs.
“I’ve got an idea,” I said.
“What?”
I stood. “Keep your cell phone on. If it works like I think, I’ll call you.”
“And if not?”
I shrugged. “Then Jamal wins.”
My plan in place, I made my move.
I was sitting outside Jamal’s apartment when he left the building. It was a few minutes after two in the afternoon when he fired up the Beamer and headed north along Meridian toward the Broad Ripple area. I followed, and we drove to the same basketball court at which I had seen him playing previously. He parked near the court and I drove past him parking twenty yards away on the opposite side of the street. I adjusted my rear view mirror and watched as he climbed out of the car with a water bottle in one hand and a basketball tucked under his arm. Once inside the court, he slipped out of a gray windbreaker, dropping it to the ground, and gulped from the bottle before dribbling the ball to center court where he began shooting hoops. When it was clear that he was going to be alone, I climbed out of my car and approached him. He was in mid-shoot position, ball up and eyes on the basket, when he noticed me.
“You want something?” he asked.
“Yeah? And what would that be?” He bounced the ball with one hand while keeping the other on his hip. His stance was defiant. Belligerent. A phony bravado I’d seen too many times.
“I was told you can score.”
“Of course I can score. Why? You want to play old man?” He laughed.
“I’m not talking about a game. I’m talking high stakes.”
His smile faded. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He bounced the ball.
“Sure you do. You’ve been scoring houses and you’ve got a crew that I hear is pretty good.”
“Get out of here, man.” He bounced the ball and shot another hoop. The ball swished through the basket.
“I know where there’s a good mark. Going to be empty, too.”
“I told you to get lost.” He shot the ball into the basket.
I stood closer, watching him shoot. He stopped and turned to me.
“What’s your problem? Get out of here or I’ll call the cops”
“Call. I don’t care. But I’ll bet you do.”
His eyes narrowed.
“I’m not a cop,” I said. “But I do know about you. I get around too.”
He snorted. “Yeah, you look like you get around, White Bread.” He bounced the ball and shot again. Again, the ball swished effortlessly through the basket.
“I’m getting divorced and there’s no way I’m going to let my old lady take everything I’ve worked for,” I said.
He shot again and scored.
He shot again. “I said I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“My wife has over a half million in jewelry and there’s other stuff inside too. Real silver, some original art.”
He snorted again. “Who are you man? Bill Gates?” He laughed and shot the ball again. He scored.
“I want you to take the stuff and then hold it.”
“Hold it? For who?”
“For me. I’ll file the claim. In sixty days you get the cash and I get to keep my stuff.”
He shot the ball and missed. It bounced off the backboard and he caught it on the rebound. He turned to face me with the ball tucked under his arm.
“There’ll be no one home. I guarantee it,” I said. “So? You in or do I need to find someone else?”
“Striking the shepherd will scatter the sheep,” I said as we sat in my car, two blocks from the target house.
“Very philosophical,” Mary said.
“Isn’t it though?”
I had the windows of the car rolled down and a cool breeze wafted through. It was half past one in the morning and we had been on stakeout for several hours. So far, nothing had happened.
“Whose house is this, anyway?” she asked.
“It belongs to the Chief of the Carmel PD. When I explained the plan to her, she offered the use of her house without hesitation.”
“Is she going to show up tonight?” she said.
I was about to answer when Mary’s phone vibrated. She flipped it open. “Yes? Great. Okay. Great. Thanks.” She flipped the phone closed.
“What?”
“That was one of Harley’s men. They’re tailing Jamal from his apartment. He met up with the kids and they’re heading this way.”
“Is Malcolm with them?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She half turned in her seat to face me. “Wouldn’t it be better if he wasn’t? I mean, I understand your plan, but if he gets involved he will go down with the rest of them.”
“This isn’t just about Malcolm getting away from this current predicament. It’s about him becoming a man and developing a philosophy about life. He’s a kid now, Mary, and he’s allowing himself to be easily led. There will be other Jamal’s in Malcolm’s life and going to jail for burglary isn’t going to teach him how to handle them. He needs to grow a set. He needs to know when to say no.” I turned to face her. “He needs a moral compass. Something that he can rely on when future Jamal’s try to steer him wrong, whether it’s a burglary scheme or a bad investment opportunity or insurance fraud. He needs internal boundaries.”
“And how’s this going to give him that?”
“If everything goes as I hope, he will see Jamal fold like a paper tiger. But if not, and Malcolm’s arrested with the rest of them, he will learn that there are penalties for his actions and that sometimes the cost is very high. Either way, the lesson won’t be fatal, although I admit, I’m hoping for one over the other.”
She sighed and we didn’t talk for the next few minutes. Then, when the Beamer turned onto the street, several blocks ahead of us, Mary sat upright.
“There. That’s it, isn’t it?” She said.
“Looks like it.” The car passed under a street light and I could make out two people. “It’s probably Jamal and Malcolm.” Seconds later, the second car appeared. “That’s them.”
Mary and I watched patiently as the cars circled the house by rounding the block. A few minutes later, they appeared again and parked curbside. Within seconds, four figures climbed out of the car and ran along the lawn toward the house. Jamal and Malcolm sat patiently in the Beamer as the crew worked diligently at a side window. Once it was open, they climbed in, one
after the other. Neither Mary nor I said a thing, each of us watching, alone with our own thoughts. A few minutes later, the kids appeared at the same window through which they had entered. They dropped several swag-laden pillow cases onto the ground and then the first of them climbed out, and began assisting the others. Once all of them were out of the house, they scanned the area and began running toward their car. Then, without warning, cops seemed to emerge from everywhere. They came from behind the house and from the bushes and shrubbery that lined other homes along the street. Flashlights exposed the kids and their frightened expressions. It was then that the Beamer started and began driving away, only to be blocked by an unmarked Carmel PD squad car with a magnetic emergency light attached firmly to the vehicle’s roof.
I started my car and floored the accelerator, coming on the Beamer within seconds. Mary and I jumped out of the car and ran to the BMW. A uniformed Carmel police officer was jerking Jamal from the passenger’s side of the car. I opened the driver’s side door and pulled Malcolm from behind the wheel. He was crying, but when he saw Mary he seemed confused.
“Mary?”
“Malcolm, your mother is concerned about you.”
He looked at me. Although he knew he had seen me before, it was obvious he couldn’t recall when or where.
“Hey, man,” Jamal said, “I didn’t have nothing to do with this. That kid,” he nodded to Malcolm, “and the others they told me they was going to check up on their grandmother. I was just along for the ride. I didn’t know nothing about—”
“Save it,” I said, stepping from the shadows with my hand locked firmly on Malcolm’s arm.
“You?” He shook his head. “Man, I should’ve known.”
I glanced at the officer who had helped arrange the sting.
“Go, get out of here,” he said.
I maintained my grip on Malcolm and half-walked, half-carried him to my car.
“Go ahead,” Jamal yelled after us. “Take that baby with you. He ain’t a man. He’s no better than his mommy. Go on, kid. Get out of here. I don’t need you or any of your friends.”
Hoosier Hoops and Hijinks Page 10