“Approximately three hours ago at seven twelve p. m., a multiple shooting occurred at Vista View Mobile Home Estates. Two dead, one in surgery.” Detective Thompson pointed to a photo taped to her white board. The photo, part of an array of photos taken at the scene, showed a woman, in what could only be described as hooker gear, sprawled on the floor. “Shontay Wilson, African American, female, twenty‑six, a few arrests for shoplifting, possession, and prostitution.”
She pointed to a second photo of a body, also taken at the scene. “Jeremy Woodrow, African American, male, thirty‑one. Multiple arrests for drug sales, carrying a concealed weapon, and assault. He did three years in Montana State on a five-year sentence for assault. He hit the streets on parole nine months ago.”
“Any arrests since he got out?” The captain interrupted.
“No.” She would answer the caption's direct question but wouldn't volunteer information when he was rude enough to interrupt a briefing. She had seen him do it many times. It was a petty power game, and she wasn't interested. Detective Thompson paused a beat and continued. She tapped a mug shot with a short manicured nail. “This one’s still in surgery. His chances are a little better than fifty‑fifty.”
“Anyone we know?” The captain interrupted again.
“Rodney Wilson. Local pimp. It was his place.”
“Wilson, was Shontay his wife?” the captain asked.
Detective Thompson stopped, turned away from the board and faced the captain. “Would you like to give the briefing, Sir?”
“We've been through this before, Detective. I'm still your captain, and I'll ask questions when I want.”
“No,” Detective Thompson said. She stood still, not adding anything.
“No what? No, you don't agree that I can ask questions?”
“No. Shontay Wilson and Rodney Wilson were not married.” Detective Thompson replied. Then again stood still not saying anything more.
After a prolonged silence the captain said, “Continue.” He made it sound like a command, but it was actually him caving in. She saw the expressions of the other people in the room who had also recognized it for what it was.
Asshole.
Detective Thompson saw the Chief of Police lean against the door frame at the back of the room. Without any outward acknowledgment, Thompson continued her briefing. “There are three witnesses. They're hostile and won't talk.”
“Did you try to make them talk?” the captain asked.
“Captain Meyer, please, let me finish.”
“Just answer the question. Detective.”
“Excuse me,” the chief walked into the room. “Captain Meyer, I'm going to take over direct responsibility. I want you to focus on all other active cases. Detective Thompson, you will answer directly to me on this one.”
“Chief. I would rather stay on top of this case,” Captain Meyer said.
“You’re off the case Captain and that’s an order. I want you to keep abreast of what’s going on, read the files, but I'm running the case. You can stay for the rest of the briefing if you want, but as of now I'm taking over,” the chief said.
“But Chief . . .”
“It's done.” The Chief cut the Captain off before the man could embarrass himself even more. He turned to Detective Thompson. “Don't start over, I heard everything from the door. One question first. Are you kidding me with these names?” He smiled with a twinkle in his eye.
Detective Thompson put her hand on her heart. “Hand to heart boss, I wouldn't, didn’t, do that.”
“No I guess not, but . . . Woodrow, Wilson, and Wilson?”
“What can I say?” She shrugged her shoulders and silently thanked the chief for saving her.
The mood had changed from a building frustration and an oncoming confrontation to one of professional camaraderie.
“I'm listing the two dead as homicides unless we find solid contradictory evidence. I seriously doubt the evidence will support self‑defense on this one. Anyway, two dead and a third in surgery is pretty big stuff for Billings. The real kicker is the next part,” Detective Thompson said.
All five faces focused on Pat Thompson.
“It looks like between twelve and fifteen women were taken. Again, I don't have any conclusive evidence, but at this time I'm thinking there is an outside chance it's a case of kidnapping. From what I saw and information from the neighbors, there were no children involved. Detective Morgan, over in vice, told me his guess is Russian hookers. Here's the thing Chief, if we officially call it an adult kidnap we need to notify the Feds as soon as we think they might cross the state line. If we believe they are involved in human trafficking we don’t wait, we call them now.” Detective Thompson shrugged. “What do you think?”
“Any thoughts?” The chief asked Captain Meyer
“It would be good for us to solve this before the Feds want to take over.” Captain Meyer looked at Thompson. “What about any evidence or witnesses saying these women were forcibly taken?”
“No. A few neighbors said the women all ran to the street. They ran in groups and singles with no one chasing them. They all left in a couple vans. Some of them had small suitcases with them.”
“Okay, Detective, that sounds voluntary to me.” The Chief started to leave, but stopped next to Detective Thompson. “You can go with that for now. Write it up as a . . . What? An escape? Escape from what? Detail it in your notes as suspicious activity and dig into it carefully.” The Chief looked at the two other detectives, “Both of you are now assigned to work with Detective Thompson, she's the lead.”
Detective Ramirez and Detective Pendergrass nodded.
“Anything else?” the chief asked.”
“The press is already snooping around,” Detective Thompson said. “An out‑of‑town freelance reporter looking for information came in earlier. He knows about the women.”
“Keep me posted Thompson. Captain Meyer, come with me.” The Chief and Captain walked out.
The other officers drifted out of the room leaving only Detective Thompson and Kim Lin, the police sociologist.
“More coffee?” Kim asked.
“Thanks, that’d be nice. Here’s my cup.” Detective Thompson handed Kim her mug.
Kim returned to Pat Thompson’s desk with two coffees and a glazed doughnut cut in half.
Detective Thompson eyed the doughnut half. “Once on the lips, forever on the hips.” She took a sip of hot coffee followed by a bite of doughnut.
“That was close with the Captain. Good thing the Chief decided to take over. What has Captain Meyer so wound up?”
“He's just busting my chops,” Detective Thompson said. “I guess he's still sore about the Johanson case. I made him look pretty bad, but screw him. We would've saved her life if that rule‑bound pencil pusher hadn't pulled rank on me.”
“Silver lining?” Kim asked.
“If there is one, I'd sure like to hear it.”
“Off the books, girlfriend to girlfriend. This is absolutely, one hundred percent, no bullshit, pure unadulterated confidential, and top secret. If you breathe a word of this, I'll swear to God I never said it.”
“Scouts honor.” Thompson held her hand up in the Girl Scout pledge.
“That case ended his career. He'll never move up. He has a better chance being elected as governor of the state than being appointed Chief.”
“Did you hear that from a certain city council member, over drinks, or overnight at your place?” Thompson asked.
“I'll never tell. I shouldn't have said that much. Since he's such a prick and isn't ever going to give you a break, I thought you should know he's a paper tiger.”
“Well, wherever you got this little tasty tidbit, I welcome it as good news. With any luck, he'll look to another city to make Chief. Now, back to work. I need your help figuring out what happened. The killing I can figure out okay, but the missing women has me baffled. I don’t think we’re dealing with kidnap. Not with fifteen adult women. But, if not kidnapping, wha
t the hell was it? Human trafficking? Here in Billings?
“What do you know about them?” Kim asked.
“Morgan gave me a file on Wilson, the man.
“Morgan in vice or—“
“Yeah, the one in vice.” Detective Thompson did a he‑man imitation flexing her muscles showing she meant the bodybuilder Morgan. “He gave me the file. Wilson’s a local pimp. He moved in with the oil boom. He had a stable of four African American women until about a year ago. Then according to the file, fifteen White hookers showed up on the streets. It caused some problems with the other pimps. Apparently when the dust settled, Wilson was the only game in town. None of that tells us who the women are, where they came from, or why a large group came to town all at once. It sure as hell doesn't fit the normal profile of a pimp turning out a young woman or recruiting a single hooker. They’re all basically clean, none of them have any arrests for drugs or the petty stuff hookers are normally involved in.”
“How do you know they're Russian?”
Thompson flipped a couple pages in the file. “Says here, Morgan talked to several of the women on the street over the past year. Most of them didn't know English other than sex talk, and they all spoke with a heavy Russian accent.” Thompson closed the file and shrugged. “I wonder how he knew for sure. Could Morgan pinpoint a Russian accent? I mean, could they have been any Eastern European other than Russian?”
“I guess, as good as either of us can. Anyway, outside of TV, how many Russians have you heard?”
“Good point,” Thompson said. “I can’t think of a single Russian immigrant in Billings. At least not an immigrant with an accent. We're splitting hairs. It doesn't matter if they're Russian or Bulgarian. Fifteen women with strong Eastern European accents were hooking in Billings. And now they're missing at the same time a small time Black hustler and Black hooker get killed, and her pimp is shot twice. What in the hell is going on?”
“What are your facts?” Kim arched her brows and took a bite of her donut.
“Three people in the sex business are shot. The woman and pimp lived with three other women in a mobile home. The fifteen women apparently shared the two neighboring mobile homes. It also looked like at least one man lived at each place.”
“From what I know about pimps and their organizations, don't they usually live with their women?” Kim asked.
“Normally, yeah.”
“Don't they keep tight reigns for control as much as any other reason?”
“Yeah, right again.”
“Do you think the men living with the Russians were for control? Keep an eye on the women; make sure they didn't go astray.”
“Possibly. But Kim, how could a guy who didn't speak Russian do much more than be a guard to what, seven or eight women who didn't speak English. How were they communicating? No, it couldn't be as simple as the men controlling their actions. Or could it?”
Kim licked icing off her fingers and sipped her coffee. “I'm beginning to think that trying to figure out the angle with the women sounds like a dead end. At least given the little we know.”
“I agree, let's go back to the murders. For now, if we assume the Russian women were all prostitutes, plus the other four, Wilson had nineteen women working for him. He had two or three men working security. That’s a pretty big and lucrative operation. Another pimp muscling in on the business makes sense.”
“What about a garden variety Saturday night disagreement that got out of hand?” Kim asked. “Wilson and a drug buddy argue. The argument escalated. Wilson pulled a gun and his friend shot him for his trouble. Shontay backed up her pimp. And, like a fool, picked up the gun. She was shot for her trouble. In the excitement, the guy next door jumped in waving his gun around and takes one through the heart. Again, could it be that simple?”
“If the women were all still there, then I'd be willing to go down that path. A bunch of disappearing women creates a whole different issue. No, I'm going to go with the rival pimp idea. Now, next question. Where did they go?” Detective Thompson looked at Kim baffled by the mystery.
Kim sipped her coffee. “Ugh! This coffee was bad to begin with and now it's cold. I missed dinner. And you push this crappy cold coffee on a starving woman. We're edging up on grounds for justified homicide. How about we continue this over something to eat?”
“Sorry, I can't. I want to go out to the crime scene and look around some more.”
“Pat, anybody tell you, you work too much?”
“My mother and you. All the time. This will only take a few more minutes. Then I'll be out of your hair. Assuming it was another pimp, then what?”
“Talk me through the scene,” Kim said.
“From preliminary exams of the blood splatter patterns, we're pretty sure of how it went down. The male Wilson was shot low, maybe crouched or kneeling in the door and fell outside. The female was also shot in the door. She was standing and fell back inside. Woodrow was shot standing inside the door of the other trailer. All three of them fired their guns while inside. From the initial look, the brass from the shooter was all outside. Forensics will tell us for sure, but so far the scene reads like two outside shooters. Mostly, though, fifteen missing women tells me we are dealing with a lot more than a friendly evening gone awry. The casings indicate the perp showed up, with backup, and with the intent to shoot. Or Wilson knew him and started shooting on sight.”
“You said him. Do you know they were men?” Kim asked.
“Good question. No, several different sets of the shoe prints were small for a man, but we don't know who they belong to. So, until I have a better picture, I'm going to go with a male rival pimp in some sort of a takeover as the most likely scenario.”
“I agree, the rival pimp scenario sounds like the most plausible story you've described.”
“Thanks, Kim, it's always good to kick these things around with you. You go enjoy dinner and I'll start Ramirez and Pendergrass digging through files in vice to find anybody with a history who might fit.”
“One more thing. You didn't say anything about the other three women. What's up with them?” Kim asked.
“They all said exactly the same thing, damn near word for word. They didn't see anything. They were dressing in the back when the shooting started and hid. After everything went quiet, they ran out to see Wilson on the ground.”
“Do you believe them?”
“Not at all. Pressing them right now is a waste of time, but I am curious about why they stayed while the others left. Loyalty to their pimp is a possibility. More likely they are afraid of him and loyal to his drugs. If any of them are strung out, they'll be hurting soon. Maybe then they'll be more in a mood to talk. I'll give them some time before leaning on them.”
“Won't that give them more time to make up a bullshit story?” Kim pointed out.
“They've already given us a pack of lies. We'll see what happens if Wilson doesn't live. Either way, soon enough, one of them will start making up stuff, or forgetting what they agreed on. In my experience, letting people like them stew a few days gives better results.” Detective Thompson stood up making to leave.
“So, we're done for now?” Kim asked.
“Yeah . . . No, wait. Forget the shooting for a minute. What about the women. Let's assume they went willingly so no kidnap or human trafficking. What would a pimp who wanted to take fifteen women do? He would come prepared. A regular van wouldn’t work. Even one of those tour type vans would be a tight squeeze.”
“How about an RV? A large RV would hold them.”
“Either of those options would work, except when fifteen Russian women piled out they would be very noticeable. I would want to be able to blend and look more like regular traffic. Split up if necessary. Something like a SUV sounds better. They would need a couple big SUV's. Fifteen women plus drivers would be seventeen. No, two wouldn't be enough, they’d need three. That means around eighteen people traveling in a three SUV caravan. Find them and we'll find our killer.” Detective Thompson�
��s flash of insight had her all excited.
“Why do you want me to stay? You always figure this stuff out on your own.” Kim pointed out.
“You ask good questions and help me think.”
“Think away Sherlock.” Kim joked.
“Where would they go?” Thompson asked.
“That's easy. Out of town and ten to one, they're headed out of state.” Kim remarked with a self‑satisfied look on her face.
“Right! You’re a genius. I'm putting out a BOLO, and you go eat dinner. Thanks.” Detective Thompson picked up her phone.
“Sure anytime. And, I really am leaving. I can almost taste a grilled tuna melt and a beer.”
“You call that dinner and yet you still denigrate the department's coffee?”
“It's vile, you hear me, vile. Call me if you need me.” Kim called out as she left the room.
Detective Thompson grabbed her coat and headed back to the scene.
.
Ten: Real Backup
“JESUS, MARY, AND JOSEPH, for Christ's sake!” Galletti tossed the cell phone on his desk. “Joey, get Jack‑Move in here.”
After camping out on Sal’s desk for two days, Galletti told Sal’s guy Baxter, to set up a separate office. The same afternoon, a truck showed up with a full office suite of attractive furniture. Galletti didn’t care. He also didn’t care that it was all crap construction. The whole operation was temporary. When his business with this broad Michelle was over, he’d be out of Oklahoma for good.
Without a word, Joey stood up and left the room.
“For fuck sake, do I have to do every little thing,” Galletti said out‑loud but really to himself. He blew out a cloud of smoke and stubbed out his cigarette.
About forty minutes later Joey came into Galletti's office with Jack‑Move behind him.
Galletti, an old style Italian mobster all the way down to his thick, now gray hair, custom fit suits and pinky ring, lit a cigarette, blew smoke in the air, and tossed his gold lighter on the desk. “Where the fuck have you been? No, don't answer, I don't give a shit. Did you know Billings got hit earlier, around seven?
Hard Run: Action Adventure Pulp Thriller Book #4 (Michelle Angelique Avenging Angel Series) Page 6