“Chuck, I’m on stakeout. Gotta cancel tonight.”
“It goes with the job, Queens. How about tomorrow?”
“Okay, baby, if this stakeout doesn’t interfere again.”
I inserted my key in the deadbolt. It didn’t turn. I unlocked the door knob and the door opened. I tried my key the other way in the deadbolt and it turned; the deadbolt had already been unlocked when I arrived.
Someone had been inside. Perhaps they were still there.
My guns were in the gun safe. Inside. On the second floor. I mentally kicked myself.
I ducked below the guest room window, ran across the street, and called Snoop.
“Yeah, Chuck, what’s up?”
“Someone’s been inside my house, and all my guns are in the safe.”
“I’ll be right there.”
I called my landlady. “Mrs. Parker, this is Chuck McCrary. The outside looks great, even better than before.”
“We installed your old locks in the new door, so you don’t need new keys. I finished my inspection about four o’clock. How do you like the inside?”
“I haven’t been inside yet, Mrs. Parker. Did you lock the deadbolt as you left?”
“I tried the door when I left, but I don’t remember locking the deadbolt. Oh, dear, do you think those men have come back? Do you want me to call the police?” Mrs. Parker must have been seventy-five years old. She didn’t realize that everyone in the known universe had a cellphone; sometimes two or three like me.
“No, that’s not necessary, Mrs. Parker. It’s probably nothing. If I need the police, I’ll call them myself.” I breathed easier. Mrs. Parker must’ve forgotten to lock the deadbolt.
“Chuck, there’s something else I need to discuss with you.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Chuck, I knew you were a policeman when I rented you the place, but now that you’re a private detective...with hit men and gun battles...”
I decided not to remind her that I was a private investigator, not a detective. No sense pissing her off any more than she already was. “Mrs. Parker, that was an isolated event. It won’t happen again.”
“You can’t know that, Chuck. As much as it pains me, I have to ask you to move for the safety of my other tenants.”
“I have a lease.”
“I know you do. But you’re a danger to my other tenants. I could break your lease if I had to. But I won’t have to, will I?”
“No, ma’am. I understand. How soon do you want me out?”
“The end of next month. I wish it could be some other way, Chuck.”
“Yes, ma’am, I know. Please don’t feel bad.”
Snoop pulled into the driveway and handed me the Browning .380 which he kept in his glove compartment. “Take this. I hate to say ‘I told you so,’ but I told you so. How you wanna do this?”
I told Snoop part of my conversation with Mrs. Parker. No point in distracting him with my eviction notice. “She’s a sweet old lady, but forgetful. I probably called you for nothing. She was here until four o’clock. It’s just after six now. It’s unlikely the shooters came in the last two hours.”
“It was unlikely they would spray your place with bullets last week. Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. If I wanted to hit you, I would’ve waited down the block ’til the old lady left. You remember what I said about ‘better an old worrier that an optimistic young corpse’? Let’s check it out.”
“Okay, Snoop. You go around back. I’ll take the front. Call when you’re in position.”
My phone rang. “Snoop, you in position?”
“Does a frog bump his butt when he jumps?”
I pulled the slide, cocked the Browning.
I pushed the door open. I peered down the dark hallway. Nothing. I turned on the lights. Waited. Listened. Nothing.
The silence was not as comforting as it should have been. I was wired.
A trace of tobacco smoke hung in the air. Worst case, the shooters were in my guest room. I slammed open the guest room door hard enough to bang the wall. Crabbed sideways along the wall opposite the guest room, surveying it foot by foot as I moved. Nothing.
Next, the powder room. Nothing.
There was no good way to open the kitchen door without standing in front of it, so I eased down the hall to the dining room. Nothing.
I surveyed the kitchen through the dining room archway. Nothing.
I checked the pantry, the coat closet. Nothing.
The living room stretched the width of the house in the back, overlooking the bay. Snoop stood on the dock. I waved to him, and he crossed the back grass. I opened the sliding glass doors.
“Snoop, the ground floor is clear. But I smelled smoke, so they’re upstairs if they’re still here.”
Snoop winced and signaled me to whisper. “Quiet, kid. This ain’t over ‘til it’s over. Of course they’re here. Why else would they come, to leave you a gift basket?”
I heard a small creak overhead. I pointed up.
Snoop nodded. “How you want to handle this?”
“I vote we wait here and starve them out.”
Snoop smiled in spite of himself. “You don’t have a fire escape. They can’t get down unless they use the stairs or jump from a window, right?”
I nodded. “The front bedroom window opens over the driveway and the other guest room has a balcony. Either way, they land on a concrete driveway. If it were me, I’d jump from a window in the back. There’s grass back there.”
Snoop frowned. “What now?”
“Call for backup.”
Snoop hurried to the back garden to make the call, glancing up at the windows. He gave me a thumbs up. “SWAT’s on the way,” he whispered as he stepped back inside.
I had a disturbing thought. “Snoop, these guys know we know they’re upstairs.”
“You got a ‘so what’ to go with that?”
“So they’ve got no future waiting for the cops; they’ll make a break.”
“That means Janet’s gonna yell at me.”
“If you want to bail on me, I’ll understand. I don’t want Janet mad at me.”
“She thinks you hung the moon. It’s me who’ll catch the flack.” He shrugged. “It is what it is. I’ll stick around; you’d do the same.”
“In Special Forces we had a saying: The buddy system is essential to your survival; it gives the enemy somebody else to shoot at.”
“Somehow that doesn’t give me much comfort.”
“I think they’ll try the back.”
“Great minds think alike. I’ll cover the bottom of the stairs and keep them penned up there while you cover the back.”
I stood outside the rear sliding glass door where the roof overhang shielded me from view. An upstairs window screeched open and the aluminum screen fell to the grass. I heard cloth scrape as one of the shooters worked his butt onto the windowsill. Sneakers and argyle socks extended from the khaki slacks as he slid outward, reducing the distance he had to fall.
The first hood jumped, hit the ground, and rolled to the side away from me.
I took the Weaver stance and aimed the Browning. “Don’t move. You’re almost dead.”
He kept rolling while he tried to pull his gun into position. I squeezed off two shots. The first caught him in the chest and the second in the neck. He was dead before he stopped moving.
I glanced up at the window. It was clear. I checked his pulse anyway. I didn’t recognize his face.
I called over my shoulder. “Snoop. Got one. The next one may come your way.”
Snoop shouted, “Hold your position.”
I heard sirens in the distance. I glanced at the dead man and felt a little queasy. Then a crash came from inside the house. No time to be nauseous now. I swallowed hard and steadied my breathing.
“Chuck, someone bailed out the front window.”
I bolted through the house and burst out the front door right behind Snoop. The SWAT truck and t
wo black-and-whites screamed toward us from the left. Two men had turned tail toward the right like demons from hell were chasing them. “Snoop, stay here and explain what happened.”
They had a seventy-five-yard head start. One man ran between the houses across the street. The other fugitive ran up the block.
I’m not a sprinter, but I can run all day, so I kicked my body into cruise control and took off after the second man. Unless he was a marathoner, I had him. By the time he reached the corner, I’d already cut his lead to fifty yards.
As I reached the corner, the runner took a shot at me. It was a million-to-one shot, okay, a thousand-to-one shot. I juked and kept running. I gained another five yards.
A siren gained on us from the rear. I glanced over my shoulder at the black-and-white as it rounded the corner. I waved it forward with my left arm and returned my attention to the thug ahead.
The black-and-white passed me. Thirty-five yards ahead it turned into the curb and blocked my way. Two uniforms jumped from the car, guns drawn, and aimed at me. “Freeze. Drop the gun. On the ground. Now.”
I stopped, lifted my gun hand in the air, and pointed with my left. “I’m the good guy. That’s the perp, the guy you want.”
“Drop the gun. Down on the ground. Now.”
Standard procedure. Police training had taught me the same thing. Once you’ve got the suspect cornered, don’t be distracted. I held the Browning in two fingers and pointed it away from the two uniforms. I placed it on the ground, stepped away, and knelt on the pavement, hands clasped behind my neck.
There goes another good pair of pants. Why couldn’t these guys attack when I was wearing old jeans?
###
Lieutenant Weiner wheeled up to my townhouse parking lot where Snoop and I waited. She ducked under the crime scene tape. “Chuck, what happened?”
I told her. When I got to the part about shooting the jumper in my backyard, I had a flashback. I quickly walked to my front flower bed and vomited. I gotta stop doing that.
“Take your time, Chuck,” the LT said.
I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and straightened up. “Sorry, LT.”
“Chuck, I pitched my cookies all over my uniform the first time I shot a perp. Nothing to be ashamed of. I’d worry more if you weren’t upset. You okay to talk now?”
I nodded.
“So the other perps escaped?”
“Yeah. The one who jumped out the rear window had no ID, but he had a set of car keys. The uniforms are canvassing the neighborhood to find the car and see if there are any witnesses.”
The sergeant came out my door. Weiner gestured him over. “Are you in charge of this mess?”
“Yes, ma’am. Ernesto Donatello, ma’am. Those were my guys that made the wrong collar.” He didn’t look happy.
Lieutenant Weiner sighed. “Sergeant, I put my pants on one leg at a time just like you do. I don’t expect perfection. Don’t beat yourself up too much.”
She turned to me. “I’ll let you know what we find on the dead guy and the auto when we find it.”
I slept like a man in a coma that night. At least I didn’t have any cuts or scrapes this time—just another pair of trashed pants.
Chapter 32
FedEx delivered the DNA results for Gamez and Gomez, but Simonetti was out of his office until after five.
My cellphone signaled a text from Weiner: We I.D.’d the dead guy. Found car. Call me.
Since I was near the precinct, I opted for some face time with Mother. Besides, I wanted to look at the file.
###
“The deceased is Vittorio Martinelli a/k/a Victor Martin. Moved here from Jersey seven years ago. In Jersey, he was a leg-breaker and then a gofer here in Port City. We’ve arrested him for aggravated assault—twice, but couldn’t make the charges stick.”
“Sounds like a small time hood.”
“He is; a hit on you is above his pay grade.”
“He wanted to advance his career?”
“And maybe he was just the driver. After all, he did have the car keys.”
“Your message said you found the car.”
She looked at a file on her desk. “Yeah, an eight-year-old sedan stolen from a used car lot, Smiling Eddie’s Shiny Spot, over on 87th. We lifted several sets of prints off the car. We’re processing them now. Maybe we can get a handle on the other two guys.”
Something wasn’t right. “Mother, if the car was stolen, he had to hot-wire it. How did Victor Martin wind up with the keys?”
“Bingo,” the lieutenant answered. “Smiling Eddie says he always keeps an extra set of keys over the visor.”
“Kind of a dumb policy.”
“Yeah. But that’s his story.”
Something tugged at my memory. “Mother, where’ve I heard of Smiling Eddie?”
“You were a detective, boychick; you should remember.”
The light dawned. “The hit-and-run thing three years ago, right after I came on the job. Wasn’t the victim from Jersey?”
“That’s right, bubalah.” The lieutenant pulled another file from her drawer. “The victim was a schlub from Hoboken. He was hit by a car stolen from Smiling Eddie’s. Two other cars reported stolen from Smiling Eddie have been used in crimes in the last five years.”
“What does Smiling Eddie have to say about that?”
“Same old, same old. Not his fault; his lot’s in a bad neighborhood; he doesn’t know who stole the cars; yada, yada, yada.”
“I could pay him a visit, ask him real nice. He just might tell me something he wouldn’t tell you official types.”
“Bubalah, you cannot do police work; you’re a civilian. You stay away from him. In fact, I forbid you to go see him at 2200 N.W. 87th street. I absolutely forbid it.”
“Got it.”
###
I parked the minivan near the office at Smiling Eddie’s.
A huge man in a red bow-tie, white shirt, and red suspenders bounced up to me. He reminded me of a giant Christmas tree ornament. He was almost as tall as I am, but about 270 pounds.
“I’ll give you four thousand dollars for that van in trade right now. Whatta ya say?”
I shook his hand. “And you are?”
“Smiling Eddie his own self. Pleased to meet you, Mister....?”
“Delbert Dittlefinger. You can call me Del.”
“Nice to meetcha, Del, nice to meetcha. What can I show you?”
“Can we talk in your office?”
Eddie spread his hands to show his lot. “My whole inventory is here. What can I show you, Del?”
“Eddie, I ain’t here to buy a car...exactly. Can we talk in your office?”
Eddie wasn’t smiling now. “What about?”
I glanced over my shoulder. “It’s a delicate matter.” I glanced over the other shoulder. “I am an associate of Victor Martin.” I emphasized the name as if it should mean something to him.
Eddie didn’t bite. Now he was the cautious rodent, peeking out of the forest. “Who?”
“Victor Martin. He’s my goombah from Hoboken.”
“You from Jersey?”
“Yeah. Me and Vic go back a long ways. He said you’d help me out on a delicate matter. Now can we talk in your office?”
“Any guy from Jersey…c’mon.” Eddie led the way to the office, once again the confident salesman. He gestured for me to sit in the side chair. “What’s this about? See, I don’t know any Victor Martin.”
“Well, Vic knows you. I need a car with local plates, but I don’t want it registered in my name and I can’t rent one for the same reason. Vic told me to come see you.”
“What kind of car you need, Del?” Now he was the clinical diagnostician.
“A four-door sedan that don’t stand out in a crowd.”
“Will I get it back?”
“Yeah. Gimme a few days.”
“Can you do it in less than seventy-two hours?”
I paused like I was thinking it over. “Yeah, I t’ink so.�
��
“What shape will you return the car in?”
“Like I got it, Eddie. No damage.”
He almost rubbed his hands together. “Okay, here’s the deal, Del: You give me a cash deposit for the price of the car, plus two thousand dollars, see. I copy your driver’s license and do the paperwork to sell you the car. Nice and legal, see. But the law gives me a few days to file the paperwork. If you return the car within three days, undamaged, you get the sticker price back, in cash. I keep the two grand, see. And you can watch me shred the paperwork.”
Eddie held up one finger. “But there’s a catch.”
“What’s that?”
He grinned like the Cheshire Cat. “You gotta steal the car, Del. And if it’s not back within seventy-two hours, I report it stolen.”
“Why you gotta report it stolen?”
He leaned back and clasped hands over his enormous stomach. “So no one can tie me to anything as an accessory to a crime, see. I’m clean and I stay that way, capisce?”
“So the car won’t be registered?”
Eddie shook his head. “It shows as in my inventory. The day before you take it, I move it to the back of the lot and note the location on my inventory. That’s why I can claim I didn’t notice it was stolen for three days; it was on the back of the lot, see, and I take inventory once a week.”
“Wow, Eddie. Vic said you was plenty smart. But I don’t know how to steal no car. I’m more the, ah, physical type.”
“Piece of cake, I tell ya, Del. We pick an older car without anti-theft devices, see. In five minutes, I can show you how to jimmy the door lock. Once you’re in, it’s easy. I keep an extra key over the visor so you don’t even gotta hot-wire it. Piece of cake, believe me.”
I shook my head. “Vic was pretty smart about those things. I ain’t so sure I could do that.”
“Bullshit, Del. Vic don’t know how to break into a car, neither. He’s a leg-breaker. I had to show him too. Five minutes is all I need, believe me.”
“Did he have two other guys with him when he picked up that old Toyota, Eddie?” I stared straight into his eyes.
“Two other guys? What the hell’s going on?” Eddie jumped to his feet, trying to loom over me. “Who the hell are you?” Now he was the irate, innocent, private citizen.
Six Murders Too Many (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 1) Page 11