One minute to go. Johnny felt suddenly nauseous. He took a few deep breaths and tried to relax a little as the "green light" time approached. Now is not the time for this. Rolling his window down just a few inches, Johnny tried to take in some fresh air, and calm his nerves. I should have known this was going to happen, it does every time. He finally gained control of his stomach, and looked at his watch. Thirty seconds. He counted backwards with each second; twenty-five, twenty-four . . . eighteen . . . Johnny looked down at the portable radio. The red pilot light shown brightly in the dark car, it's LED core showing through the glass enclosure. Looking back to his watch; nine . . . eight . . . Johnny looked at Ray and asked, "Ready?"
"Ready as you can be in these . . .
Ray's response was cut short by the words "Green light" coming over the radio. Without another sound, Johnny and Ray exited the car, lightly closed their doors, and approached the apartment building quickly, but in near total silence. They could see other officers’ approach from different angles, all in black suits with POLICE in white letters across the chest, over the top of bullet-proof vests. Within eight seconds everyone was in position. Suddenly, the quiet night air was filled with wailing sirens, shouts of commands, and battering rams on the front and back entrances to the apartment. Within two seconds, Johnny and Ray were inside the front door, Johnny moving right and dropping to one knee, Ray to the left doing the same.
In the dining area to the right, just off the kitchen, two black men and a black woman were sitting across a table from one another, their eyes wide and their mouths open, jaws nearly to the table with a look of total surprise. They looked as if they had not even had the chance to move. One of the men had a crack pipe in one hand and a lighter in the other, still lit ready to light the piece of crack in the pipe. Seeing the guns drawn and leveled at them, the men and the woman did not move. From the rear entrance, other officers had entered, finding two more people in bedrooms and another passed out in the bathroom.
Ray Krebs was frozen at his position. His gun was pointed into the living room at three children sitting on a couch, watching television. His heart sank as he realized that the children were the victims of neglect. Their parents were too busy selling and doing crack to care for them. Ray looked at them to make sure they were not a threat. He slowly lowered his gun.
The assault team had cuffed the six adult occupants. They were being led out the front doorway which hung by one hinge, badly damaged by the battering ram, when Detective Krebs stopped the exodus. He demanded to know who the parents of the children were. When the woman who was sitting at the table answered that she was, Ray lunged at her and drew his fist back. He was stopped by several officers in the assault team and restrained. He still had fire in his eyes.
Johnny yelled, "Get that scum out of here before I puke!" He then turned to Ray. "Don't ever lose your professional demeanor on the job again. That's how people get themselves and their partners killed. Do you understand me?" Ray was still fuming, but Johnny shouted again, "Do you understand me?"
“Yeah, Johnny. I got it.” By all indications, Ray was an excellent detective. He was not as experienced as Johnny but he appeared to have the right skills for the job. Johnny understood why vice cops become emotional seeing the innocent victims of these ‘victimless’ crimes. It was happening all too often all over the country.
"We'll take these kids down to the station and call Human Services. I think Jim Walters is on duty. He'll take care of them." Johnny did his best to reassure Ray, but he knew that these kids had very little chance to succeed in life. They had started out poor, and were dealt a bad hand in life by being born to a single, drug addicted mother whose only care in life was satisfying her addiction to crack cocaine. What a waste of human flesh and bones, Johnny thought to himself.
The evidence was gathered; several thousand dollars in crack, a small amount of marijuana, four hand guns, all with the serial numbers ground off, and a few hundred dollars in cash. It was not as much as they'd expected. It wouldn't break any bust records but it would put this house on the known drug house list. That meant that it would be boarded up and eventually razed.
That much cash and the kids were still starving. This crack is some powerful stuff for a mother to neglect her kids just to get high. Johnny just shook his head.
The actual bust had taken a total of twenty seconds. Add the ten second approach time and in half a minute, the team had secured the house and made the apprehensions. That might have been a record had any statistics been kept on such matters. The evidence gathering had taken about forty-five minutes so in less than one hour another crack house was out of business in Orlando. A good night's work. Johnny was very satisfied with the performance of the assault team and though the net from the bust was not as big as expected, he was certain that the evidence would hold up in court.
Back at the station, Ray came over to Johnny and suggested, "Why don't you go home, Johnny? I can finish up the paperwork." Ray wanted to make amends for his outbreak back at the apartment. He felt bad that he'd let his emotions get in the way of his job and he wanted Johnny to know that he wanted to make up for that mistake.
"All right, Ray. Let me call home and let Rachael know that I'm coming. I have to call her anyway, let her know I’m okay. She worries when I’m in on a bust."
Before Johnny could reach for the receiver, his phone rang. He picked up the receiver, annoyed at this interruption.
"Poleirmo, Vice," Johnny barked into the receiver.
"Johnny, this is Al Porecwzski, homicide. Are you busy?"
Johnny wanted to say yes and just hang up, but he heard a little urgency in Al Porecwzski's voice. It was a rare occasion when someone from the homicide department called vice for their help. He liked most of the guys in homicide. Most of them, like Al Porecwzski, were pretty good guys. Johnny had been in homicide four years ago but left for the vice squad at the urging of his captain, Frank Sterns. Sterns said that vice needed help in trying to stem the flow of crack into the central Florida area so they accepted transfers from all the other departments to upgrade vice. It was supposed to be a two year stint, but as fate would have it, Johnny was doomed to vice maybe until he retired. That was a long way off.
"Yeah, Al, what's up?"
"You guys got a file on a punk named Danny Vallero?"
Johnny had to think for a minute. The name sounded familiar but he couldn't place it. "The name rings a bell, but I can't place him off the top of my head. Why, what's up with this kid?"
"Somebody took off the top of his head. Looks like an assassination with a high power rifle. He must have really pissed somebody off. We found dope in the house too, but not any great quantity, not enough to get hit over. This guy appears to be small potatoes. He must have stepped on some big toes though."
"Give me about ten minutes to finish some things up and I'll get back to you. Where can I reach you?"
Al gave Johnny the address. He wrote it down on a piece of scrap paper and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. "Okay, Al. I'll be there in about twenty-five minutes."
This isn't too far out of the way. I'll call Rachael and tell her I've got to stop somewhere on my way home. I hope she's in a good mood. I hate to keep her waiting. Johnny picked up the phone and dialed. There was only one ring and a female voice said, "Poleirmo's, Rachael speaking."
In a tired voice, Johnny said, "Hi, Baby. I've got good news, and I've got bad news. . .”
Chapter 16
The news of Danny Vallero's murder spread quickly. Channel 10 News treated it as a possible drug related murder in a struggle over turf as did the Orlando Sentinel. The medium sized article took up two columns, approximately four inches long.
Brian Purcer stood in the mail room digesting the article with great intensity. He couldn't believe it. He'd just had a fight with this guy about the time that the news story said that he was killed. How could that have happened so quickly after the scene at the bar? He thought that he might be a suspect, but he had several hun
dred witnesses to the fact that he was on stage at the time of the killing. Besides, the police had to know that Danny had made many enemies in his lifetime, several, in fact, at the Orange County Sheriff's Department.
He put the paper down and got back to his duties in the mail room. His mind still raced a mile a minute as he tried to put the thought of Danny Vallero's violent death out of his head.
* * *
Al Michaels sat eating his breakfast scanning the same story that Brian Purcer had read. He, too, was stunned. The timing was unbelievably close to the time of the argument at the "Rock." Had it not been for the timing, Al would have thought "good riddance" to himself and not given the story another thought. He’d just met the guy and already knew that he was no fan of Danny's. Even as he sat there contemplating the events surrounding Danny's death, he felt no remorse. Danny's demise is the world's gain, he thought.
He thought about giving Brian Purcer a call to ask if he'd seen the article, but let the thought pass. He had to work. Besides, Brian worked at the Sentinel. Certainly he'd read the story by now. He'd call Brian later.
* * *
Ginny Parks was horrified. She read the story for the third time and still couldn't believe it. Could this have been my fault? Did Brian or his friend Al have anything to do with this? I hardly even knew this guy. Should I call the police? What should I do? She was frantic and her roommate Sharon noticed.
"What's up, Gin? You look scared shitless.” She paused as Ginny read the story again. “What’s wrong?"
Ginny turned to her friend and said, "You know that guy that I went out with the last couple of nights?"
"You mean the good looking guy from Boston? How could I forget that stud? What's the matter, did he dump you?"
Ginny's tears were welling up in her eyes as she tried to get the message across that it was much more serious than that. She simply handed the paper to Sharon, and pointed to the article with the heading, "Dealer killed in turf war."
Sharon's expression went from dazed to amazed. Her jaw dropped to the table as she scanned the article, then went back over it with more intensity. She was in disbelief that her shy friend could end up in bed with a big-time dope dealer.
Finally she looked at Ginny, who was regaining her composure, and asked, "What the hell happened last night?"
Ginny told Sharon the whole story about her night at the "Rock," from arriving with Danny, to Danny's fight with Brian, to the ride home with Brian and their good-night kiss. She told her how glad she was to be away from Danny, because he was being an obnoxious pig, and how Brian was such a gentleman. Brian had asked her to go out next week, during the week so that it didn't interfere with the band's gig schedule and she agreed.
"Now this changes everything," she sobbed. "What should I do? I can't even think straight."
* * *
By Saturday afternoon, Jason Roberts had had enough bad news. He needed something to cheer him up. The demise of Danny Vallero was no big loss, financially or emotionally. Frankly he was surprised that it took so long for him to get himself killed. He was a loud mouthed punk who thought too much of himself. Like Jamie Watkins, he was trouble waiting to happen. Unlike Jamie Watkins, he brought in a comparatively small income to the organization. Jason Roberts liked to know when things happened, how they happened, and why they happened. He didn't like not knowing why one of his people was "hit" and by all indications, this was a professional hit. He wanted answers and he wanted them soon.
Buddy Mahaffey, his body guard/secretary buzzed him. Buddy was brought into the organization by Phil Daniels. Phil and Buddy were friends in high school. Buddy liked to brawl in barrooms and got a reputation as one tough guy to handle. The Orange County Sheriff's Department didn't like to get calls from bars in Northeast Orange County when it involved Buddy. They knew they were in for a tough night just trying to get him under control. It was after one of these nights that Buddy found himself waking up in the Orange County Jail with a major hangover. Somehow, Phil Daniels had found out about his plight. Phil bailed him out, got the charges dropped, even though Buddy had put two guys in the hospital. Phil offered him a job as a body guard for a guy named Jason Roberts. The one condition of employment was that Buddy stay out of the bars, stay sober while on duty which was twelve hours a day and don't let anyone near Mr. Roberts that didn't have proper clearance.
Buddy had done his job well since signing on with Mr. Roberts and was earning $100,000 per year for his trouble. Buddy was sober, wealthy by some standards, and was staying out of trouble with the Orange County Sheriff's Department. Everyone was happy, especially the deputies who no longer had to wrestle with him on the weekends.
"Mr. Roberts, Phil Daniels to see you, sir."
"Send him through, Buddy," Jason Roberts said into the intercom.
Buddy turned to Phil and said, "Go on in, Phil. Did you see where Danny Vallero got wasted? What a shithead. You had to figure he'd get it sooner or later."
"Yeah, that might be one of the things Mr. R. wants to talk about. I hope I can take over some of his territory. I know some of the folks he was rippin' off. I'll let you know how it goes."
With that, Phil entered the massive office of Jason Roberts. No matter how many times he visited the office, he was awestruck. With all the book shelves filled with legal volumes, classics, and reference books, one would think Mr. Roberts was a lawyer. Jason Roberts was also an avid diver and collector of rare sea creatures. Some were stuffed, some were in aquariums. Others were on the walls in fabulous paintings. Jason Roberts loved the sea and all the beauty it held. Phil was especially impressed by the enlarged photos of underwater sea life. There were several on each wall of the office. But it was business time now.
"Good job hooking the Grimes kid, Phil. Do you think he'll work out over the long haul?"
"Yes sir. He'll do fine. The only potential problem may be his wife but she's teed at him right now and we're gonna make sure she stays that way. She'll be leaving him real soon for good. Neither one of them know it right now though. Sir, I'd like to run with this one. I know I can make a real dealer out of him and keep him in line." Phil wanted to move up in the organization and the only way to do it was to convince the main man that you could bring in the cash and protect the organization. He felt that Jamie Watkins was a liability at the latter.
"Jamie brought in this mark, Phil. It’s his operation. I can't take that away from him. We can't be snaking our own people like that."
"Mr. Roberts, may I speak frankly? Jamie . . . well, he's gonna get . . . he's trouble waiting to happen. You know how he is. His big mouth is always drawing attention to himself and anyone he's around. I know he brings in a ton of bread to . . .”
Mr. Roberts held up his hand, indicating that he'd heard enough. Phil knew to stop at that point and listened for Jason Roberts' words of wisdom.
"I know what you think about Jamie. But he brings us over $1,000,000 a year and is constantly building on that. Can you match those numbers?"
Phil knew he couldn't, but he was no slouch either. His numbers were growing at a faster rate than Jamie's. He knew this because he had access to the books. Phil hadn't been working for Mr. Roberts nearly as long as Jamie but already was bringing in over $600,000 each year, and he was hungry. He wanted more action.
"Sir, I'll show you what I can do and I'll also do it without sticking out like a sore thumb."
"Maybe it is time for a carpet call for Mr. Watkins. I've heard a few things about him recently that have disturbed me. In the meantime, keep your head up. You’re doing a fine job and because you’re doing such a fine job I've got something special for you. You've heard about this Danny Vallero thing?" Phil nodded. "We're going to have to make some adjustments. We don't know much about the hit yet. We want to make sure we recover as many of Danny's customers as possible. You worked with Danny some so I felt that you'd be able to handle it. Are you up to it?"
Phil eyes widened. He hadn't heard the term "hit" with regards to Danny's death bef
ore. He thought that it was some punk that Danny was ripping off or some jealous husband whose wife Danny had screwed. The general feeling among the organization was that it was no loss. Many others felt that it was only a matter of time and Jamie Watkins would join him among the deceased.
He looked at Mr. Jason Roberts and said with absolute confidence, "Yes sir. I'll handle it. Is there anything else that needs attention in regards to the hit that you'd . . ." Again Mr. Roberts held up his hand and cut Phil off.
"It’s being handled, Phil. You just concentrate on business. If you need help finding Danny's contacts, Donnie Lee Lester will assist. He's already been told to lend a hand if asked. Listen Phil, I know you're eager and that's good. But don't get too eager. That's when you start to get sloppy . . . and dangerous. We can't afford to lose good people."
As Phil rose, he said, "Yes sir. Thanks. You won't be disappointed."
"I know." Mr. Roberts enjoyed giving his guys the pat on the back when they deserved it. Phil Daniels was one who did. He'd come a long way in a short period of time, but he still had much to learn. Now he had to deal with one who knew too much and had the bad habit of showing it off in public. Jamie Watkins may bring in the bucks, but he was quickly becoming a liability. He needed to be calibrated. Mr. Roberts was a real technician when it came to calibrating.
The other thing on Jason’s mind was about Danny Vallero's shooter. It was an exceptionally clean job. Rented house across the street for surveillance; high power rifle; bulls-eye shot to the center of the forehead from about 120 yards. Worse, his contacts in the Sheriff's department had no clues beyond some hair, and some partially digested food. No other leads. The renter was a known prostitute who was long gone from the area, according to her friends. The name on the lease was fictitious. Worse, it wasn't a turf war like the paper said. In a turf war, messages are passed warning of a takeover of territory. There were no messages. Nothing to indicate that a gang was moving in. No attempts to scare other dealers and only one dead body. Danny Vallero. No big loss. He'd have felt better if he'd have had Danny killed himself. But not knowing really bothered Jason Roberts. Who? Why? These were big questions, but they had no obvious answers.
A Lifetime of Vengeance Page 11