by Don Easton
“I know, we’re sorry,” Jack replied, “but something happened a couple of hours ago. We want to tell you about it.”
“Okay … shoot. I mean, I’m listening.”
“I don’t expect you’ll be able to help … at least, not at this stage, but I want your thoughts on the matter.”
“I’m good at giving free advice,” Lance replied. “It’s apparent from being caught by you guys that heeding good advice is where I have a problem.” He shook his head in apparent self-recrimination. “You warned me years ago that you’d be watching me. I should’ve listened.”
“It is what it is,” Jack replied. “Now let me tell you why we called.”
After hearing the details of what happened, Lance’s jaw slackened, then he said, “They were fuckin’ laughing?”
“Yes,” Jack replied.
“Christ, for sure that sounds like kids. Bet they were high.”
“Kids with Glock 19 pistols equipped with laser grips,” Jack added.
Lance appeared to think about it. “Yeah, it’s gotta be one of the punk gangs. Maybe screwed up and got the wrong guy. You can tell I-HIT they’re probably on the right track.”
“The thing is,” Jack said, “I-HIT asked for our help.” He stared silently at Lance.
“Me? Are you serious?” Lance replied.
“Like I said, we’re only running it past you as an afterthought. I already told I-HIT we couldn’t help them.”
“You don’t even know for sure if it was a punk gang behind it. For me to start asking questions would make me sound like a cop.”
“I understand,” Jack replied. “There’s something else, though. What about your hit squad?”
“The three-three? What about them? That story you spread about one of them being a rat worked. They’re no longer active.”
“I was thinking about the gun angle,” Jack replied. “Two expensive pieces were tossed. If it was one of the street gangs, is there any chance they got them from your guys?”
“No way they’d have gotten them from us,” Lance said firmly. “Not a chance. That’d be like giving a potential enemy a gun to shoot you with.”
“Do you have any ideas who’d be selling those kind of weapons?” Laura prodded.
Lance gestured with his hands to indicate he didn’t know.
“Where would you get weapons if the need arose?” Jack asked.
“We’ve had our own gun connection from our U.S. chapter in Frisco long before these wannabe gangs were formed. There’s no way the punks get their pieces from any of our people. Not in Canada or any other country.”
“The ones you guys have … I presume some are military grade?” Jack asked.
“Some,” Lance replied. “We’re not really at war with anyone at the moment, so our arsenal is small. A few AR-15s and assorted pistols. If things ever heat up, then we’d be getting more, including grenades and explosives.”
“Would you happen to have any info I could pass on to ATF?” Jack asked.
“You wanna get the U.S. Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives involved?”
“Might be nessary.”
Lance paused, apparently thinking about it. “No, not really. The last acquisition for us was years ago. I don’t even know who was involved.”
“Do you have a piece yourself?” Laura asked.
Lance cast each of them a suspicious glance. “Makes me wonder if you already know,” he said.
Jack and Laura stared back at him poker-faced.
Lance made a face, appearing to brood about what they knew. “Last week we had a member visiting us from Germany. He gave me a Walther PPK as a goodwill gift.”
“How’d he get it in?” Jack asked, giving no indication if they already knew he had the pistol. If Lance thought they did know, it would ensure he was more open and truthful in whatever he told them.
“The guy who gave it to me has a brother who works for a company that exports car parts globally. Guess it wasn’t difficult, although a little risky. The parts are often checked at Customs.” He paused, then added, “The gun is new, right out of the box. Same type as James Bond uses.”
“You have it with you?” Laura asked.
Lance gave a wry smile. “No, I’m not the James Bond type of guy. I don’t even like having it around.” He eyed Jack. “I’ll give it to you if you like.”
“What would I want it for?” Jack responded.
“I don’t know. You could have it as a throw away,” Lance suggested.
“You’ve been watching too much television,” Jack replied. He glanced at his watch. “Okay, until next time then.”
“Hang on a sec,” Lance replied. “About this guy getting whacked in front of his wife. If it was a case of mistaken identity and it came out in the news that way, I could put the word out to warn both gangs to be more careful. Shooting an innocent person is about the same as when they hassled the prosecutor. It could justify the cops getting more manpower.” Lance looked to Jack for a reaction. When he didn’t get one he added, “Who knows, maybe we’d hear something about who did it that way.”
Jack frowned. “Even if it did come out in the news, would you be telling the gangs to smarten up if it wasn’t for the fact you’re working for us?”
Lance’s eyebrows furrowed.
“Exactly,” replied Jack.
“Yeah, but the more I can do to get this monkey off my back the better. I hate being a rat.”
“It’s better to have a monkey on your back than being dead,” Jack cautioned, then glanced at Laura. “Or in our case, a pair of monkeys.”
“Hey, speak for yourself,” Laura said.
Lance appeared to be too deep in thought for humour. “If it came out on the news that it was a case of mistaken identity, then I could get away with it. I’d approach it as basically being an extension of the same shit they pulled on the prosecutor. At least, that’s what I’d tell Whiskey Jake. I’d go at it about them inflaming the public and scaring the citizens. Hell, Whiskey Jake might even agree.”
Jack paused for a moment. Two times in a week … will it arouse suspicion? Or will it work in our favour because Whiskey Jake might think Lance has a burr up his ass about how stupid the gangs are and think that this has simply aggravated him more? He glanced at Lance. You do know how to take care of yourself.
“So? Should I go for it?” Lance prodded.
Jack nodded. “I’ll talk to I-HIT. If they’re convinced it was an innocent person being shot down in front of his family I’ll get them to do a press release. I’m sure it’d garner a lot of attention with the media.”
“Okay,” Lance replied. “If it hits the news I’ll meet with Whiskey Jake and get the ball rolling.”
“If you do, would it be any more risk to ask the gangs where they get their guns?” Jack asked. “Maybe suggest to Whiskey Jake that it’d be a good idea to know so if you ever needed to back one gang, or more importantly, went to war with either gang, you’d know who to wipe out to stop their flow of weapons.”
Lance chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” Jack asked.
“Sometimes it surprises me how much you think like we do.”
“Knowing how you think doesn’t always mean that’s how I think,” Jack replied. He waited a beat. “So, would that scenario work for you?”
“Yeah, I’d be comfortable doing that. The Death Heads are dumb and usually trying to impress us. A lot of them are spoiled kids who were left at home with both parents working. They look at shooting people like they’re playing video games. If I had my guys ask them if they tossed the guns after the hit, they might say something that’ll lead to talk about where they get them from.”
“And the United Front?” Jack prodded.
“As far as those boys go, they’re a smaller gang. A lot of them are from the rez — no lily-white spoiled brats there. Most of ’em know how the game is played. They’re far more experienced and tend to be more tight-lipped.” Lance shrugged. “I can still
try.”
“That’s all a mule can do,” Jack replied. “Let me know.”
As they walked back to the SUV Laura sighed audibly.
“What’s wrong,” Jack asked.
She gestured toward Lance who was walking in the opposite direction. “Think he’ll come through for us?”
“Hope so.”
“I feel like Connie. I want these guys caught.”
“If he doesn’t, I’m sure Connie will catch them sooner or later.”
Laura’s face darkened. “Providing that later doesn’t mean another innocent person gets killed.”
There’s always that possibility.…
The image of the paper bunny rabbit on the fridge played in Jack’s head as he unlocked the SUV and got inside. He then thought about the danger he’d placed Lance in and recalled a picture he’d seen a few months previous. It was of Lance and his wife along with their grandson, who was then a year old. Hopefully if that kid makes a bunny rabbit, Lance will still be alive to see it.
Chapter Eleven
Jack was blunt when Connie answered her phone. “Okay, you win,” he said.
“I thought I would,” Connie replied. “I saw how angry you were and knew it wasn’t all at me.”
“You played us like you were an operator. Not a good one, mind you. It was rather obvious.”
“I knew you’d clue in. You’re not stupid … but you are emotional. My only concern is that you’re too emotional and not pragmatic enough to accept the proper course of the judicial process.”
“Believe me, this homicide is all yours.” Jack paused. “I’ll give you credit. What you deal with can be gut-wrenching. I’ve got enough things keeping me awake at night as it is.”
“As callous as it sounds, you do get used to it,” Connie replied. “You become like a surgeon and try not to personalize things too much … but sometimes you can’t help it.”
“I take it this is one of those times,” Jack said.
“That’s for sure. It’ll help, though, if I get a chance to slap the cuffs on whoever did it.” She paused. “Are you going to speak to your guy and see if he can find something out?”
“Already did.”
“Oh, Jack … thank you.”
“I’m not making any promises. If he does comes up with something that can give you a nudge in the right direction, then the rest is up to you. For Laura and me, we’d then be done with that end of it.”
“That end of it?” Connie questioned.
“I’d like to find out where they’re getting their weapons from and put a stop to it.”
“You and the FBI both,” Connie replied.
“The FBI?”
“Both guns we found at the scene were reported stolen from a gun shop in Alabama. A place called Live Free Guns. It was cleaned out entirely and the father and son who owned it were murdered.”
“Sounds like the store should have been called Live by the Gun, Die by the Gun.”
“Trust you to think of that. Two brothers, Zachary and Luke Coggins, were identified as suspects but fled before the arrests.”
“There’s money to be made smuggling them into Canada,” Jack noted. “Legally you could purchase a Glock in Canada for a grand and maybe tack on about four hundred dollars extra for a laser grip. Buying hot ones could easily double the price.”
“Yeah, well … guns aren’t what I’m interested in. I want to find out who pulled the triggers.”
“Oh, you’re one of those people.”
“One of what people?”
“Guns don’t kill people, people do.”
Connie gave a snort. “Don’t even get into that shit with me. I’ve been to too many murders to listen to that crap.” She paused. “Do you honestly think your guy will be able to help?”
“Do you have anything to support that it was a case of mistaken identity? Other than they seemed like a decent family?”
“I know for sure it was a case of mistaken identity. Roger came up with something. Irving’s truck is the same make, model, and colour of a truck owned by a United Front member by the name of Barney Smolak. He lives two streets over from the victim. There’s no doubt in my mind that the Death Heads hit the wrong guy.”
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Jack swore.
“Here you go getting all emotional. I’ve seen that movie before and —”
“I’m not in the mood for a lecture,” Jack said harshly. “If you leak it to the media that it was a case of mistaken identity, then I’ll get my source to nose around. Also, include a blurb about the police being concerned about the laser-sighted handguns being found at the scene.”
Connie paused. “It’ll be on the news by suppertime,” she said, then ended the call.
* * *
The following day was Good Friday and Jack was barbecuing hot dogs for lunch when his phone vibrated. He put the tongs down and looked at the call display. Okay, Lance, what do you have for me?
“So, to make it look good, ’cause the news didn’t say which gang, I had my guy visit the United Front and they denied it was them,” Lance announced. “Also brought up the topic of guns and all they’d say is they shop around and got ’em here and there.”
“What about the Death Heads?” Jack asked. “I-HIT thinks they’re the ones who did it.”
“Borman is visiting someone on the Island and won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon. One of my prospects is scheduled a meet with him Saturday night.”
“Which prospect?”
“Buster Linquist. We don’t show these punk gangs any more respect than we need to. Sending a prospect for something like this is enough.”
“I understand. How hard will Linquist be on him?”
“I ordered the easy approach. No need to spank ’im. Linquist deals with them on occasion as it is, so Borman should feel more relaxed. I didn’t want to come on strong because it might scare him into lying about it.”
“Probably the right play,” Jack replied. He waited a beat. “I really want these guys. The guns found at the murder scene were stolen in Alabama. An entire gun shop was cleaned out and the father and son who owned the store were both murdered. Two brothers are wanted by the FBI over it.”
“So this connection is important to you,” Lance noted. “It might lead you to the two brothers.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “Meaning would it be a big check mark toward helping get me off your back?”
“I was hopin’ so,” Lance replied.
“Somewhat, but my focus is on whoever is bringing them into Canada. I’ve got enough to deal with that I don’t need to go poaching down there. The two brothers are the FBI’s problem, not mine.”
“Yeah, okay. I understand. No worries, I’ll get on it.”
“Good. Make damn certain you don’t do anything to jeopardize yourself.” When Lance didn’t respond, Jack added, “You hear me?”
Lance’s tone sounded stark. “I’ll look after myself.”
Sounds like there’s no doubt about that. Now I have to worry. Is that a bad thing?
Chapter Twelve
It was 6:30 a.m. Easter Sunday when Jack was roused from his sleep by another call from Lance. He mumbled an apology to Natasha, then reached for his bedside table and answered.
“Hope I didn’t wake ya,” Lance said.
“It’s okay. I had to get up to answer the phone anyway.” Jack stifled a yawn. “How come you’re up so early?”
“On our way to see our grandson look for candy.”
“Isn’t he only about a year-and-a-half old?”
“He can crawl,” Lance said, sounding defensive. “Anyway, I’ve got something for you. Linquist paid Borman a visit last night.”
“And?”
“This should make you happy. He admitted it was his guys. Linquist then told him that if his guys were dumb enough to kill the wrong guy, then they were probably dumb enough to talk if caught. Borman then said they call them the two rats, but there’s no way they’d ever rat. He swore that they we
re solid.”
“Any idea who the two rats are?”
“Yes, Linquist was at their place once. Their first names are Aron and Jeremy. They live with two other guys, one whose name is Pete. We don’t know the other guy’s name. I was also told that they live in PoCo, but it wouldn’t have been appropriate for me ask for an address. I don’t talk to Linquist direct because he’s only a prospect. Everything I get is second-hand, so to have him asked questions about things that shouldn’t concern me would raise suspicion.”
“I know someone who’d probably know who they are,” Jack replied.
“CFSEU no doubt,” Lance replied.
“You got it.”
“We also found out they get their pieces from some guy they call Zombie.”
“Zombie? As in someone who crawled out of a grave?”
“Yeah. I tell ya’, we’re dealing with kids. Even Borman has the mentality of a teenager. He offered to introduce Linquist to him if he wanted to score some pieces.”
“When?”
“Linquist said he’d get back to him on that. He’s still prospecting and he figured that wasn’t a decision he could make on his own.”
“Is Zombie an American?”
“Don’t know.”
“I’ll get you to follow up on placing an order, but wait a few days and I’ll talk to you about it later. I want to see how things pan out with the two rats first.”
“Fine by me. I’d be putting myself in hot water if the two rats and the gun dealer were all busted right after I sent my guy over asking questions about ’em.”
“I’ll look after you on that. The last time I nailed people with illegal handguns was when two warring gangs met to discuss turf issues in a lounge full of innocent people. I attended and each side thought I was with the other side. While the bosses met at one table, many of the gang members sat nearby holding their guns under the tables so they’d be ready to start shooting if things went wrong. Others were posted with guns outside. Talk about a powder keg. I had the tactical team swoop in and make arrests and it ended with them all getting two hundred and fifty dollar fines.”