“I know this neighborhood; I worked another case a few blocks from here. There’s an alley behind the building for truck access. You might send two guys back there and the other two to the front. Give them my number. I’ll watch the front entrance and parking lot until they get here. I can’t do anything about the back.”
“No sense crying over what we can’t change. I’ll have my guy call you.”
The feds arrived in fifteen minutes. Barry Barocca was in charge. He’d called me after Lopez hung up and arranged to meet me down the block from the target building. He shook hands as we introduced ourselves. “Special Agent Lopez said you were the guy who spotted Ngombo’s vehicle. Nice work, what with its license plate facing the wrong way.”
“Thanks. No one entered or left the parking lot since I talked to SAIC Lopez.” Gene’s whole title was a mouthful, but some feds are picky about that. I didn’t know if Barocca was that way, and it never hurts to be my usual charming self. “Moffett likely posts a sentry in back, so I’d suggest that your agents in the alley stay out of sight.”
“I put one at each end to seal the alley. Now we wait for the warrant and the assault team.”
“Okay. You don’t need me anymore.” I had places to go and people to see. “Call me if you need me.”
Chapter 47
Ngombo pulled the Denali to the curb across the six-lane boulevard from the Sunny Place, the hunter assessing the landscape where his quarry was hidden. Lush flowers, bushes, and trees grew between the boulevard and the six-foot wall around the facility. No security gate, only a two-lane driveway of ornamental pavers that began at the street and led between ornamental pillars with carriage lamps on top. He pulled ahead and peered through the entrance. The driveway wound between two large parking lots and disappeared at the back. The place looked like a luxury resort.
He drove up the driveway. It ended at a circular turnaround with an ornamental fountain in the center. A one story entrance building had a green tile roof over coral-colored walls. The six-story tower adjacent had balconies for each room. Lodgings for the patients? Patients? Or were they residents? It didn’t matter to Ngombo. Maybe customers was the right word. A white-columned porte-cochere led from the turnaround to double glass entrance doors. The parking areas on either side of the curved driveway were half full of cars, mostly shiny new ones. The place looked expensive and extensive, designed for high-end customers. He continued around the circle and returned to the boulevard.
Rice had no money. Perhaps his rich friend, the American football player, was paying. If so, that was one more link between Rice and a big money source. The leverage that Moffett wanted.
The place was too big and too rich to invade like Doraleen Rice’s house. They must lure Rice to come to them.
Chapter 48
Flamer sent me a report on Walter Wellington. Wellington managed a franchised hardware store in Fort Lauderdale. Like many college football players, he didn’t complete enough coursework to earn a degree before his athletic scholarship ran out. At least he had a job.
The entrance door rang a bell when I opened it.
“Can I help you?” Wellington was a little shorter than I was and a lot heavier. Many men add fifty pounds of muscle when they play NCAA football, except for wide receivers, cornerbacks, and safeties. When they burn three or four thousand calories a day in practice, they can handle the weight as useful muscle. When they stop playing, they either lose the weight or it turns to fat. Wellington’s muscle had turned to fat. His red face indicated he suffered from high blood pressure too. Nice souvenirs of his UAC college career. If I had been fast enough to play NCAA football, my life would have taken a far different path.
“I’m Chuck McCrary. I called you yesterday.”
We shook hands and Wellington told a clerk he was taking a break. We walked across the street to a coffee shop. “Yeah, I remember Al Rice. He played left side linebacker; I played right. Gosh, that was fifteen years ago.”
“Sixteen, actually. That’s when you and Bob Barnabas and Al Rice were kicked off the football team.”
Wellington’s eyes widened. “Oh crap. This is about Bettina Becker, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. I need information.”
“You work for the DA?”
“I’m not a police detective. I’m a private investigator.” I handed him a business card. “I work for Al’s mother Doraleen Rice.”
“So you’re not a cop?”
“Nope. I couldn’t get you into trouble if I wanted to, and I don’t want to. I only need information to help Al Rice out of a tough spot.”
“What? Did that bitch sue Al? Hasn’t the statute of limitations run by now? Let me tell you, the whole gang-bang thing was her idea from the get-go.”
“No, she’s not suing Al. I only need information.”
He looked relieved. “What do you need to know?”
“What happened that night?”
Wellington sighed. He studied his coffee cup.
I waited. Maybe his mind was revisiting the past, or at least the aftermath.
Finally, he leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “I remember it like it was yesterday. Or maybe last night. It wasn’t rape; I guarantee you that. It was consensual all around. I know it’s not politically correct to say a woman asked for it, but in this case it’s true. Bettina Becker literally asked for it.” He leaned back and spread his hands. “From all four of us.”
Doraleen said there were three players involved. Hmm. “Tell me about it.”
“Al and me and a few other football players, we heard about this keg party at somebody’s apartment off campus. Small cover charge for all the beer you could drink. I think it was like fifteen bucks or something. We figured what the hell? We were big football players. We could drink a hell of a lot more than fifteen bucks’ worth of beer. It was as much a joke as it was anything else. Football season was over and we weren’t gonna start spring training for a few more weeks. We paid our fifteen bucks and downed a lot of beer. Lots more than we should have.” He sighed. “Big, big mistake.”
“Who all was with you?”
“Me and Al and Bullet and Tank.”
I got a sick sensation in my stomach when he mentioned Tank. “How many other people?”
“Bettina was one of maybe twenty girls there. Must have been forty guys.”
“Sounds like a big party,” I said, just to say something.
“Oh, it was. People filled the living room, the dining room, the kitchen, and spilled out onto the pool deck. Everywhere you looked, there were students drinking beer.”
“Including Bettina?”
“Especially Bettina. She was German. Did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“An exchange student from some German town I never heard of.” He smiled a faraway smile. “She had this real cute accent, like in the movies, except with her it was for real. She talked about how much she missed German beer. Said she could drink our weak American beer all night, and she wouldn’t feel it.” He looked me in the eye. “She was wrong about that. Pretty soon she couldn’t hardly walk straight, and she stumbled into the deep end of the pool. Me and Bullet were pretty drunk by that time, but we jumped in after her. We pulled her to the shallow end. She called us her heroes and said we’d saved her life. Hell, the pool was only six feet deep. She was so tall, she could stand on her tiptoes and keep her face out of the water.
“She’s wasn’t in any danger; she was just playing a drunken game and we were too. Then she kissed us both, and it wasn’t a peck on the cheek. She throws her arms around my neck and sticks her tongue down my throat. She kisses Bullet the same way. Like I said, the whole thing was her idea. We didn’t even come on to her and she was hot to trot.”
“But you didn’t have sex with her in the pool, did you?”
“Nah, there were fifteen or twenty people around the pool for crissakes. The three of us climbed out sopping wet. It was pretty funny really. Al and Tank were standing
near the pool to watch the show. Bettina wore a white UAC Falcons tee-shirt with no bra, like in a wet tee-shirt contest. Swear to God, except for the Falcons logo on the front, she looked topless. Her tits were spectacular. Bettina saw Al and Tank staring at her and asked if they had been ready to rescue her. They said yes and she gave each of them a passionate kiss like she did me and Bullet. She called them her handsome black heroes. Bettina says ‘Let’s all go upstairs and take off these wet clothes.’ She leads us back inside—including Al and Tank—up the stairs, and into a bedroom.”
“All five of you were in the bedroom?”
“Yeah. Bettina strips off her clothes and stands there stark naked and dripping wet. Man, she was fine.” He smiled at the memory. “She kicks her clothes into a corner. She says, ‘I will fuck all four of my handsome heroes, one at a time. I will do the wet ones first.” She tells me and Bullet to take off our wet clothes. She watches and whistles and claps while we do it. Of course, we’re smashed out of our minds.” Wellington drank coffee.
“She grabs me and Bullet around our necks and she rubs against us and she says, ‘So who wants to come first? You two handsome black ones, you can watch until it is your turn.’ She pushes me onto the bed, climbs on top, and she says, ‘You will come first.’ The whole thing was her idea, honest to God. She literally asked for it.”
He shook his head. “Biggest, stupidest mistake I ever made. I should have run like hell, wet clothes and all.”
“So Al and Tank watched?”
“Them and Bullet. Frankly, it was a little distracting having three men watching me and Bettina getting it on. What with that and all the beer I’d drunk, she had to work a little to, ah… get me across the goal line, so to speak. But she managed. Then when she finished with me, she rolled off me and said, ‘Now the other white hero.’ She shoved me over and I fell onto the floor. She lay down on the bed and told Bullet she wanted on the bottom this time. She told him to climb on top. I felt a little sick from so much beer, so I pulled my wet clothes back on and left.”
“Where were Tank and Al?”
“They were standing to one side watching. When I closed the door behind me, Bullet was a-humping up and down like one of those oil well pumps. He didn’t seem to mind anybody watching. Of course, Bullet was always a showoff.” He finished his coffee and crushed the cup in his hand. “And I never saw the bitch again until the school disciplinary hearing.”
“So what happened with Al and Tank? Did they have sex with her too?”
Wellington shrugged. “Beats the shit outta me, man. You’d have to ask them.”
Chapter 49
FBI Agent Barry Barocca called as I fought rush hour traffic on my way back to Port City. I answered with the Bluetooth, slowed down, and eased over to the right lane of I-95. “Please tell me you rescued Doraleen Rice.”
“Sorry, Chuck. She wasn’t there.”
“Did you arrest Teddy Ngombo?”
“He wasn’t there either. Neither was Monster Moffett. We caught the two goombahs who were sentries at the front and back windows and two other guys. Fortunately, all four had outstanding warrants. We’ll hold them as long as we want. We found something you might clear up for us. Could you come by the crime scene?”
Twenty minutes later. I parked on the street and walked to the yellow crime scene tape. A local Port City cop stopped me. “Sorry, sir, you can’t enter here.”
“Special Agent Barocca asked me to come down. Call him please.”
He did. “Yes, sir, go right in.” He lifted the yellow tape for me to duck under.
Barocca waited at the top of the stairs on the second floor. “Come on up, Chuck. We found a place where the victim may have been held.” He led me to a windowless room that held a cot, a camp toilet, a folding card table, and two metal chairs.
I took a deep breath. “She was here. That’s Doraleen’s scent. Unless one of the kidnappers wears Shalimar perfume.” I surveyed the room. One word was scraped into the faded paint on the left wall: Galahad. “She wrote that word as a message to me.” I turned to Barocca. “She calls me her Sir Galahad. How do you think she wrote that?”
“As near as we can figure, she pulled off the rubber caster from that chair leg and used the bottom of the leg to gouge letters on the wall. Pretty clever.”
“She’s a smart lady. Have you received any message from the kidnappers?” I asked.
“No, and that’s unusual.”
“This is an unusual kidnapping. We know who did it, and they know that we know. At least we needn’t worry that they’ll kill her because she can identify them. They’re not holding her for ransom so much as for collateral.”
“Collateral?” asked Barocca.
I explained the situation. “So Al owns Moffett two hundred thousand dollars. All Moffett wants is his money. He must figure Al will convince Doraleen not to press charges after she’s released.”
Barocca said, “Doesn’t work that way. Doraleen doesn’t have to press charges. He’s a federal case.”
I shook my head. “He was already a federal case. Maybe a mental case too. Moffett’s not rational.”
Chapter 50
I met Tank and Al in the foyer of the Sunny Place. Twelve-foot ceiling with white crown molding, peaceful green walls with white picture frame molding. A deep green carpet absorbed most sounds. In this early evening after dinner, it was peaceful, serene, and deserted except for the receptionist.
“Did you have dinner, Chuck?” Tank glanced at his watch. “I ate here with Al. They have great food, and they’re open for a few more minutes.”
“I stopped at the Day and Night Diner on the way out. Thanks anyway. Though I could use that coffee I smell.” I spotted an elegant sitting room across from the receptionist. A mahogany sideboard held a coffee urn and service items.
The three of us fixed coffee and found seats in a private corner.
“How are you doing, Al?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Earlier I had the shakes so bad that I sat down a few times. I can’t hold this coffee cup for more than a few seconds or my hand shakes.” He set the cup down. “I got the sweats so bad that I mopped my brow with a towel. I had the chills so bad that I got in bed under a blanket. But at least I’m sober.” He smiled a thin smile. “Of course, between this place and Tank, I didn’t have much choice.”
“The key question is what will you do when you do have a choice?” I asked. “Tank’s not going to be your nanny forever.”
Al’s smile faded. “One day at a time. Isn’t that what they say: Take it one day at a time.”
We were alone. “I met with Walter Wellington today.”
Al said, “Who?” Tank’s eyes narrowed. He knew.
“Wally Wellington. He played right side linebacker at UAC. You played left.” I watched his eyes while I sipped my coffee.
“Oh… yeah.” Al looked even more uncomfortable than when I’d first arrived.
“He told me his role in the Bettina Becker situation.”
Tank set his cup down with a bang. “Chuck, I told you that whole thing was ancient history. It has no relevance to Al’s current problems.”
“I believe it does, Tank. I think Al hasn’t recovered to this day from the Bettina Becker fiasco. When something bad happens, it throws anyone for a loop. I know it does me. It takes time to recover, if you ever do. If it’s a physical injury, like the wounds I got in Iraq and Afghanistan, then you can be antsy about things for a long time. I still feel a physical reaction where my worst scars are. You follow me?”
Tank rubbed his left knee. I don’t think he realized he did it. His knee surgery in his second year in the NFL had cost him half a season. “Tank, does your knee ever bother you?”
He smiled. “You’ve got me there, bro.”
“And Al,” I said, “you lost the love of your life, Janice Jackson. That’s got to leave a scar. I’ve had my heart broken four times. It hurts like hell every time. Am I right?”
Al’s face fl
ashed two or three different expressions so fast I couldn’t follow them. I had struck a nerve that had been raw for sixteen years.
And I knew why. “When did you find her again?” I asked.
Al’s eyes cut to my face then off to the side. “What do you mean?”
“When did you discover Janice Jackson was dancing at the Crazy Lady under the name Jasmine?”
“You know about that, huh?”
I nodded. “When did you find out she’d come back to Port City?”
“How’d you know that, Chuck?”
“I’m the world’s greatest detective; I have magical powers. Tell me how long you’ve known she was Janice Jackson.”
“A few months. It was a fluke when I found her. I was drinking in the Crazy Lady one night and she comes on stage and dances. At first I didn’t pay much attention. You seen one stripper, you seen ‘em all, right? But this girl danced to Swan Lake. Strippers don’t dance to Swan Lake.”
“But Janice did,” I said.
“Yeah. She was exquisite. I even stopped drinking long enough to watch her performance. I didn’t recognize her at first.”
“No surprise after sixteen years,” I said. “The last you heard, she was studying ballet in New York, and now she was a redhead.”
“Mainly I didn’t recognize her because I was drunk. I looked at her for the longest time and tried to remember where I knew her from.” He lifted his cup. “After her show, she came out into the audience like they do and made the rounds to collect more tips. I told her how much I enjoyed her show, and asked her if we’d met before.”
“She didn’t recognize you, either?”
“Not then. I mean, I’d changed, y’know. I was sixty pounds lighter, and I’d lost some hair.” He rubbed his receding hairline with his palm. “I hadn’t taken good care of myself, as you know.”
“That’s all changed, buddy,” Tank said. “You’ll get better and better every day from now on.”
Al smiled at his friend and benefactor. “Chuck, you’ve been to the Crazy Lady and the Orange Peel. You know how the dancers moonlight as hookers. They come on to you after their dances.”
Day of the Tiger (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 5) Page 17