The Avenged

by Charles Prandy

  “Go home, Jacob, and take some friendly advice: clear your head some other way. You don’t want to pick up a bottle again. Believe me, you don’t want to go through that hell again.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Well then I guess you won’t mind me letting your wife know that you’re here?” She reached for her cell phone from her purse and flipped it open.

  I raised my hands in defeat, “Okay, I get it.”

  I turned around and stood from the barstool, leaned over and kissed Nadine on the cheek.

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “No, really, thanks.”

  I turned and walked out of O’Malley’s forever.

  Fifty-Nine

  Houston, Texas

  Greg Bines, a short, stocky African American, was behind a counter, locking the counter cases. Cliff Akers, a tall, thin, pale-skinned man with shoulder-length hair and a thick mustache stood behind another counter of the Houston Premier Gun Shop, clipping together the receipts for the day. The counters were across from each other and held various handguns on display. On the walls were different kinds of machine guns and framed pictures of various guns. The shop was getting ready to close and there hadn’t been a customer in nearly an hour.

  “What you getting into tonight?” Cliff asked.

  “Same thing I always get into, my sloppy wife.”

  They both laughed.

  “I don’t even need to guess what you’re doing,” Greg said. “Hitting up that nasty strip club with those two-dollar strippers and one-dollar hookers.”

  “Hey, you know my motto, once the lights are off, we all look the same.”

  “You couldn’t pay me to go into that disease-infested hole.”

  “Ain’t that bad. I only caught crabs once.”

  “You need help.”

  “Come on man, it ain’t that bad. You just need to shave your pubic hairs and wash them off. Good as new once they’re gone.”

  “Okay, you really need some help.”

  “No, I need some ones. It’s going to be packed tonight and I plan on getting some good head.”

  “Should feel good. Most of them don’t have teeth.”

  They laughed again.

  “What time is Raul coming for the pickup?” Greg asked.

  “Should be here within a half an hour.”

  Just then, the front door opened and a bell chimed. Greg looked up and was surprised to see the large man standing in their shop.

  “Nathan,” Cliff said. He stopped clipping the receipts together and walked around the counter. “What are you doing here?”

  Nathan looked around the gun shop. “The judge asked me to come.”

  Greg suddenly felt very unnerved. Nathan’s reputation preceded him, and Greg knew that whenever the judge asked him to pay someone a visit, things usually didn’t end well. Greg looked at Nathan’s hands and noticed that he was wearing gloves.

  “To what do we owe this honor?” Cliff asked. He tried to smile, but Greg saw that it was forced.

  “This isn’t an honor visit,” Nathan said. “I think you know why I’m here.”

  “I honestly don’t. Our guy is about a half an hour away from making a pickup. He’s even picking up two Armalite assault rifles, which go for ten grand each. Apparently, that’s the cartel’s weapon of choice these days.”

  “I know what he’s picking up.”

  The room fell silent. Greg thought he heard a roach skitter across the floor, but he wasn’t sure.

  Nathan backed towards the door and turned the lock. He looked around the room and Greg saw that Nathan’s eyes had landed on the camera propped against the rear wall in the corner.

  “The judge wants his twenty grand back.”

  “Twenty grand?” Cliff asked.

  “Don’t play stupid. Twenty grand and I leave.”

  “I don’t have twenty grand.”

  “Too bad for you.”

  Nathan whipped out a handgun and shot off two rounds to Cliff’s chest. Greg jumped back and bent down behind the counter.

  “Stand up, Greg. Don’t be such a pussy.”

  “I…I…I don’t know anything about twenty grand,” Greg said.

  “I know that. If you knew, you’d be dead as well.”

  Nathan put his gun away and stepped over Cliff’s body.

  “He thought he could hide money from us. Big mistake.”

  “What are you going to do with me?”

  “Nothing. After your guy makes the pickup, call the police and tell them you’ve been robbed.”

  Nathan walked to the cash register, punched in a code and the register opened.

  “Go to the back and bring me the disk for the camera and whatever money’s in the safe.”

  Greg left and returned minutes later holding a bag of cash and a CD.

  “You’re our new front man. Take a good look at him. Double-cross us and I’ll be paying you a visit.”

  Nathan grabbed the bag of cash and the CD.

  “Hopefully I won’t be seeing you again.”

  Part Five: Havoc

  Sixty

  FOUR DAYS HAVE GONE by since Stephen Carter was murdered. Whoever was hiding in the balcony of the church that fateful morning made a clean getaway and hadn’t been heard from since. How’d he get up there in the first place without anyone seeing him? Lieutenant Polenski and I questioned Father Jefferson for more than four hours and his story never changed. He’d gotten to the church an hour earlier and started his day, beginning with his devotional scripture reading. Two funerals had been planned for the day, which was confirmed by the church’s secretary. The priest claimed that he had been in his office right up until we arrived at the church that morning.

  Even if the priest had nothing to do with the shooter, how’d the shooter know that we were bringing Stephen to the church in the first place? The only other person who knew where Stephen was going was Lieutenant Polenski. In fact, Lieutenant Polenski hadn’t told me where we were going until we were a few miles away from the church. Was it a setup?

  The second problem that I faced was how to handle Harvey Lindenberg. Harvey’s trail had gone cold again, just like the first time. It’s like he hopped in and out of existence without leaving so much as a fingerprint behind. He had told me that there would be one more killing and then he would leave the city. How long did I have before he killed again? The most obvious link would be someone within Stephen and Faraji’s inner circle. Harvey had killed Faraji and was coming after Stephen, so the third person must somehow be connected to the law firm. I placed police watch with the staff of the law firm, hoping that Harvey would reveal himself sometime soon.

  I interviewed the two witnesses who had been overtaken by Harvey and they both told the same story: that a man had approached them and offered to help in the rain. Once they opened the back door, the man had pulled out a gun and hit one of them over of the head, and then had the other man lead him to the sanctuary. The two men’s criminal records were clean and they had no prior history of violence, arrest or terrorism. Their employer vouched for them and said that they were stand-up men, so I had no reason to think they were any more involved than what they told me.

  The whole thing sucked.

  The one positive about the slow past few days was that I was able to catch up on paperwork and spend time with my wife. A lot of people don’t realize how much paperwork is involved in police work. I don’t mind the paperwork, but I’d rather be on the heels of the two shooters I was trying to catch.

  Little did I know that my slow week was about to come to an end.

  Sixty-one

  STEPHEN CARTER’S FUNERAL WAS filled with former colleagues, friends and family. The mid-sized church on Rte. 450 in Bowie, Maryland, was moderately filled. I came in late, as the procession had already begun, and sat in the back row. There were at least five rows between me and the closest mourners. In the front of the church, I saw Stephen’s dark brown casket with a large bouquet of
colorful flowers sitting on top. A short, pudgy, balding minister stood on a small stage, over top of the casket, behind a wooden podium, speaking a prayer from the Book of Psalms. In the front row, I saw Stephen’s wife wearing a black dress, with two children next to her. From time to time, she’d lower her head, and her shoulders shook just enough that I knew she was crying.

  I scanned the room and recognized some people I’d seen at the Superior Courthouse in D.C. There were a few public defenders, district attorneys and judges. They all were sitting with each other on the right side of the church with the man I was hoping would be here as well, Judge Frank Peters.

  My hands began to sweat, and suddenly I felt very antsy. Judge Frank Peters was the last name that Stephen had said before he took a bullet to the head. He was the key. Stephen worked for him. I was sure of it. I had started a preliminary investigation of the law firm and found no ties between it and the judge, but I knew that he was somehow involved with it.

  Another thirty minutes passed. Various people took to the podium and described the good person that Stephen had been. Even though I had no proof, I knew that Stephen and Faraji Owusu were definitely into something foul, and that he wasn’t the good person who was being described.

  Finally, the minister said a prayer and then an organ began to play softly while people stood from their seats. My anxiety level grew just a hair, as I planned on confronting the judge. People started to file out of the church. Some gathered in groups and talked while others shook hands. I stepped into the aisle and waited for the judge.

  Judge Peters spoke with a few people before making his way to the exit. A tall, burly man with dark hair walked behind him, scoping the room as if he were the judge’s bodyguard. I waited for the judge to finish his conversations before stepping in.

  “Judge Peters? I’m Detective Hayden. I spoke with you a few weeks ago about Faraji Owusu.”

  The judge seemed to have been caught off guard, but tried not to show it, putting on a fake smile.

  “Yes, I remember. How’s the case coming?”

  “Kind of hit a stall, sir.”

  “That kind of thing happens from time to time.”

  The judge started walking down the aisle as if he had finished his conversation with me.

  “Sir, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you some questions about Stephen Carter.”

  The judge paused and then looked around the room. “You do realize that we’re at a funeral here.”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “This type of behavior shouldn’t be carried on at a funeral. I would have expected more professionalism from you, detective.”

  “Yes, sir, I understand, but I was one of the last people to speak with Stephen before he died and he had some interesting things to say about you.”

  Judge Peters cocked his head slightly to the left and I saw a thick vein bulge from his neck. His skin began to redden and when he looked at me, his eyes squinted as if he were a tiger who had just found his prey. When he spoke again, his voice deepened and the words barely passed through his pressed lips.

  “Is there something you want to say to me?”

  At that moment, the large man standing behind the judge took a step closer and peered down at me. I’m six-three, so it felt a little weird having a man look down at me. I momentarily forgot that I was a police detective and felt like a schoolboy about to take a beating from a bully.

  “Actually, I do. Right before Stephen died, he told me that he worked for you. Now, I found that a little interesting, because he was supposed to be a partner of his own law firm.”

  Judge Peters took a step closer. “Look here, detective, I don’t know who you think you are, but I’d warn you to be careful what you’re about to accuse me of.”

  “It sounds like you’re about to threaten me, Your Honor.”

  Judge Peters looked me up and down and then dismissively waved his hand in the air. “This conversation is over.”

  Sixty-two

  JUDGE PETERS SLIPPED A pair of sunglasses over his eyes upon exiting the church. His pulse was racing but he managed to contain himself and not make a scene as he slowly strode to his car. Nathan Hunt followed close behind and said a word or two, but Frank wasn’t paying attention. The detective had gotten too far under his skin to let anything that Nathan said be of any relevance. The only thing that was on Frank’s mind was killing the detective. It has to be done.

  The detective was beginning to put little bits of pieces together, and given the opportunity to do a complete investigation, he might find out that the law firm was really a front. There was no way Frank could be implicated in the firm, but the business would take a huge hit and millions would be lost.

  “Goddammit,” he muttered under his breath.

  He reached his car and handed the keys over to Nathan so that he could sit and think without having to drive. He opened the passenger-side door and sat down. When the door closed, the mirror caught the reflection of Detective Hayden standing in the doorway of the church, looking at Frank’s car.

  Frank stared back at the mirror for what felt like hours, absorbing the hatred that he was starting to feel toward the detective. His eyes couldn’t look away, even when Nathan said something else to him again.

  “Call Polenski,” he said. “I need to see him right away.”

  “The detective?” Nathan responded.

  “That son of a bitch just caused his death sentence.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “Not this time. I don’t want any heat coming down on you. We’ll let Polenski take care of it.”

  Nathan shifted the car into reverse and slowly backed out of the parking lot. When the vehicle began to move forward, Frank looked to his right and saw Detective Hayden still standing in front of the church, looking at him as if to say “Come on and try me.” Frank balled his fists so hard that the tips of his fingernails nearly pierced the flesh of his palms.

  “You’re one dead son of a bitch.”

  Sixty-three

  LATER THAT NIGHT I tossed and turned in my bed for hours. My mind was not allowing me to rest. It was good that Theresa was working the midnight shift at the hospital. She would have thrown me off the bed for causing such a commotion with my back and forth flip-flopping. In all fairness, the floor might have been more comfortable.

  Truth be told, it wasn’t the bed that was causing the discomfort, it was the judge. Ever since the killing of Faraji Owusu, I had witnessed two people murdered inches from me and I believe that Judge Frank Peters was connected in some way. But that’s not what was causing my insomnia. During my tenure with the police department, I had studied lip reading in case I was ever on a stakeout and a person wasn’t wired—I wanted to be able to read the lips of the individuals involved in the sting. My lip-reading training had paid off a couple of times, but never did I think I would need it to read the lips of a judge who said, “You’re one dead son of a bitch.”

  At first, I was shocked. I didn’t move off the church’s steps for over five minutes as my mind wrestled to understand what I had seen. Did the judge really say that? It wasn’t until the pastor tapped my shoulder and asked me if everything was okay that I finally walked to my car.

  The rest of the day was a blur. Nothing new came up on the murders of Faraji Owusu or Stephen Carter, and no new leads on the sniper. I made a few phone calls to the IRS about the law firm, and was told that nothing stood out in their tax filings despite some large settlement statements that the firm had filed. After some additional administrative paperwork, I called it a day and headed home.

  I hadn’t slept much over the past few weeks, and figured that since Theresa was going to be working at night, I would be able to get to bed early for a long and overdue good night’s sleep. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I kept thinking about the judge and what he had said. Did he really want me dead? Would he go after a cop? If he was behind Charlie’s death, then yes, he would.

  I decided to sit up. If lying in bed coul
dn’t put me to sleep, maybe a hot bath would. In no time, I was in the bathroom, watching steam rise from the hot water. I undressed and was about to step in the soaking tub when the phone rang.

  2:17 a.m. is what the clock read. No one calls at that hour, not even Theresa, unless she knew that I had just gotten home from work. I quickly reached for the phone and saw that it was Lieutenant Polenski’s phone number.

  “Lieutenant, is everything ok?” I asked without saying hello.

  “Sorry to call you this late, Jacob, but a raid is about to go down at a house on East Beach Drive and I need you there.”

  “East Beach Drive? A raid? That’s a pretty affluent area of the city. I wasn’t informed of anything. Shouldn’t we already have people in place?”

  “This just came in. I’m assembling a team now to meet you en route. You’ll be debriefed by Johnson and Duncan.”

  “With all due respect, sir—”

  “Jacob,” Lieutenant Polenski cut me off, “this isn’t a request. You’re the best I’ve got. I need you there ASAP.”

  I hesitated before answering. “Sure, OK, I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Sixty-four

  TWO TEAMS HEADED BY Scott Johnson and Anthony Duncan had canvassed the large house on East Beach Drive, and their informant told them that there were three adult males and two females inside. Weapons and drugs had been confirmed. Not the kind of stuff that people living in this upscale Northwest, D.C., neighborhood were usually known for.

  About two miles down the road, SWAT leader Scott Johnson, a big beefy man and thirteen-year vet of the force, debriefed me about the situation. As far as they knew, their undercover buyer had confirmed that three of the men were armed with semi-automatic machine guns and were high on coke and heroin.