Tom Reed Thriller Series

by Rick Mofina

  “So how does that connect?”

  “A while back Carrie and I met at a bar. Old girlfriends. She told me she was having a hard time with money, needed a job. I’d been at Deluxe Jewelry about a year, so I talked to David, the manager—he’s a sweet man. He gave her a job.”

  “But she lost it?”

  “I’m going to tell you the truth, only so it might help you understand, you can’t put this in the paper, or tell police.”

  “Vanessa, please. It’s my wife.”

  “Stephen and I party. We used to like a little coke, some pot. Cripes, this is San Francisco. Carrie partied too. She started to score for us, she knew all the connections. Got us the best stuff, best price. It was fun.” Vanessa’s fist went to her mouth as the tears fell. “We never knew. I mean we never really knew how bad. I—”

  Reed struggled to understand.

  “Carrie was a hard-core addict, crack, heroin,” Stephen said. “She had a five-hundred-dollar-a-day habit and was running up huge drug debts to lots of different people, some in the Mission and Visitation Valley.”

  “David suspected she was stealing watches,” Vanessa said. “Once, a gang-banger came into the shop and demanded his money. That’s when David fired her.”

  Reed was shaking his head.

  “I saw her, a few months ago, right after she’d lost her job, and she said she was getting counseling and would be leaving California for a new job she had lined up in Florida, working on cruise ships. I believed her. That’s why no one suspected her after the robbery.” Vanessa sobbed.

  “We all thought she had straightened her life out and was in Florida. I was happy for her and she promised.” Vanessa had trouble voicing her words. “She promised to send me a postcard and I kept watching the mail for it but it never came. Somebody did those awful things to her, killed her and left her.” She sobbed into Stephen’s chest.

  Reed ran a hand over his face, overwhelmed, not knowing how this connected to anything. Or how it would help him find Ann.

  “How do you think this ties to the robbery?” he asked.

  “We’re not sure,” Stephen said. “We thought you’d figure it out.”

  “When Carrie was having her drug troubles,” Vanessa said, “we’d heard a lot of wild rumors through our circles but it all seemed like so much bullshit. It was just so frightening, I just couldn’t believe any of it.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like she owed this big dealer thirty-one thousand dollars and he was dead serious she was going to pay it. He said he’d throw her off the Bay Bridge, or turn her out on the street as a prostitute to work it off.”

  “What’s the dealer’s name? Or his street name?” Vanessa and Stephen traded glances, signaling to Reed that this was the moment of truth.

  “We heard it was Caesar,” Stephen said.

  “Caesar. You tell the police?”

  Vanessa nodded. “They’re trying to find him now.”

  “They think this guy’s connected to the heist?” Reed said.

  “They think he knows something.”

  “How would I find him?”

  “We’ve never met him. Only heard that he’s dangerous.”

  “How can I find him?”

  “You can’t say where you heard—”

  “Please, just tell me how I would find him.”

  Stephen handed him a business card bearing nothing but a phone number.

  “That’s one of Caesar’s sellers,” he said. “Usually deals out of the Mission or Sunnydale. That’s where the police started looking for him after they talked to us.”

  Reed thanked them.

  “Tom,” Vanessa said, “I’m praying for your wife.”

  Reed turned, then hurried to his car.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Sydowski studied Officer Don Valdosa as he worked the safe phones in the task force room at the Hall of Justice.

  Valdosa wore dark jeans and a dark track jacket. He had a diablo goatee and a New York Giants knit cap pulled tight to his dark glasses. As he shifted in the swivel chair, his gold neck chains chimed as he tried to get information on Leopoldo Merida.

  Leopoldo was an elusive Bay Area dealer, known only to a few people on the street. They called him el viento, “the wind,” because police could never find him. He never dealt on the street level. He was three or four people up the food chain. To some, he was known as Caesar. And the only hope Sydowski had of talking to him was Valdosa, one of the SFPD’s best narcotics cops.

  Sydowski knew that often you couldn’t score on a case unless you passed the ball. Watching Valdosa do his thing for the past half hour convinced him they were advancing.

  Alternating between English and Spanish, using his cell phone and pager, Valdosa pumped his CIs, or confidential informants.

  “No, man, I don’t want to arrest nobody,” Valdosa said into his phone, waving at Sydowski, indicating that he might be on to solid information. “No...I’ve got Caesar’s old number, man, you know, el viento, he changes his numbers like his underwear, man...” Valdosa laughed with his source at the little joke. “Right, man. That’s right. I always remember people who help me. That’s right. In what denominations do I remember? Oh, that’s good, man.”

  Turgeon entered the room with a few pages of computer printouts on Leopoldo Merida. She did not interrupt as Valdosa finessed his source.

  “Man, nobody’s at risk here,” Valdosa said into the phone. “Didn’t you see it all over the news, man? We saw the shooters. The body descriptions, their voices, man, you know, and we know, it can’t be Caesar. Right? Looks like big white boys. I just want to talk to Caesar respectfully, man-to-man, ’cause he’s so powerful, you know, he may have heard...right. He may have heard. You say you might know where Caesar’s at? For how much? That much? Now, that’s workable. I’m sayin it’s workable. That’s right. You call me back on my cell. In one minute. I’m just looking for direction, man.”

  Valdosa hung up. Stroked his goatee, then talked softly to Sydowski.

  “Caesar knows our shooters. He definitely had dealings with them. Word is he took off right after it happened. To Chicago.”

  “We could tap Chicago PD to grab him tonight,” Sydowski said.

  Valdosa shook his head. “He might be back in our yard now.”

  “Where?”

  “He’s got girlfriends, cousins. Word is he’s back. Somewhere here.”

  “Was he directly involved?” Sydowski said.

  “What I’m hearing confirms what you’ve got, Walt. Carrie Addison owed his franchise big time. Caesar always collects. He knew her connection to the jewelry store and may have parlayed information from her to our suspects.”

  “To settle her debt to his business?”

  “Right, and maybe one of his own, to the suspects.”

  “An information transaction?” Sydowski said.

  “Maybe a debt, a favor, a trade, with somebody powerful enough to have him bend a knee for them.”

  “Your Cl good to call you back, Don?”

  “He’s deep inside the network and one of the smarter ones.”

  Sydowski checked his watch. “We should be hearing soon if crime scene got anything from Addison’s apartment. Some good prints might put us on to our boys right away. You think Caesar had a direct hand in this?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “Maybe he got a cut?” Sydowski said.

  “I think he’s strictly an organic criminal.”

  “We’re talking about a million-dollar heist.”

  It was a good point. Valdosa nodded.

  “I’d like to know what was in Chicago for him,” Sydowski said.

  While waiting for Valdosa’s guy to call back, Sydowski put in a few quick calls to San Bernardino, Sacramento Corrections and the FBI. Nothing had surfaced but everybody was pushing hard in all directions.

  Turgeon finished reading. “Caesar’s got a bit of violence in his past.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard,” Valdosa sa
id.

  “File says that to settle a beef in Fresno he jabbed an ice pick into a customer’s eye because he failed to pay his debt.”

  “He doesn’t like complications,” Valdosa said; then his cell phone trilled and he took the call. “Right yeah, right, man.” Valdosa took notes, then gave big nods to Sydowski. “...Got it right man. No, I won’t forget.”

  “Good information?”

  “Caesar’s in the city. Word is, he’ll be making a rare personal appearance with his crew in the Mission tonight, trouble brewing over distribution territory with a Fillmore posse. We’ll need a lot of help, Walt. He’s out there ready to wage war.”

  FORTY

  Sirens ripped through the night in the Mission where Reed sat alone in his car near Garfield Square.

  He was ready. He’d put together six hundred dollars from the house and the automated teller. He tried the connection’s number again but got nothing. He looked up at the black sky. This was all he had to find Ann with. Six hundred bucks. Folded crisply in his shoe. And hope. He tried again. It rang three times, then stopped. Damn!

  What was he doing wrong? Before leaving Zach with Doris, he’d called the number several times from his home. Then he tried using his cell. All in vain. No doubt the connection had caller ID and would be wary of strange numbers.

  Reed drove along the perimeter of Garfield Square rolling by the housing complexes. He spotted a public telephone at a corner, stopped, and called. If the connection saw that the number was from his turf, then maybe he’d have a shot.

  The line was answered.

  “Yeah.”

  “Caesar?”

  “No Caesar here. Who’s this?”

  “Tom.”

  “Don’t know no Tom. Wrong number.”

  “No, wait I need something.”

  “Who gave you this number?”

  “A friend of a friend.”

  “What’s your name, man?”

  “Tom. And I need something right now. I just need to buy something, okay?”

  “What do you want?”

  Reed told him.

  “For you, that’s five hundred.”

  “I thought it was three. Everybody says three for that.”

  “I’m hanging up.”

  “Wait. Five’s cool. I got that. But I need to do this now.”

  “Intersection of South Van Ness and Twenty-fourth in thirty minutes. Walk up to the car with the fluorescent lime ball on the antenna. Show us your hands. In thirty minutes.”

  Reed saw a couple of different cars roll by, the people inside eyeballing him cold and hard. After thirty minutes, the glowing antenna ball trembled over the hood of the late-model Chev sedan that crept up to the intersection. Street wisdom dictated that experienced dealers didn’t drive status cars to work. You wanted to blend in. Fools drew attention to themselves.

  The only things that gleamed on the tan sedan were the darkened windows reflecting the desperation of the addicts who approached it. Reed flashed his palms, then watched a distorted version of himself melt into the Chev as the front passenger window dropped. The guy at the window was wearing a hooded Chicago Bulls warmup top and an expression devoid of emotion.

  “Closer, man,” he said to Reed.

  Reed stepped closer.

  “You Caesar?”

  “I’ll be whoever you need me to be, baby.”

  Stifled chuckling leaked from inside. The car was crowded.

  “I need Caesar.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Tom.”

  “Step closer, Tom.”

  Reed didn’t move. “I’ll only deal with Caesar.”

  “Time is money. Get closer,” the window guy said. “Gotta shake your hand, man, that’s how it gets done.”

  Reed glimpsed the tiny five-hundred-dollar clear plastic bag in the man’s extended hand.

  “Now show me your money.”

  Reed showed him the bills folded and tucked between the fingers on his left hand. Reed’s right hand reached for the dealer’s drug hand but in an eye-blink Reed’s wrist was seized, a fist drove into his stomach, doubling him as a second large man leaped from the passenger rear. He threw a headlock on Reed, shoved him into the backseat next to another rider. The Chev squealed away.

  No one spoke.

  The car was silent except for Reed’s gasps. He dropped his head on the back dashboard. City lights flowed by. Someone snatched his cash, hands patted him for weapons, probed him for his wallet, which he’d left at home. His stomach ached. He felt queasy. When he managed to raise his head he met the barrel of a large chrome-plated pistol aimed at his face by the man in the front passenger seat.

  They took the freeway heading south on 101.

  The man holding the gun stared at Reed. He had a scarred face, a wispy beard, and cold eyes. A gold-capped tooth sparkled as he sneered. Reed felt the highway clicking under them. He grunted, then swallowed. No one spoke. Moments and miles passed along with Old Candlestick, then Brisbane. Reed could see San Francisco International as they continued south toward Burlingame.

  The gunman contemplated the night, then said something in Spanish to the driver, prompting him to nod and sneer at Reed in the rearview mirror.

  They entered San Mateo and exited the highway, driving to an abandoned area near the bay somewhere around Coyote Point.

  Reed felt the gun bore into his skull, the pressure growing unbearable as the car turned onto a gravel road, threading through a stand of eucalyptus trees and stopping at the deserted shoreline. All doors opened, hands seized Reed’s arms, his ankles, lifting him out forcing him to his knees. A gun was held inches from Reed’s face. Other cars were parked in the darkened area. Other people materialized. One of them walked up to Reed and squatted so their faces were level.

  “Who are you? And don’t lie.”

  “I’m Tom Reed. My wife was kidnapped in the jewelry store heist.”

  “What do you want from us?”

  “Help me find her.”

  “Who gave you the number? Police?”

  “A friend of a friend.”

  “What did this friend tell you?”

  Reed saw only a shadow. He could not distinguish a face. “Are you Caesar?”

  “Answer me, please.”

  “My friend said Caesar is respected and feared, and that maybe he knows Carrie Addison and the men who took my wife.”

  The man spat out a stream of Spanish, then said, “Did the police send you?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t lie.”

  “No.”

  “I said don’t lie.”

  “I found you myself.”

  “You lie. I know who you are, Reed. We see the news, man. Everybody knows who you are. This smells bad. I’m going to get the truth from you.”

  “Just tell me where my wife is. Please.”

  “The police are trying to put this all on me. The hit, the dead pig, the dead junkie bitch. She owed me, so they think it’s me, right?”

  “I don’t know what they think. I just want to find my wife. Please.”

  “You know more. You know what the police know. You’re a big-ass reporter. They tell you things, Reed. Keep you in the loop. Let you know what’s going down.”

  “They don’t tell me a damned thing. That’s why I’m here.”

  “You lie.”

  The man produced a gun, pressed it against Reed’s head between his eyes. Bay winds tumbled across the black water, pummeling him as jetliners whined their approach to the airport and the man shouted into the night.

  “Now you tell me the truth, Reed!”

  “I did. I swear.”

  “Tell me what you know!”

  “Your people sold to Carrie and she’s dead in my wife’s clothes. I swear.”

  “Liar!”

  “Please, we have a son.”

  “Who’s putting it out there that I did the 187s? Tell me, who?”

  “People on the street say you sold to her.”

&
nbsp; “That bitch owed me thirty-five and she couldn’t pay. I told her I ain’t no motherfucking bank. Her ass was mine. I owned her and one way or another she was going to pay. But I didn’t kill her. So why would they try to put all this on me? I wasn’t even there, man.”

  “Please.”

  Caesar pulled back the hammer.

  “Tell me.”

  “I swear.”

  Reed saw his trigger finger squeeze. He closed his eyes thinking of Ann, Zach, and eternity. He flinched at the click-thud. Nothing happened. Reed swallowed air.

  “Tell me the truth, Reed.”

  Caesar showed him a clip of live rounds before slapping it into his gun. “This one’s for keeps.” The muzzle drilled into his head. “Tell me the truth.”

  “I did.”

  No words were spoken. Reed remained kneeling.

  The wind and jets roared. Then a cell phone trilled.

  Caesar took the call in Spanish. He hung up, then said something to his crew. Reed was pulled to his feet. Adrenaline coursed through him, tears filled his eyes, he struggled to breathe, and his body quaked after they pushed him into the rear seat of another car. Caesar took the front passenger seat.

  The tires hummed on the highway. As they neared San Francisco, Caesar touched the barrel of his gun to his lips and pondered Reed.

  “I’ll help you and you’ll help me, Reed.”

  “How?”

  “What I said. You’re a big-time reporter, I saw you once on Larry King. I might need a favor one day. So, I’ll help you, you help me. It’s the only hope you’ve got.”

  It was true.

  “I have a little brother, Jorge,” Caesar said. “A while back, he went to Folsom after a bullshit setup. He’s quiet. My mother’s favorite son. A white-boy gang went after Jorge inside but this big dude, a white guy, protected him. Word got to me. I let it be known that I considered myself indebted to him for saving my blood. When he got out, he looked me up.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He and his friend had business opportunities in South America. They needed capital fast and he wanted me to point him to a solid source. So I gave him Carrie.”