Crossing the Line

by Hugh Macnab

  My parents live north of Fort Myers, about an hour’s drive from Naples. So I call ahead and make a reservation for mama’s home cooking. She’s pleased to hear my voice, and that cheers me up as it always does. I dread the day I lose mama and papa. I feel so strongly connected to them both and worry that when they go, I might just drift away.

  Tonight, I’m intending to enjoy the cooking and finish with an extra helping of dessert. Humble pie. I’m going to ask papa for a loan of four hundred bucks to buy my car. He’ll have no hesitation in offering. Probably tell me it shouldn’t be a loan, but a gift. I’ll insist that it will just be a loan, and he ‘ll back down, then agree. Both of us know I have no way of paying it back. But that’s family for you and I love them both, very much.

  12

  Life at my parents’ house has a reassuringly familiar pattern. Mama rises early and start baking or cooking. Every day, rain or shine mama would be in the kitchen by six. I swear she feeds our entire tribe. There’s probably an unbroken line of people in and out of the kitchen before I even open my eyes. I’ve just never seen them.

  Papa rises, eats breakfast, and heads to the Medical Examiner’s office down in Fort Myers. He works as a porter and general helper there. They’re always busy, so when he can, he works overtime. After work he comes home and they eat together. Mama always waits for him. Then, they clear up together and sit in the evening talking about their days, remembering the past, and sharing their hopes and dreams for the future.

  When I appear, I break the pattern as Mama assumes I never eat and insists on feeding me. She will eat with me in the evening. Papa will eat alone.

  But then the three of us slip into each other’s company so easily afterwards. I talk to them about my work - not the gory stuff. Then they tell me how our broader family members are doing. That’s when they suddenly ask me if I can help a cousin on my mama’s side. Joey Still Water.

  They’re worried he’s mixing with bad people down in Naples. My neck of the woods. Listening to them, it’s only a matter of time before he gets himself into trouble. If I can only have a word with him.

  I remember Joey from when I was growing up. If he’s mixing with some bad people, he’s in perfect company as far as I’m concerned. An act as predictable as night following day. But I can’t say that. So I agree.

  That’s when my mama admits she’s already told her sister I will help, and that she in turn has already mentioned it to Joey.

  I don’t mind this. It’s how our family works. We help each other. There’s no way I would refuse. I am curious about how Joey responded, but Mama tells me her sister said he seemed grateful, maybe even desperate.

  After that, we talk some more before I head home, using the journey to get my head back into the deaths of Mark Jason and Pamela Wilson.

  That had all been the previous evening and when I wake up this morning, my mind has unconsciously shifted from my two homicides, to thinking about my cousin.

  Joey lives just a few blocks from me, although I’m not sure exactly where. According to mama, her sister doesn’t even have his address.

  I live here because it’s all I can afford. He lives here with his ‘bad people’ friends, and I very much doubt his friends will appreciate him having a visit from a detective. So I have to figure out where best to meet him.

  I needn’t have bothered.

  I’m tooled up and ready to go. I tell Alexa to stop playing, head for the door, and open it to find Joey slumped unconscious against the wall opposite my door.

  I check him over for obvious injuries, but he seems fine. I speak his name and he responds, slowly. He’s on something, but I don’t know what. Dilated pupils, skin discolored, hair dry and lanky. He looks half the weight I remember him being. I repeat his name.

  It’s like he hears me speaking from far, far away. He looks around trying to figure where I am, then his eyes lock onto mine. Or at least try. Tears form and run down his cheeks. He whispers my name.

  ‘Sammy, I’m in trouble.’

  No shit.

  I help him up to his feet. Half carry, half drag him into my apartment and dump him on my beanbag. I reckon he’s dehydrated, so I start with a glass of water.

  ‘Drink.’

  To my surprise, he does, greedily. Now I know he’s in trouble. I just don’t yet know which kind. If it’s drugs, then I can probably find him some rehab through the department. But with Joey, things are never straightforward.

  ‘Have you eaten, recently?’

  He shakes his head. I have little in the place, but I toast a couple of bagels and make him some scrambled eggs. I’ve never seen anyone eat so fast. He shovels it down. By now, I’m desperate for coffee, but that won’t be best for him, so I pour us both tall glasses of water and sit down opposite him at my small breakfast bar.

  ‘Talk to me, Joey. What’s up?’

  I recognize the look in his eye - fear.

  Big Joey, who used to bully everyone at school, is scared. When I say everyone, I don’t include me. I never took his crap. I guess he respected me for that. I never asked.

  ‘I got mixed up in some bad stuff, Sammy.’

  ‘No kidding?’ I reply, trying desperately hard not to let my sarcasm be too obvious. He wouldn’t have noticed, anyway.

  ‘They killed a guy. He couldn’t pay for his China White. So they fuckin’ killed him. Slit his throat. Just like that.’

  ‘Slow down, Joey. Who’s they? And who did they kill?’

  ‘They’re new around here. The guy who leads them isn’t, but the rest have come up from Miami.’

  I groan. I know where he is going.

  ‘They call themselves the Savage City Gangsters.’

  ‘Chico Vegas.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the guy. He’s a whole different level of mean, Sammy.’

  ‘Tell me, about it. Who did they kill?’

  ‘Just some poor fucker who couldn’t pay for his China White.’

  ‘Did Vegas do the killing?’

  ‘No. One of his side-kicks. This one’s not nasty, he’s a fuckin’ psycho. I don’t know why Vegas keeps him around. He just causes trouble.’

  ‘Where’s the body?’

  ‘They put it in the car crusher. Inside an old chevy.’

  My heart skips a beat.

  ‘What color?’

  ‘How do you mean what color?’

  ‘What color was the old chevy?’

  ‘Green, I think. It was covered in dust.’

  At least it wasn’t my old car. For a moment I was worrying that I might have sold it only for it to end up in the scrap yard with a dead body squashed inside. Not a fate for a homicide detective’s trusty steed. They’d probably given whoever scrapped this Chevy fifty bucks for providing a coffin. Not something the owner would have been told.

  ‘Can you ID the killer?’

  ‘Sure, but I won’t. You think I’m stupid?’

  ‘Look, Joey. You’re the one who’s come to me for help. If I’m going to help, it needs to be on my terms?’

  He looks at me blankly, like I’m speaking ancient Sumerian or something. I try again.

  ‘To give you what you need, I need you to ID the killer. If you do this, I’ll arrange for you to stay at a rehab clinic, somewhere outside the area. When you’re clean, I’ll ask the help of our families to find you somewhere else to live and get you a job. After that, you’re on your own.’

  As I watch, he goes into think mode. Not something that he does often, so this impresses me. I’m impressed even more when he agrees. Now I’m just plain shocked.

  I leave him thinking while I made a quick call to Jerry in Narcs. I clue him in on my thoughts and he agrees that if Joey gives up the killer, the department will spring for the rehab clinic. After that, it was up to me to fulfil the rest of the commitment.

  I tell him I’ll bring Joey in right then, and he says he’ll look out the files he has on the Savage City Gangsters. We’ll meet at his place.

  Thirty minutes later, Joey
is sitting in a small conference room in the Narcotics division, going through the files looking for the killer. Jerry and myself are outside discussing how best to follow up.

  It’s an interesting situation. The SCG were number one on Jerry’s hit list as the principal supplier of illegal drugs in the area. But the killing of an innocent guy is homicide, and that makes it something my department would usually handle. Normally, homicide would trump drugs, but this is a unique situation, so I agree to talk it over with my boss and see if we can agree how best to handle it. I promise I’ll get back to him and leave Joey in his care, going downstairs to look for Dan Weissman.

  Easy to find. He’s in his cubicle. I grab the free chair and sit myself down.

  He’s just finishing a call. When he hangs up, he knows me well enough to know I have something for him. I spill the beans. No hesitation on his part. One thing I like about him. He’s decisive and doesn’t care about organizational boundaries. He agrees to Narcs taking the lead in this case, as long as Homicide are represented at the take-down. I say I’ll make sure of that, knowing that it will be me, and hoping that Dan hasn’t figured that out.

  I thank Dan, then give him an update on the apparent dead-end I’m at with finding Jason’s killer. We agree that although the evidence against Pamela Wilson looks promising, it’s still inconclusive and that we still need to find the stiletto. I commit to organize a second search of the areas around both Mark Jason’s and Pamela Wilson’s apartments, as well as the apartments themselves and all the contents.

  When I leave to call back upstairs. I’m pleased. Narcs taking the lead with my cousin’s offer to ID a killer is the decision I wanted. I’ve enough on my plate with two homicides to solve.

  When I tell Jerry, he says that Joey has identified Chico’s man as Joaquin Montoya, nicknamed The Joker with a certain amount of irony, I guess. He also said that if we want to find the body, we need to hurry before it ships out, so he’s already started the application for a warrant and expects to have it through sometime mid-afternoon. His plan is to hit the scrap-yard before closing. Probably around four-thirty. I say, with a certain amount of deja vu, to count me in. We already raided this place a year ago when we took out the previous drug suppliers. And here we are, same old same old. In that previous raid, the gang leader had been Lucky Luke, and Chico Vegas had tricked me into taking him down, so he could replace him at the top of the tree. I’d been used but couldn’t do anything about it. I didn’t like that at all and I’m still bearing a grudge.

  This time, I’m hoping we can finally wrap up Chico and lock him away.

  We need to keep Joey around until he can do the identification in person, so Jerry says he’ll have one of his guys take him to a hotel for the night and sit on him. One less thing for me to worry about.

  13

  I’m back in my office and feeling the need for one of my to-do lists. Only a few days back at work, and already I need a to-do list. How quickly things change. I guess that’s one reason I stay in homicide. You never know what’s going to happen, and there’s always a lot going on.

  There’s a message on my desk from my forensic-friend telling me there’s a match between the red hair found at Mark Jason’s place and on Pamela Wilson down in the morgue. So, along with the prints on the beer bottles, I now know she was there, and almost definitely on the night of his homicide.

  I still need to find out what they found on the security footage from the All American Sports Bar. I put that first on my list.

  Security footage - check for Pamela Wilson, Mark, Xavier and Tyrone. Were they all together, or was Pamela with Mark as the two others suggested? Did they leave together or separately?

  A new thought - check traffic cams and see who traveled where when they left the sports bar.

  Figure out how to confront Xavier and Tyrone. Were they involved in the assault or death of Pamela Wilson?

  Find out more about Pamela Wilson. Who else might want her dead?

  The cells in Pamela’s safe. Why were they there? What is on them that made her keep them in a safe?

  Was Pamela a victim or a murderer or both?

  Organize new searches looking for the stiletto.

  Support Jerry in the take-down.

  Check for results from the door-to-door at Pamela’s place.

  The only other thing that comes to mind is to collect my new car. Given that my day is only going to get busier, I decide I can hand the keys for the pool car in at the duty desk, and walk to the garage. Pay with the cash papa has given me. The cash I stubbornly define as a loan, even when I’m only talking to myself. Then bring it back here in time for a briefing session with Jerry and the Narcs team.

  All goes well until I get to the garage. It’s locked up. I take out my cell and call. I hear the phone ring inside the small building. No-one answers. I try looking through the grime-covered window, but can’t see a thing. Fuck. I have to walk back to the office. I’m not amused.

  Instead of going directly to my cubicle, I stop to discuss the searches at Jason’s and Pamela Wilson’s with the duty sergeant. He will arrange both for later in the day. Happy with that, I stop at forensics on the way back to my office.

  I find the technician dusting the phones for prints. Something I hadn’t even thought of. I ask him how he’s getting on. It turns out he’s on the last cell. Of the ten, he has five with clear prints which he’s already running through AFIS, but the others have only partials or nothing at all. Still, five’s better than nothing.

  Given the same reasons I’ve used to rule Jason’s two gym buddies out for his stabbing, the same logic applies with Pamela Wilson. If they were to take revenge on her, they would have beaten her to death. So, the chances are that the owner of one of these phones killed Pamela Wilson.

  The only small caveat is what Arnie told me about her having had a child a long time ago. Other than that, I’ve found no family or friends. I’ve had one of the other detectives visit with her dance and yoga classes, but she is known at both as very much a loner.

  While we’re waiting for AFIS, the technician walks me through a chart he’s made up. First, he has listed the cells.

  Apple iPhone 4

  Apple iPhone 5S

  Apple iPhone 6S

  Galaxy S8

  Samsung Galaxy S2

  Samsung Galaxy Note 5

  Google Nexus 5

  T-Mobile G2

  Sony Xperia Z3

  LG Nexus 4

  ‘These are not new cells,’ he tells me. ‘The most recent is probably the Galaxy S8 which is probably only two or three years old.’

  ‘The others are all older?’

  ‘Yes, probably. Rather than bore you with the details, I’ve taken a shot at putting them into the most likely years, bearing in mind that some people keep a cell for many years. All I can go by until we unlock them, is the years they were either introduced or most popular.’

  He produces the following list.

  2010

  Apple iPhone 4

  T-Mobile G2 Android

  2011

  Samsung Galaxy S2 Android

  2012

  LG Nexus 4 Android

  2013

  Apple iPhone 5S

  Google Nexus 5 Android

  2014

  Sony Xperia Z3 Android

  2015

  Samsung Galaxy Note 5 Android

  2016

  Apple iPhone 6S

  2017

  Galaxy S8

  ‘Another way of looking at them is which operating system they use. This is important when trying to hack through the security. We have three Apple iPhones. The first two should be possible, but the 6S may not be.’

  ‘The rest are all Androids, and because they’re old, they should also be straightforward. The most recent, the Galaxy S8, we’ll just have to see. I can’t predict that one.’

  ‘So, you’re saying that your external consultants should be able to gain access eight or nine out of ten cells?’

  �
�Yes, and possibly the last one or two as well. It may take a little longer though.’

  ‘What about the prints?’

  ‘The three with clear prints are the three iPhones, which I guess has something to do with the material they use to manufacture the case.’

  As he answers he walks back to a printer against the rear wall and returns with the AFIS results print-out.

  ‘Bad break, detective. It doesn’t look like any of these three are in the system.’

  ‘What about the partials?’

  ‘I’m running them now, but you will probably get a list of possibles for each one. Still, you may find something that makes sense in your case? I’ll email everything through to you as soon as I get it.’

  I thank him and head back upstairs.

  I still have some time to do some checking before Jerry’s briefing.

  Thinking about the ages of the cells, whatever Pamela Wilson was doing; she was collecting a cell per year, more or less. It also seems to have stopped in the past three years, and I wonder why?

  I’ve based my working theory on the use she has been making of the larger bedroom in her home. Was she somehow able to use her client’s own cells to record their performance, then keep them? Surely they wouldn’t allow that? But if she could somehow do that, was she then blackmailing them?

  The timing also fits with the layer of dust everywhere in her professional bedroom, and her father telling me she retired some two or three years ago. I’ve already concluded that she hasn’t been in business for quite some time. That tied in with the ages of the cells. Maybe, she retired and the blackmail income had become her retirement pension?