by Hugh Macnab
I’m disappointed. I’m hoping for an argument or a fight or something. I get nada.
Next, he loads a disc from two nights previous and fast forwards until I can see the three of them again. Creatures of habit, they’re in exactly the same corner. They’re there for a while and then a woman joins them. I recognize her immediately. It’s Pamela Wilson. It seems like Mark’s the initiator of the initial conversation. He chats to her at the bar for a while, then buys her a drink and encourages her to return with him to where his friends are sitting. They stay there for just over two hours, with each of the men buying her drinks in turn.
At around ten-thirty, Xavier and Tyrone get up, make their excuses and leave Mark and Pamela. It looks like he offers her another drink, but she refuses. Next thing, they leave together. Not exactly arm-in-arm, but I would say they’re getting cozy.
Damn. This seemed to support what Xavier and Tyrone said happened. More disappointment.
But the show isn’t over.
Another disc goes in. This is from the car park outside the sports bar. First thing I see is Xavier and Tyrone leave and walk out of camera shot. Then Mark and Pamela some ten minutes later. As I continue to watch, Mark’s car drives across in front of the camera, leaves the car park and hangs a left. He could be heading anywhere, but I think his place is the most likely possibility.
I’m about to speak when I’m told to pay attention to the screen.
Thirty seconds later another two cars follow the same way, one after another, both hanging a left.
I’m puzzled until I’m told that Xavier Rivera and Tyrone Ross are the registered owners of the two cars.
Now I’m much more excited, but there’s more in store. I’m told to keep watching as yet another disc is loaded. This time, it’s footage from a traffic cam near the entrance to the small enclave Mark Jason lived in. I watch as a procession of three cars turn in, one after another. It’s clear they’re all going to Mark’s place.
My colleague has impressed me so far, but his next revelation is the coup-de-grâce. He quickly opens up Google maps and starts pointing things out to me. I get his point. This is a fine piece of basic detective work. I congratulate and thank him, and exit the conference room with a new found confidence.
It’s now looking like I can deliver justice for what Jason and his buddies did to Pamela Wilson - before solving either homicide. If I can finally prove that Pamela Wilson did kill our detective, this new evidence may help me identify the motive.
Of course, if I were the Sheriff, I would tell me to solve the murder of one of our own first. If only life was so easy.
16
I’m back in my cubicle when my cell rings, and I answer it to find cousin Joey wanting to know if I’ve forgotten about him. It’s one of those white-lie moments. So, I reassure him that he’s still very much in my mind, and ask him where he is. It turns out he’s back in the building, upstairs in Narcs. I tell him I’ll be right up.
When I see him, he has sullen written all over his face. I’d forgotten he would be desperate for a fix by now, not to mention worried about his death-defying intention to finger The Joker as a killer.
Before I talk with him, I stop by Jerry’s cubicle and ask for an update on the cube-shaped green Chevy. It’s now in the basement with forensics trying to figure out how to unwrap it. They have affirmed there is a body inside and a DNA sample is already being analyzed. If the dead guy is in the system, we’ll know soon enough. They say it may be two or three days before they can extract the body, or whatever’s left of it. I can’t imagine a more gruesome task and don’t envy them at all.
I enter the conference room and try to sound upbeat to Joey. It doesn’t work. My presence just seems to make him feel worse.
‘I need a fix, Sammy. I really do.’
‘I know, Joey. But we’ve come a long way since we spoke the other morning. We’ve found the body and caught the person you say is responsible. All we need to do is have you formally ID him and we can get you out of here and off to a rehab clinic. You can get something there to help with your DTs.’
‘But I need something now, I don’t think I can face him feeling like this.’
‘Of course you can. You’ll be able to see him, but he won’t be able to see you. You ID him and before you know it, you’ll be heading up to Tampa.’
‘Tampa?’
‘That’s where Jerry has found a great rehab clinic for you. It’s far enough away that you’ll be safe there.’
He doesn’t say anymore after that. Instead, he draws deeper within himself.
Sure I can get no further with him, I leave him like that but instead of going back downstairs, I head out of the building. I want to go see my garage and find out if my new car’s available or not.
When I get there, someone has rolled the rusty steel door up, but the interior is still dark. At least there’s someone there this time and I can find out what’s happening.
I catch a brief hint of some movement in the office off to the side, so I head on in. If I’d been more observant, I would have seen the padlock laying on the ground outside.
I shout for the owner, but instead of a reply, everything is eerily silent. I’m just reaching for the office door when it bursts open, catching me full in the face, knocking me back on my butt on the hard concrete floor. I get a glimpse of someone flashing past. All I remember is jeans and dirty white trainers.
I sit up and gently feel my nose. Not broken, but there’s a lot of blood. I look around and see some rolls of the blue absorbent towels they use for cleaning oil. I climb to my feet and cross shakily to the bench where they are, and tear off a few.
As I use them to staunch the flow of blood, I can feel an egg-sized lump already growing on one side of my forehead. I’m going to look a real mess.
Throwing the blood-soaked towels in a bin, I take a new one and check the bleeding. It’s already more or less stopped. Never the less, I hold the towel in place and head into the office for a second time.
The owner is in a chair slumped over his desk. I check for a pulse, but there’s nothing. From the look of him, he’s been dead for at least a day. No wonder he hasn’t answered my calls. I can’t see any immediate sign of foul play, but I can see the cash drawer is hanging open and empty. I suppose that’s what I’ve interrupted. Whoever took the cash is long gone.
I call this all in and sit on a spare chair to wait.
A patrol car and the paramedics arrive at more or less the same time. I give a brief statement to one of the officers, then allow a paramedic to clean up my face. She also gives me a couple of painkillers. The lump on my head is hurting, but I’ve had worse. She recommends I have an X-ray, but I can tell from her tone that she doesn’t expect me to listen. I don’t disappoint. Time to get back to the office.
I check in with the duty sergeant and acknowledge I look a sight. He already knows about the incident and asks if the youngster who hit me is still in primary school. I give him the finger and ask for an incident report form, which I dutifully sit and fill in.
Twenty minutes later I’m in my cubicle turning my mind back to how best to approach nailing Xavier and Tyrone, when Dan stops by and asks how I’ve been injured. He wants to know how I am. He’s concerned which I guess is nice, although I hate people fussing over me.
I’ll never get my head around how quickly news travels round the place. When I ask how he found out, it appears they received my call as an officer needing assistance. I hadn’t meant it to sound like that.
So, as my direct supervisor, one of the officers on the scene had given him a verbal report and the duty sergeant had also spoken to him. All this as I was climbing the stairs. Can a girl have no privacy?
When he asks how I am, I have to admit to still feeling a little shaken. To make me feel better, he offers a sit-in lunch at a local Italian at his expense. I accept.
We’re just finishing lunch when I take a call on my cell. It’s Forensics. They have some preliminary information on t
he cell phones from Pamela Wilson’s safe. I promise I’ll be there within thirty.
When I stand to leave, I feel light-headed and rather than fall, sit back down again. Dan has witnessed this and has no hesitation in ordering me to get checked out for concussion. Normal-me would laugh it off, but I’m not feeling normal right then. He tells me to stay where I am while he picks up his car. He’ll be back in ten.
I sit like a pathetic obedient puppy, sipping water, feeling like shit. My head throbbing, nose hurting, and now my butt is joining in. I think I must have bruised it when I fell. With my face being the more obvious injury, I haven’t even noticed, but now I certainly do. I don't know if you can get a concussion in the butt? I should have it checked out.
Dan drops me at the emergency area of the NCH hospital. He offers to stay, but I don’t want him to know I’m having someone check out my butt, so I thank him for the ride and insist he gets back to the office. Before I climb out of his car, I ask if he will call Forensics and tell them I’ll be round first thing in the morning to discuss the cell phones.
Inside the NCH emergency area, I’m half expecting the doctor to be the same one who helped me when I injured my knee the year before, but of course it isn’t. I reckon they must have more than one. Clever me.
This doctor is a walking, talking advert for Black Lives Matter. Turns out he’s Nigerian. Softly spoken and heavily accented. I struggle to understand much of what he’s saying. Regardless, he checks me out thoroughly. I have what he describes as a mild concussion. He confirms that my nose is not broken although it has swollen to a Pinocchio size - only in all directions. But I have a hairline fracture of something he called my coccyx.
Apparently, this is small collection of bones at the bottom of the spine, a residual of us having tails, and now of little practical use. He tells me nothing needs to be done with it. That it will self-heal, probably within a few weeks. But that I might find sitting uncomfortable.
He then asks if I need a prescription for pain-killers, but I refuse. Sometimes I can be so dumb. And I think men are macho!
I must admit that by the time I leave, I feel I’ve been run over my a big Mack, and I’m really stiff when I try to walk. I call a cab from reception and go straight home.
After climbing six flights of stairs, my butt hurts something awful, so in my apartment I strip off and stand under a shower, aiming the water jet to my nether parts. Twenty minutes later, I suddenly remember I intended to shop on the way home. The fridge is as empty as a field of corn after a league of locusts pass through.
I call for a pizza. Italian twice in one day.
I stand naked in front of the full-length mirror. What the hell am I doing to my figure?
Turning sideways, the conclusion was nothing too bad. Thirty-six and still trim. A body most twenty-five-year-olds would die for. Well, that’s what I tell myself, anyway.
I pull on a pair of joggers, a loose fitting T, and sit down on my beanbag in front of the tv to wait. At last, something comfortable to sit on.
It’s difficult to judge time when you’re waiting for something and you don’t have a watch. I’m sure I have been waiting an hour when there’s a knock at the door and my pizza finally arrives. I recognize the delivery guy. I should. I see him several times a week. He hands me my pizza. Compliments me on my sweats with a smile. I hand him fifteen bucks and tell him to keep the change for the compliment. He laughs and disappears back down the corridor.
I’m on slice three when my cell rings. I answer and it’s Jerry in Narcs.
‘He’s gone.’
‘What? Slow down, Jerry. Who’s gone?’
‘Your cousin, Joey. He’s done a runner.’
‘Fuck. Weren’t you monitoring him?’
‘Yeah, but we’re not a baby-sitting service. He went to the washroom and never came back.’
‘Did he ID The Joker?’
‘No. That’s what we were about to do when he split.’
‘How long can you hold The Joker?’
‘About another eighteen hours. We really need to find Joey. Do you know where he might go?’
‘No idea, Jerry. But I know he was desperate for a fix.’
It’s at that same moment we both have the same horrible thought. I voice it first.
‘He’s gone back to whoever his dealer is with the Savage City Gangsters.’
‘If he’s gone there, and they’ve found out we were holding him to ID The Joker, he’s dead, Sammy.’
Jerry promises me that his entire team will be out on the streets as soon as we finish the call. I tell him I’ll see what I can find out from my own contacts.
So much for resting my butt.
17
I dress as quickly as I can, but when pulling up my jeans, I have to sit to do it. With a sharp pain in my butt, raising my leg is as painful as when a dentist is pulling a tooth.
A quick look in the mirror frightens the life out of me. But my hair is okay, so I’m good to go.
I clip on my badge and Glock, cover them with the wind-cheater, and head out to look for my nemesis. I’m going to gamble with not only Joey’s life, but my own.
I’ve never been to the Hunter’s Chase before. A grotty, man’s drinking place with titties on show and blow-job booths in the rear. The department knows it well as a drug-pusher’s paradise, but regardless of how many times they raid it, or even close it down, it always seems to spring back up again. I’m looking for my nemesis, Chico Vegas. If anyone will know who is supplying Joey, it will be him.
I push open the front door and feel like I’ve entered a saloon in the old-style cowboy movies. It’s like someone has switched off the sound and everyone in the room has turned to look at me.
Apparently, they see nothing interesting as after a few seconds, the sound switches back on again and everyone starts to ignore me. I’m more comfortable with being ignored anyway.
The decor in the place isn’t as bad as I thought it might be. They’ve painted it within the past ten or fifteen years, and they use picture frames to more or less disguise the damp stains. As different as the pictures are, their essential topic is the same - naked or near-naked women. Quite a collection, and it adds a certain something to the ambience of the place. Something that makes my skin crawl and me feel unclean.
The place is busy. Gone ten, why wouldn’t it be? There are some women plying dubious skills, but ninety percent of the clients are male. Two pool tables are in a rear corner, and a dart-board that looks like they never use it, hangs on the wall to my left. There’s no light bulb in the overhead spot-light. Maybe it’s for blind dart players, who knows?
Customers occupy all the seats at both the tables and in the booths, but there are a few spaces at the bar, so I make for one of those.
Two guys are tending, but they’re both at the far end, so I have to wait. A big guy to my right asks if he can buy me a drink. I decline. He asks again. I decline a second time. He puts his hand on my shoulder. Mistake. Within five seconds, he’s bent over the bar, his arm up his back, breathing real heavy.
‘What the fuck, lady!’
‘I’m no lady, ass-hole. And you touch me again, and I’ll give you something to remember it by. Now, fuck off to the other end of the bar and take your drink with you.’
I release him and stand back. He glares at me, weighing his chances, rubbing his wrist and flexing his arm before finally taking his glass and disappearing with a snort. Just as well. I had surprise on my side the first time, I’m not sure how the second round would go.
As I settle back onto my bar stool, a barman asks if I want a drink on the house? I decline the offer, but say I’ll take a Corona.
When he returns with a beer mat and a cold Corona, I ask if Chico is in?
He studies me, trying to decide my threat level, before asking me who is asking. I give him my name and say I’m a friend of Chico’s. He would want to know I was here. The barman takes a cell from his pocket and calls a preset number. There’s a conversation I can
’t quite make out, before he ends the call, replaces his cell back in his pocket and tells me to wait where I am.
As I wait, I can’t help but notice that the space around me at the bar is growing in size as people slowly move away. They needn’t have bothered. When Chico appears twenty minutes later, the barman has already cleared out one of the back booths and steers both of us in that direction, before placing a fresh cold Corona and some kind of scotch on the rocks in front of us and returning to the bar.
Chico looks at the drinks, nudges the Corona in my direction, then lifts his glass and toasts my health. I do likewise, even go as far as clinking my bottle against his glass.
We sit in silence for a few moments, each weighing up the other. Trying to figure out what relationship we have. It’s easy for me. He’s an ass-hole and I’ll bring him down hard and heavy if I get a chance. He’s probably figuring what I want from him, and what he can get in a trade. He breaks the silence first.
‘Good to see you again, detective.’
‘Can’t say the same, Chico.’
‘Hope you’re not still holding a grudge from our past little misunderstanding, man?’
‘You mean when you tried to blackmail me? That little misunderstanding?’