Crossing the Line

by Hugh Macnab

  ‘Nah, I wouldn’t call it that. More like we were to be helping each other out.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Looks like you wantin’ something now though, detective? Am I right?’

  This is the point at which I have to swallow hard. The last thing in the world I want is to be due this guy anything, but I also need to find Joey. Sometimes you have no choice. You have to do what you have to do.

  ‘I need to find someone. He’s family. Cousin goes by the name Joey. He hangs with one of your dealers. I don’t know which one.’

  ‘Skinny dude. Long scraggly hair.’

  ‘Sounds about right.’

  Chico sits back and gives me the ‘what’s in it for me?’ look.

  I tell him I’ll not be in his debt, but I will remember if he helps me when I need it most. Subtle, but a definite distinction. If I’m in his debt, he can call it in. But if I only remember him helping, I’m more in control of any next step. Or that’s what I try to convince myself, anyway.

  He nods what I guess is his agreement, takes out his cell and makes a call. After about two minutes, he turns to me and asks if I know a place they called the Project on the East Side. A series of burned-out apartments due for demolishing over a year ago, but allowed to stay in place through the pandemic as shelter for the homeless. If they weren’t there, local government would face the cost of putting them in empty hotels.

  I tell him I do. He tells me I’ll find Joey there, but he isn’t in good shape.

  As I stand to leave, he throws me his parting shot with a sickening grin.

  ‘Nice doing business with you again, detective.’

  I can’t get out of the place fast enough. Outside, I call a cab, then Jerry to tell him what I’ve found out. It doesn’t matter how brave you are; you don’t go into the Project without serious back-up.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m standing with Jerry and his full team outside the Project. It’s pitch dark both outside and inside. The street lamps never survive more than twenty-four hours around here. I don’t know whether it’s the County who are responsible or Florida Light and Power, but either way, they have long since given up worrying about them.

  The Project building itself shows no signs of life, which couldn’t be further from the truth. I’ve only been here once before, looking for a suspect, and it’s one of the scariest and most depressing places I’ve ever been in.

  Formerly a block of some forty apartments, a ground floor fire had spread quickly through all levels thanks to some short-cuts in the cladding material used in the original construction. Civil lawsuits are still ongoing even now, years after the event.

  We agree to work in pairs. There are six of us, so we take a level each. Jerry and I take the first floor, the others the two floors above.

  The first thing I notice is the smell of urine and feces, with weed a distant third, followed by the awareness you get when you can’t see anyone - but you know they’re there.

  Jerry and I switch on our cell-torches to shine light where no-one would ever want to look. The sight of these people is both sickening and sad in equal measure. Disowned by the wealthy Naples residents. Seen as problems by the County, and trouble by the Sheriff’s office.

  Some have sleeping bags, but most just lay where they’ve fallen. A few huddle together for warmth.

  The floor is littered with drug debris. Broken pipes, tin foil, needles and small spoons, straws, aerosol cans, even tubes of glue with the life squeezed out of them.

  Cold and dampness hangs in the air.

  We move, staying close together, checking each individual soul one by one. Most are men, but there are some women. Then Jerry finds a girl who could be no older than ten. She’s stiff under a blanket, her corpse riddled with maggots and beetles. It takes all my willpower not to throw up. Not just at the sight, but at the knowledge that girls as young as this are dying alone and unloved in our very midst.

  Jerry covers her back up. We can call it in and deal with her later. The corridor is clear, so we start checking individual rooms one-by-one.

  We’re in the third when Jerry’s cell rings. One of his team has found Joey on the second floor. We double-time it and arrive to find all four of the others already gathered around Joey, who is sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall. His skin is flushed, and he has vomit down the front of his T-shirt. He’s also icy cold. I take off my wind-cheater and drape it over him. He’s in and out of consciousness. We debate calling for the paramedics but end up agreeing it will be quicker to carry him down to the cars and get him straight to the emergency department at NCH.

  Two of the guys lift him in a chair-lift easily and head for the stairs. I follow. Jerry calls in the death of the young girl we found downstairs and offers to wait behind with one of his team. What a crappy night for everyone.

  18

  I stay at the hospital with Joey till three the previous night. The doctor eventually declaring him past the worst, but far from out of the woods. I accept that as being better than I expect and take a cab home. It’s only on the journey I remember I still did’t know what happened to my friendly garage owner.

  Alexa wakens me up with that question in my mind. The song she plays is an old Huey Lewis number, everyone knows. Workin’ for a livin’.

  Given that my new ride is in some doubt, and I can only afford the four hundred my papa loaned me, it seems very appropriate. Jonny at the garage had offered me the Honda Civic for four hundred. I now don’t know where that offer stands. I need to find out. These cabs are costing me the earth. It feels more like I’m Scratchin’ for a livin’.

  I check with NCH, but there’s no change in Joey’s condition. My tail-bone is still aching, and my face is a mess, so this morning I don’t hold back on the painkillers, downing four instead of two. I’m sure I can hear my knee thanking me in the back of my mind. I sure as hell know my butt is. Given all these aches and pains, my busted knee seems a lifetime ago.

  At the office, I head straight to Arnie Collins’ area. I need to find out what had happened to Jonny, my friendly garage owner. As luck would have it, Arnie is sitting at his desk reading some file or other. He looks up as I enter.

  ‘Good God, Sammy. Are you due on my table anytime soon?’

  I try a smile, but suspect it comes out as a grimace.

  ‘I’m fine, Arnie. Thank you for your concern.’

  He gives me a grin and asks if I’m about to spring another body on him?

  ‘No, Arnie. Unless you count the dead girl, we found at the Project earlier this morning.’

  ‘Was that you?’

  I nod, feeling guilty. Arnie and his two assistants must be the three busiest people in the building, and I do seem to have a habit of delivering more work than most - hence his earlier question.

  ‘I want to ask you about another case, Arnie. White male, around sixty. Garage owner. Came in yesterday.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I know who you mean. I didn’t take care of the gentlemen. It was Carrie, I believe.’

  ‘Does she have a cause of death yet?’

  ‘What’s your interest, detective? Not a case of yours, is it?’

  White-lie time. If it isn’t one of my cases, I’m not officially entitled to see the autopsy report.

  ‘Related to a case,’ I lie smoothly.

  He gives me one of these ‘lie detector’ looks that see right through you, before nodding his acceptance.

  ‘Heart attack, I believe. Natural causes. Would you like me to send the report?’

  ‘Thanks, Arnie. That would be great.’

  Then, keen to move the conversation on, I ask him about the girl we found at the Project.

  ‘Poor young soul. Don’t have an answer for you there. She’s scheduled for this afternoon. Do you want the report for this one?’

  ‘No, Arnie. She’s not related to anything I’m working on. Send it to Jerry. It’s a drug related incident.’

  With that, I leave Arnie and climb the stairs to my office. When th
e doctor told me I had a fractured coccyx, and I might find it uncomfortable to sit - I didn’t know he actually meant damned painful. Then I remember refusing the pain killers and realize again how stupid I can be.

  When I reach my cubicle, I find out.

  Dan hears my yelp and stands looking across the partition, wondering what’s wrong. I give him a lame smile and lower myself out of sight, trying to position most of my weight on one buttock. When I’m as comfortable as I can be, I log on, check the overnight reports, and read the Project report submitted by Jerry. Afterwards, I scroll up to the most recent message and find my garage owner’s autopsy report from Arnie Collins. Quickly looking it over - there’s nothing suspicious. What I do learn is a home address and cell number for the deceased. I note them down and log out. Mission accomplished. I can deal with this later.

  My most important task for the morning is to plan how to get after Mark Jason’s two buddies, Xavier and Tyler. I know they’ll bring attorneys with them, so I need to plan the confrontation carefully. I’m also hoping to get one of them to rat out the other. I realize I’ll need an assistant district attorney to sit with me for that. One prepared to offer a deal.

  But before I can arrange that, I need to put together photos from the sports bar security cam, the street cam outside Mark’s address. I need a detailed local street map and several photos of Pamela Wilson. One from before her death, others taken afterwards from both the crime scene and the autopsy.

  It takes me until lunch to pull all I need together.

  Recalling how Joey had recently accused me of forgetting about him, and feeling guilty, I call NCH for a second time. No change. He’s still unconscious, which the doctor tells me is not unusual with the quantity of drugs in his system.

  My detective radar fires. ‘Quantity?’

  ‘Sure, detective. The toxicology report shows that he had enough cocaine in his system to kill him off. I can’t explain how he’s still alive?’

  ‘How much are we talking?’

  ‘A single dose for an addict varies between ten to a hundred milligrams as you probably know. But a lethal dose varies from person to person. I gather this individual was a habitual long-term user, and they often develop a degree of tolerance. A lethal dose would normally be around twelve-hundred milligrams, but in this case it would probably have been higher. Say as much as five thousand.’

  ‘Five grams!’

  ‘As I say, detective. I’m surprised he’s still with us.’

  Hanging up, my mind is already back at my conversation with Chico at the Hunter’s Chase. I was so desperate to find Joey; I didn’t stop to think how quickly Chico had tracked him down. It’s obvious now. He knew where Joey was all along. He was playing me. He was sending me to remove a corpse. Fuck!

  Furious is the word. I was stupid going to him in the first place. But to then trust what he told me. Doubly stupid.

  I’m still stewing some half hour later when Forensics call to ask if I got their message from the previous day, that they have access to data on some of the cell phones. I tell them they’re top of my to-do list. Another white lie. I’ve forgotten completely. I reckon I can make it a non-white-lie if I actually make them top of my list and hurry off to see them.

  When I arrive, they’ve spread the cells in a line on the workbench in the lab. The technician walks me through what he knows about each.

  ‘The consultants have accessed nine of the ten and are still working on the final one.’

  ‘The Apple 6S?’ I suggest, hoping to prove that I’d been listening on my last visit.

  ‘No. It’s actually the Galaxy S8. The most recent model. Apparently they have now hacked into the 6S. They also tell me they’re hopeful with the Galaxy S8, it’s just that they thought I would want what they have, rather than wait for the last one. They’re running some code-breaking software on it, but because it has to try billions of combinations, it will take some time.’

  I nod sagely, knowing nothing about such things.

  ‘So, have you extracted everything from the nine we have?’

  ‘Oh, yes. You’re gonna love this stuff,’ he says reaching for a stack of folders and opening the first to reveal a snap of a middle-aged man laying naked on Pamela Wilson’s bed, with his hands cuffed to the wrought-iron headboard.

  ‘These are selected frame-prints,’ he tells me, spreading a dozen compromising photos in front of me. ‘But they’re extracts from a video. These are all the same,’ he finishes, passing me the stack. ‘I would say you’ve found yourself a blackmailer, detective.’

  I guess I’m expected this, but still, seeing these makes it real all of a sudden. Pamela Wilson really was up to no good. My theory about her regular income is much more likely now.

  ‘What about the owners? Do we know who they are?’

  ‘All in the individual files. The owners’ names, and a printout of their contact details. I’ll send you all the video files. Apart from that, there’s nothing more we can do for you right now. We’ll call when we get the last set of results from the Galaxy S8.’

  Once again, I head for the small conference room back in the Homicide Department. I’m going to need the conference table again, and a strong coffee. I’m no prude, but this sort of porn has never had any appeal to me. Why someone would want to be deliberately humiliated is beyond my understanding.

  19

  I spend the rest of the day sifting through the mounds of information from the cells and using a laptop to track down the owners. One of the department’s few secretaries - I say few, because there used to be lots of them, but not now - brought me a soft cushion to sit on. I’m truly grateful and tell her so. My butt is still sore, and the plastic chairs in the conference room are hard.

  It’s dark outside by the time I finish.

  I tidy up and call a cab to take me home. This time I remember to have him drop me off at the local twenty-four-hour mini mart, where I pick up some groceries and carry them back to my apartment.

  It’s after eight-thirty before I sit down to scrambled egg on toasted bagels, with a cold Corona. Alexa is playing some miscellaneous smooth jazz in the background. I need time to think. To sort out my priorities.

  This all started with the death of Mark Jason. I’m almost sure that Pamela Wilson was responsible for that, but still doubt that I can prove it beyond reasonable doubt. Not that I approve, but it seems that she’s already met with justice for that particular crime.

  Then there’s what I’m fairly certain has caused Jason’s death - her motivation. She was sexually and physically assaulted by not just Jason, but also his two gym-buddies. Even although she’s dead, it’s still up to me to get justice for Pamela for that.

  Then there’s the question of who killed Pamela?

  I’m not one hundred percent sure, but I don’t like either Xavier or Tyrone for that one. Nor do I like the two ex wives, which leaves me with a list of nine names from the cell phones in her safe. If she was blackmailing them, then that would be the motive.

  There may be a tenth to follow, I don’t know yet.

  According to her father, she has no ex or close friends, and she and her sister hardly ever talk. This woman seems to have been a real loner, and a Dominatrix with a sense of responsibility to her father.

  I don’t know any details of her past other than she has been a steady user, with a long list of previous employers that I’ll need to contact.

  I turn my mind to thinking about the list of cell-owners. I’ll need to look into these in some depth. The thing that’s bothering me is that according to Pamela’s financial records, she hung up her whip almost three years ago. She’s had no new clients since then. That means that all of her clients have been paying her regular sums for at least three years and up to ten. If they’re all prepared to do that, why would one of them suddenly kill her? Why would he leave it so long? Why not strike when the blackmail starts?

  I don’t have an answer to that.

  Stacking my dirty dish in the washer,
I take a cool Corona from the fridge and remember my promise to Joey not to forget him. I call the hospital.

  Two minutes later, the doctor who first treated Joey comes on the line.

  ‘Detective, I was just about to call you.’

  ‘Has he come round?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry to have to tell you, detective. He passed away peacefully about ten minutes ago. He never recovered consciousness. I’m sorry for your loss. I know this was a family matter for you.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor,’ I reply, the words coming out automatically.

  He saya something else, but I don’t hear what it is.

  When the call ends, I’m in shock. I know Joey was in trouble, but I never once considered he might die. Not for a second.

  I haven’t moved some time later when my cell rings and I answer it to hear Jerry offer his condolences. He’s the official contact for the hospital and they’ve called him immediately after speaking to me. He asks if I want him to come over, but I say no. That I would prefer to be alone. He says to give him a buzz if I need to talk. I say I will and end the call.

  My mind’s replaying all the good times when Joey and I were both kids. Going over the good stuff as happens at a time like this. But that doesn’t last.

  I start wondering if Chico Vegas knew Joey was intending to finger The Joker in the killing at the scrap-metal yard and had him killed. If that’s the case, he was just fucking with me by sending me to find him. Some kind of revenge for me having spoiled his plan to have me act as a blue-bitch for him last year.