Night Moves

by DJ Steele

  "Bullshit. You blame me. Think I scared the Russian spy off?"

  "I think you know more than you shared in the debrief."

  He might have the upper hand, but she was tired of playing the game.

  She kept her eyes locked on Piagno and said, "You’re wasting your time. I have nothing more to add to the statement I gave."

  Piagno shifted in his chair, wiggled his nose and combed his hair with his fingers. It was a habit he had when she irritated him.

  "I need you to find this man and find out what he knows and who he works for. You and I knew during the Cold War we were closer to nuclear devastation than the American public realized. That war is still going on and we must win it."

  "You suspect the danger has already unfolded inside our country?"

  "I need you to exhaust all your contacts and make this a priority. We want him alive."

  Elke crossed her legs. She gazed out the window behind Piagno. Ironic how the American public was going about their daily tasks unaware of what was happening in the director’s office. Politics was always at the heart of the problem. And if they were successful in stopping the Russians, the President could claim credit. His approval rating would go up with American voters.

  She said, "I want all surveillance on me stopped."

  "Agreed."

  "Does your boss know you’re involving me?"

  "As far as anybody’s concerned, this conversation never happened."

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Dark Alley Warehouse

  * * *

  Julia feared she would breathe her last breath in this back room.

  Dolly, the overly endowed waitress, had lured her into the bathroom and she fell for the ploy. Now she was sitting in a back room on a metal chair with her wrists tied behind her back. Her purse and phone had been taken and were on the table in front of her. The only person who could rescue her was waiting in a car down the street.

  She frowned at the time on the wall clock across the room. Maybe it was slow. If not, she had twelve more minutes before Laquita would call the cops. In twelve minutes, she could be dead.

  The man hiding in the bathroom had shoved a gun in her ribs and forced her into this dark windowless room. With no outside light, the room felt damp and cold. Two lights with metal covers dangled from the ceiling, leaving the corners of the room cloaked in darkness. Paint peeled from the yellow concrete walls. Even the floor was concrete. The only way out was the way she entered or through a back door guarded by a beefy guy with his arms intertwined across his oversized chest. Pistol holstered to his side. She wouldn’t be leaving voluntarily out the back door.

  Her mind began swimming with possibilities of what might happen to her.

  None of them good.

  She did a quick assessment of her surroundings. The room was not large. At least what she could see of it. A long wooden table in front of her had five metal chairs tucked under it. In one corner was a small desk with scattered papers and file folders on top. The dark recesses without overhead lights were filled with stacks of crates and boxes. She was able to make out the words Powdered Milk on the crates and numbers. Vietnam was stamped under the numbers. Two hand trucks with oversized wheels were next to the crates. She figured the crates had more than powdered milk in them. Probably drugs.

  Over in the far corner was an average built man, young, probably in his mid-twenties and sporting a man-bun. He was arguing with Dolly. Judging by what she could hear, he was angry about something. Dolly took a long drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke out the side of her mouth. She dropped the cigarette butt to the ground, crushing it with the toe of her stiletto. She said something to the man Julia couldn’t quite hear. He shoved what looked like money in her hand and as she took it, he twisted her wrist and shoved her against the wall. The low hanging pendant light fixture washed a wave of light across the woman’s face exposing fear in her big eyes. Still holding her wrist, he twisted harder making her scream.

  Julia guessed nobody in the club could hear or maybe in this place they knew better than to interfere. He leaned close to the woman, whispered in her ear and then let go. Dolly shoved the money down her cleavage and beelined out of the room. Two men almost ran into Dolly as they entered from the club. They lurked in the shadows, making it difficult to distinguish their faces. One man she was sure was old because he was hunched forward and used a cane for support. The other much younger. Even without much light this man’s silhouette was muscular.

  The three men huddled on the side of the room. Man-Bun lit a cigarette. Man-Bun must be in charge, she thought, since he was doing all the talking. The younger guy nodded while his arms hung to his side. She strained to hear their conversation while keeping her eyes averted from the beefy guy guarding the door.

  A sharp tingle raced up her spine. Max. Did Man-Bun just call the younger man Max? She was about to look in their direction when she noticed a dark crimson colored stain on the table in front of her. It took a full second for her brain to register what she was looking at and what it meant. Fear took control of her body as an audible gasp escaped her lips.

  Man-Bun turned his face toward her and flicked his cigarette across the floor. With his face out of the shadows, she saw that he was older than she thought. His head too large for his small frame. One side of his face had a purple-red birthmark under his eye. She didn’t like the aggressive way he moved in her direction.

  "Guess you’re one of my new girls?" His voice raspy and unpleasant.

  She felt goosebumps rise on her arms. Her eyes found the clock, hoping enough time had passed for Laquita to have called the authorities.

  He caught her looking at the clock. "You expectin’ somebody?"

  "Max." Maybe that was a good lie. She needed to stall long enough for the police to arrive.

  "Really?" Man-Bun knitted his eyebrows and pulled his lips up to his long nose. He turned toward the two men standing in the shadow. "Hey Max, looks like our new girl is waitin’ on you. Why don’t you come over and show her how things work round here?"

  The younger man started toward her.

  It was him.

  Laquita had described him to a tee. Dark wavy hair and thick eyebrows accented his sunken eyes. He wasn't as young as she first thought. She had assumed he was Laquita's age. He looked much older. His face didn't match his muscle toned body.

  Max stood next to Man-Bun and shook his head.

  "I don’t know her. She won’t work out. I can tell she’s too picky."

  "How come she’s asking for you Max? Is she a cop?"

  He thinks I’m a cop? She rolled her eyes.

  "I’m not a cop, jerk. I got stiffed by a client. I need money. That's why I wanted to talk to Max." This wasn’t how she had planned this out in her head.

  "Is that right Max?" said Man-Bun.

  Max paused a moment. He snickered. "If she’s a hooker, I’m Santa Claus."

  Both men including the door guard belted out a laugh.

  The cold room suddenly felt warm to her. She broke out in a cold sweat.

  Man-Bun picked up her purse from the table, pulled it open and dumped the contents on the blood-stained wooden tabletop. Wallet, lipstick, and pepper spray scattered across the table.

  He reached for her wallet, thumbed through it and pulled out her driver license. His gaze lingered on the license in his hand.

  "Julia Bagal. This address ain’t from around here."

  She shuddered. Her dry mouth made it difficult to swallow. He knew she was a fraud.

  "You know something." He leaned close forcing her to turn her face sideways. "I think Julia Bagal ain’t your real name, now is it?"

  "So what?" snapped Julia. She wanted to tell the creep he was right. Her birth name wasn’t Julia Bagal, but this wasn’t the time for sharing her past.

  He straightened, tossed the license on the table.

  "Maybe you got a thing or two to hide. We all got things to hide in our lives," Man-Bun said nodding his head toward Max an
d then the guard at the door. "Ain’t that right boys?"

  A chorus replied, "Right boss."

  "What don't make sense is how come a sweet thing like you is hanging out in a place like this?"

  "I need a job." Her voice was strained. "That’s why I came to find Max. A friend told me Max is good to his girls."

  "Yeah. And who might that friend be?" Man-Bun’s eyes narrowed.

  Still five minutes till Laquita makes the call. How long would it take the cops to get here?

  "I can’t say."

  Man-Bun smiled and reached in his coat jacket taking out a box. He opened it and showed her what was inside.

  "You came to the right place. I’ll make sure you get work."

  Every muscle in her body knotted. She felt light-headed and sick to her stomach. She didn’t want to believe her eyes.

  A syringe and vial. This was how Man-Bun controlled his girls. He kept them addicted to whatever was in that vial. Probably heroin, she theorized.

  She shook her head fiercely while she twisted in the chair and tugged on the binding wrapped around her wrist. This wasn’t going to happen. Please God, don’t let this happen.

  "Max, give my new girl a little brown sugar and then put her in my car." His slender fingers stroked her cheek as he smiled.

  The older man with the cane moved out of the shadow and growled, "Stop right now, Caleb. She don’t look like no stripper. Maybe she’s a narc. You want ‘em swarming this place searching for her?"

  "Shut the fuck up ol’ man. You’re no longer the boss, I am."

  "Jesus Caleb," said Max. "Your ol’ man might be right."

  Caleb shoved his finger in Max’s chest, pulled a gun from the back of his pants and hissed, "Don’t ever side with him! Got that?" Caleb threw the old man a look and continued, "You do it now or I’ll shoot you and that bitch."

  Max backed up, raised his hands and relented, "Okay man. Just put the gun down."

  Caleb lowered the gun and pushed the box containing the needle into Max’s chest. Max took the box and nodded.

  Caleb stalked over by the door to the club, stopped, spit on the old man and left the room.

  "Max, you don’t have to do this. You know this isn’t right." Julia’s voice broke.

  Max stayed silent, set the box on the table and threw the old man a quick look. He picked up the syringe and vial and faced her.

  Two more minutes maybe seven with the time it takes the police to get to the club. If only she could do something. She kicked him as hard as she could in the shin. Max yelped and the guard by the door pulled his gun from his holster and stepped forward.

  Max waved him off. "It’s okay, Lopez. I got this."

  He held the syringe in his hand like a pencil, with the needle pointed up. He inserted the needle into the rubber top of the vial and pulled the plunger, transferring the liquid to the syringe. Standing on the side of her, he told her to relax. It wouldn’t hurt if she didn’t move.

  He reached and cupped her arm with his free hand.

  "Laquita said you would listen," she could barely get the words out, her throat was dry.

  "What?"

  She heard a pop-pop sound from inside the club. Max, Lopez and the old man focused their attention on the club door.

  The old man yelled, "Max. Get her the hell outta here."

  Max tossed the syringe on the table, moved to the back of the chair and began to untie the bindings. Lopez raced over, picked up the syringe and smashed Max in the head with the butt of his gun. Max grunted and fell limp.

  Terrified, she twisted violently in her chair, trying to get free. The binding on her wrists cutting into her bare skin. It was almost time for Laquita to call the cops. Not enough time to escape being drugged. She screamed as loud as she could, "Help, help…."

  She saw it coming, closed her eyes. A flash of light, then darkness.

  Chapter Thirty

  Shockley and Hauser hurried toward the man spread in a supine position on the road next to a silver Toyota Corolla. A dark pool of blood congealed on the pavement next to the body.

  Two responding uniformed patrolmen standing next to the victim raised hands to protest their presence. Shockley and Hauser held up their badges and identified themselves.

  The older uniform he knew. The tall middle-aged African American’s shirt revealed the man had packed on a few more pounds since last time he saw him. The man gnawing a toothpick said, "Sorry Detective, didn’t recognize you at first. By the time we got here, the vic was on the ground not moving. I checked for a pulse. DRT. Dead Right There. One in the gut, another right between the eyes." The younger uniform looked like he was just a few months out of the academy. His clothes pressed and shoes shiny. The rookie’s pale-skinned face was sprinkled with freckles and looked eager to please.

  Shockley snapped on a pair of latex gloves, stepped next to the body and squatted, arms resting on his thighs. He studied the victim and noted the man had clutched his stomach when he was shot. Both hands covered in his own blood. His lifeless eyes wide open, back of his head missing. Gone. The second shot killed him instantly. He couldn’t help but notice the victim was about his age. Early to mid-thirties.

  Resting on his heels, Shockley directed his attention to both patrolmen. "Were you aware of any persons or vehicles leaving the crime scene?"

  "No sir," said Officer Carlass.

  "Witnesses?"

  "Light traffic. Nobody stopped. No witnesses observed and none have come forward. Our presence in this part of town is never welcomed."

  "Who called it in?"

  "Not sure."

  "I’ll check with dispatch," offered the rookie.

  "Either of you touch the vehicle?"

  Carlass shook his head before sarcastically saying, "Followed protocol. Been doing this a lot longer than you, detective."

  "Then you’re used to being asked these questions." Shockley caught Carlass roll his eyes at the rookie.

  He stood and scanned the surrounding area thoroughly. A vacant commercial lot littered with piles of discarded tires on one side and across the street run down homes and trailers with overgrown yards littered with cars, shopping carts and other junk.

  The police were often summoned to this area for prostitution, drug dealing, overdoses, and gun possession. Last week they arrested three men, one was seventy-five years old for running a chop shop down the street. The group had stolen a dozen cars and disassembled them for the purpose of selling parts.

  "Hauser."

  Hauser had his memo pad out taking notes. He was inspecting the inside of the dead man’s car. "Yeah?"

  "Get me a witness. Somebody somewhere saw or heard something."

  "Gotcha." Hauser took off at a clip toward a row of houses on the other side of the street.

  "You." The young uniform gave Shockley his full attention. "Tape off this crime scene, have all traffic diverted from the area. I don’t want a circus when the media arrives."

  "Will do, detective. Sir." The young uniform hurried toward his patrol car.

  Shockley bent down and checked the dead man’s pockets for ID. The pant pockets contained no wallet, just a set of keys. Could have been a robbery. A drug deal gone sideways. Heroin flowed through this community like water rushing down a stream and out into its tributaries. Drugs, hard drugs, had no boundaries. He checked the man's arms for track marks. None. The man had several tattoos on his left arm. None were tats from local gangs. No wedding ring.

  He said, "Looks like the vic was shot at point-blank range. The entrance wound to the head is surrounded by a wide zone of GSR–Gun Shot Residue—and seared blackened skin." Thinking aloud, he added, "Why’d the vic let the perp approach him?"

  "Maybe this guy was set up in a drug rip. Robbing drug dealers is spreading like wildfire in this area," offered Officer Carlass.

  "Officer Carlass, run the plates and tell me what you find."

  Carlass moved the toothpick to the other side of his mouth and without a word stepped to the ba
ck of the weathered Corolla. The rookie was stringing the plastic tape around the perimeter of the crime area. Shockley seethed with anger knowing the people he wished could be at the crime scene were in the hospital. T-Bone’s condition had improved, but Bull was in a medically induced coma due to the swelling on her brain. Presently, he needed a crime scene investigator. A specialist that could uncover trace evidence he wouldn’t be able to see with the naked eye.

  He called in his request for CSI to be dispatched to the scene. He stressed urgency since this was an outside crime scene and evidence could deteriorate quickly, especially when he studied the clouds. Nimbus clouds. Rain on the horizon.

  "Looks like the car’s registered to a Chance Martin Stephens III," Carlass read from a small tablet in his hand. "Last known address is an apartment in Nashville, Tennessee."

  "Thanks. If this was a drug rip, then we should know soon enough after we run a background check on Stephens. If he’s involved in drugs, then he’s probably got a rap sheet."

  Shockley stood over the body and noted the white male’s face was unshaven. Maybe he had traveled from Nashville. Long way to travel to buy or sell drugs. The victim could have been targeted for various reasons.

  Hauser walked up with a stocky Hispanic woman beside him. "We’ve got a possible witness," he said.

  The woman stood silent until she caught a glimpse of the corpse. One hand flew to her mouth and the other hand made the sign of the cross on her chest.

  Shockley hooked the woman’s arm and guided her to the other side of the car, out of sight of the dead man and the blood.

  "Sorry," he said looking down at the woman who was maybe five feet tall. "Did you see what happened?"

  The woman tilted her full face, blinked back tears, pointed in the direction of the body. Her hands began to wave like she was swatting flies as she began to rattle off Spanish. The woman kept the machine gun speech rate without realizing he didn’t understand a word she was saying.

  "Hauser," he hollered unaware the man was right behind him.