"Thank you both," she said.
"Did you know George Nelson Rizzo, called Neo George?" I asked. "The man with the long leather coat."
Susan Cabanez nodded.
"A crack dealer, I think. But that's all I know."
I haven't let up yet. "Do you know who might have shot him?"
"I don't know. I'm not taking anything, so I had nothing to do with the guy. He always came along as one of the greatest braggarts. What happened to the people he sold his stuff to didn't matter to him. A guy who'd go over dead bodies for a few bucks and probably sell crack to his own grandmother!" She sighed, "Yes, don't look at me like that! If I'd called the cops, that guy would have had someone wring my neck. After all, he had powerful friends around here."
"What kind of friends?"
"Well, the ones who gave him the dope. But that's all I know about it."
"What about Wayne Smith? Our colleagues caught him trying to rip Rizzo's convertible off."
"Wayne's a guy around here. Lives one block away. A friend of mine had a kid with him, but he dumped her. Cracking cars looks like him. He's just too dumb to make more of himself."
"Is he with the Spiders?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"I don't think so."
"Why?"
"Well, they're making enough money around here. Then Wayne wouldn't need to crack any more cars, he could pay them in cash! But I don't know for sure."
She didn't want to know about the shootings on the street. Not from the shooting of Rizzo or Wayne Smith's assassination. After all, her apartment is facing the other side of the house. I left her my card at the end.
Maybe there was something else that could help us move forward.
10
We returned to Rizzo's car.
Our dead colleague Sergeant O'Leary was taken care of by the medical examiner Dr. Claus, while Sandra Dominguez from the SRD took care of the car and secured evidence together with two colleagues.
The suspicion that Rizzo had been shot here seemed to be confirmed when Sandra Dominguez found a bullet.
We looked around the neighborhood. But nobody wanted to see or hear anything.
Pure fear reigned here.
In a house entrance only a few meters away from the location of the convertible, we found a man in a corner wearing a bloodstained parka with the inscription Adventurer. He was trembling. There was a gash on her head that urgently needed stitches. It was obvious that he had been brutally beaten up.
"Jesse Trevellian, FBI," I said. "I think you need medical attention, mister."
He looked up and looked at me with an empty look.
"It's all right, thank you," he muttered. As if he had to convince himself of it, he also confirmed his absurd statement. "I don't need anything! Really!"
"Nothing is all right!", I disagreed. "We have a doctor nearby who could take a look at your injury."
The man laughed hoarsely. He was spitting blood. Apparently he had lost several teeth.
"What's your name?" I asked.
It took him a few moments until he could speak again and his mouth was able to produce a name.
"Jason Shaw."
"Do you have anything on you to prove it?"
"No."
"No driver's license?"
"The last one expired three years ago. "It's in my apartment, third floor, apartment 3.01. I've had a short lull and I didn't get there."
Milo took Dr. Claus while I stayed with Shaw.
I assumed he was a crackhead, but I lacked a way to search his stuff.
"George Nelson Rizzo or Neo George, as he is also known, was shot out on the street. Did you hear anything about that?"
He grimaced.
He owed an answer.
The medical examiner came to see us a little later. He examined the injured person briefly and provided initial care. "He's on crack and has several broken bones," he turned to me and confirmed my suspicion. "This man should be in a hospital right away."
"You got the crack of Neo George, didn't you?" I said in Shaw's direction. "But someone doesn't like George Rizzo hanging around here dealing. Probably the competition and since this is the territory of the'Spiders', they will have done everything to make clear to Rizzo's clientele that they should buy their stuff somewhere else! That's why they beat you up and shot Rizzo. Now say what you know, Shaw! Otherwise things will only get worse!"
"Are you there to protect me next time I meet these people, too?" Shaw asked.
"We can take these guys out of circulation if you give us names and addresses," Milo interfered.
"So some resourceful lawyer will make sure they get out on bail and maybe get a suspended sentence afterwards?" He shook his head. "No, thanks, G-man! I can do without that."
"Jesse, I suggest we take Mr. Shaw into custody. Suspicion of drug trafficking. After all, he could have been a business partner of George Rizzo."
"Let's see what we can find in his apartment," I agreed. "Besides, he'll get proper medical care at the prison clinic on Rikers Island."
"You can't do this!" Shaw shouted. "If you arrest me, everyone will think I talked to you!"
"But we can't leave you here like this either, Mr. Shaw!" I told him. "So either let the Emergency Service take you or the prison clinic will take care of you!"
Milo leaned down to him.
Shaw coughing blood.
"Don't let these guys get away with it and tell us what happened," my colleague demanded. "We already know most of it anyway! I promise you we won't hawk with it."
Shaw hesitated. "Okay," he finally gave in. "I'll go along with your terms."
"It's better this way," Milo reassured him.
Shaw needed a few more moments to speak. "I waited for Rizzo. He was late. "Those bastards came and beat me half to death."
"Names, Mr Shaw!", I demanded.
"You were right about that!"
"With what?"
"It was the Spiders. The leader's name is Monty Gordon. "He's quite ambitious and ruthless against anyone who puts stuff on the market in his district, as he calls it."
"Where do we find him?"
"There's a pool joint a few blocks down. It's called'The Trap'. He's supposed to be there more often."
"And what about Rizzo?", Milo checked.
Shaw hesitated. Then he gave himself a jolt and continued talking. "When Rizzo showed up, they drove me out into the street, stuffed my mouth full of crack stones and chased me away like a dog. Rizzo was surrounded by Monty Gordon's people. I saw everything."
"Then say it!", I demand. "The more you tell us, the easier it will be to take this Gordon and his gang out of circulation."
"There was a shot. Rizzo's been hit. And then I heard Monty Gordon say that Rizzo was five minutes ahead."
"Lead?", I echo.
"I suppose they were going to hunt him down. This isn't the first time the Spiders have done this to someone they want to intimidate."
"And at the end of this hunt, Rizzo was dead," Milo muttered.
"What do you know about Wayne Smith?" I asked.
"I've talked more than enough," Shaw said. "And if you think that I would repeat anything I told you in court, then you are wrong. You can stand upside down, but I'm not giving a word of my life."
11
An Emergency Service car picked up Jason Shaw. Meanwhile, Lieutenant Alexander had finished his work at the first crime scene and now arrived. I asked him to put officers on Shaw's watch.
George Rizzo and Wayne Smith - two murders in such a short time and so close together. You don't even get that often in my territory - and here in the Bronx we're already used to a lot."
"We'll have to see if the two cases are really connected," Milo said.
"Let's go over what happened so far," I suggested. "Jason Shaw waits for his crack dealer and gets beaten up by the Spiders. "The dealer - Rizzo - shows up, gets a bullet through Monty Gordon's shoulder personally."
"Probably he got to hear some nice wo
rds - according to the motto: "Never come back here with your stuff again. The area is ours," Milo added.
"Then they had this hunt Shaw was talking about."
"So he'll remember the whole thing."
"But why shoot him then?" I asked.
"We'll know more once we've arrested these Spiders and checked their weapons, Jesse. "Once we know who fired the shot, we may soon be ready to talk."
"How does Wayne Smith fit in?" I asked.
"Quite simply, he saw the car, got big eyes and thought that he should not miss such an opportunity," Milo proposed to explain.
"Nevertheless, the question remains, why does he get a bullet in the head right afterwards, Milo?"
"Unfortunately, the killer is not speaking to us. But that can still change."
Lieutenant Alexander now interfered in the conversation. "One thing's for sure," he said. "The man who shot Smith and our colleague would never have done that if he hadn't had permission from the Spiders."
"Then this gang is the key to everything," Milo said.
Lieutenant Alexander nodded.
"I agree."
We went to the car and went online with the built-in computer. Under the name Monty Gordon, a whole range of entries could be called up via the NYSIS data network system. He had a lot of priors on him. assault and drug charges. He also met for several years on Rikers Island. But in the last five years it had become quieter around him. He obviously didn't get caught that easily. Now he was thirty-five. The last address was four years old and was 142nd Street, where his mother had lived at that time.
We also checked out Wayne Smith and Jason Shaw. Shaw was still on parole for theft. It must have been drug-related crime to finance his crack addiction.
"That's why he didn't want to get involved," Milo said.
We also checked out the killer who shot Wayne Smith and our NYPD colleague Sergeant O'Leary. But the search was not so easy. There were twenty-two delinquent men in the Big Apple who were called James Myer and could be found in the criminal record. Unfortunately, none of the pictures we could dial via NYSIS were correct with the man we had arrested.
"I knew you would," I came out. "The name on the driver's license wasn't correct."
"Or "Our Miste Myer has been an innocent lamb so far and is not registered here," Milo pointed out.
"Do you really believe that?"
"It would be very unlikely," Milo admitted. "Then Max and our colleagues in the office should take over. We're just getting bogged down here!"
Sandra Dominguez got to our sports car. The SRD staff member knocked against my window, whereupon I let her down.
"I have two more things I'd like to tell you about Wayne Smith, Agent Trevellian."
"Please!"
"First of all, I think he was a crackhead himself. The cartwheeler may have financed his addiction. We found special tools in his jacket pockets that could help you short out. And secondly..."
"Don't make it so exciting."
She handed me a business card. It was wrapped in cellophane. "HELP," I muttered. "This looks familiar. Rizzo had a card like this with him."
"Yes, but turn this one around!"
On the other side there was a handwritten mobile number and a name: James.
"This James could be one of the HELP staff," Milo believed.
"Asked there if anyone at HELP could answer our questions."
12
After the crime scene was completed, Milo and I drove to Monty Gordon's last address.
A woman in her sixties opened her apartment apartment on the fifth floor of a block of flats. Jennifer Gordon' was on the doorbell.
"So she still lives here," Milo said.
"I don't think she'll tell us much about your son, though!"
"Wait and see, Jesse."
She only opened the door a crack. Milo presented her with her ID card. "Milo Tucker, FBI. Mrs Gordon, we're looking for your son Monty."
"He's not here!" claimed Mrs Gordon.
"Then I'm sure you won't mind if we see for ourselves," I took the floor. "We'd also like to take this opportunity to ask you a few questions."
"Who's there?" called a man's voice from a room next door.
"The FBI!" called Mrs Gordon back and opened the door for us.
We entered and were led into a living room that was completely overloaded with upholstered furniture. On the couch was a man the same age as Mrs Gordon. He held a bottle of Budweiser in his right hand. There was a football game on TV.
"This is my partner, Mr. Eric Robertson."
We introduced ourselves, but Mr Robertson didn't seem very interested in us. His attention was primarily focused on the touchdown.
"Are they coming for your son?" he finally asked without taking his eyes off the screen.
"Yes," said Mrs Gordon.
"Now you haven't seen him in years, and there's still nothing but trouble with him."
Mrs Gordon approached me. "We'd better go to the kitchen," she said.
A little later she offered us a place in the kitchen.
"What did he do?" she asked. "I mean Monty."
"Someone saw him shoot a man."
She sighed, "He's not a bad boy, he's just bad company."
"Her son is 35 - and now really no'boy' anymore,' I thought.
"Maybe so. For me, he always will be."
"What do you know about his company?", Milo interfered. "He is to lead a gang called Spiders..."
"As Eric just said, we haven't had contact in years. I know that in Monty's business not everything can be done right - just as he throws money around! But I still pray that he..." She stopped talking. A moment later she tried to continue, but broke off again and finally asked: "Is the man he shot dead?"
"Yes," I told them. "He shot him first, then hunted him with his gang members and finally he was dead - a few meters before he could leave the Spiders' territory! "We don't know if he fired the deadly shots, though, or one of his men."
"Oh, my God, that sounds terrible!"
Tears glistened in Mrs Gordon's eyes.
"I always told you he was no good," Eric Robertson shouted from the living room. Apparently, he had one ear following our conversation.
"Two years ago, my son was here for the last time," reported Mrs Gordon in a subdued tone. "He just couldn't accept that I broke up with his father and started a new life with Eric. There was a fight between Eric and Monty. Monty put my partner in hospital and I had trouble stopping Eric from pressing charges, because then Monty's parole would have been revoked. "We haven't been in contact since."
"When you had contact - who was he with? "Friends, acquaintances, maybe he had a girlfriend?"
"He had a girlfriend. Her name was Linda Curtiz. As far as I could tell, she was fine. Monty was available at her address for a while."
"What is it?"
"I don't remember. You won't find Monty there either. He broke up with her." She swallowed. "Promise me one thing!"
"That depends," I replied.
"If you arrest my son, make sure he's safe. I know he's probably done terrible things, but I also know he won't live much longer if he goes on like this. Either a police bullet will hit him or someone from another gang will stab him in the back. And I don't want that either."
"We'll do what we can," I promised.
13
We returned to the sports car and sat in the car. Milo booted up the built-in computer. We had the name Linda Curtiz checked online. There were dozens of entries under that name. We narrowed it down and looked for a young woman who had come into contact with drugs and lived in the South Bronx.
There was only one hit.
And since the woman in question had also been arrested and checked in a drug possession raid with Monty Gordon, it had to be the woman we were looking for.
"Do you really think it makes any difference, Jesse?" Milo doubted.
"Wait and see."
"It's probably more effective if we go after that pool joint called'The Trap'
Jason Shaw was talking about."
"If I were Gordon and had just killed someone, I wouldn't show myself where everyone suspects me for a while," I told him. "Besides, I don't think there's much going on there at this hour either. "Besides, we need reinforcements to do something about it."
"I'll call our field office to request them!"
"Okay. But before we do, we have time enough to see Linda Curtiz."
Your last parole was still on. Therefore the address was still up to date. In addition to drug offences, their criminal record also showed convictions in connection with drug-related crime. She had been caught twice as a prostitute.
14
Linda Curtiz lived on the third floor of a run-down apartment building.
We parked the sports car nearby.
The front door was open. Of course there was no safety technology here, but at least the elevator worked. A little later we stood in front of Linda Curtiz' apartment. The door was just ajar. The bell didn't work.
"Miss Curtiz?" I asked.
No answer.
Milo took his service weapon into his right. I opened the door completely. The one-room apartment seemed chaotic. Clothes were all over the place. There were dozens of bottles on the coffee table. Also a injecting set.
A man stood in the middle of the room.
He had a dark beard and black, thick hair. There was a young woman lying on the couch in front of him. You had to look twice to recognize Linda Curtiz from the photos accessible via NYSIS. She was wearing panties and a T-shirt. Her arms were stabbed.
The eyes seemed rigid.
And dead.
"Jesse Trevellian, FBI," I said and stepped up. "What are you doing here?"
The man raised his hands. "Don't shoot, I'm unarmed! James Allison, member of HELP."
Milo lowered his gun. "You belong to this organization that helps drug addicts?"
"Yes, that's right." He took an ID card out of his pocket that identified him as an employee of that organization. He also had a driving licence with him, which was in order and whose details corresponded to those on the HELP card. I took a close look at both documents and returned them to Allison. "In that case, I was late..."
Strangled! Page 3