"You knew Miss Curtiz well?" I asked.
"How to take it. She took part in one of our rehab programs. I visited her once in a while to see how she got along. Crack, heroin, speed... Linda was one of the ones who messes up everything. Detoxification is particularly difficult there. But she had been clean for six months and even had a job nearby in a supermarket. But apparently that wasn't enough support for her. "Anyway, she started using again and got a golden shot." He looked at me searchingly. His eyebrows contracted and a deep furrow formed on his forehead. "Since when does the FBI care about a simple drug kill?"
"She was said to be Monty Gordon's girlfriend."
"Yes, but that was a long time ago," Allison said.
"The name Monty Gordon seems to mean something to you, too," I note.
Allison laughed hoarsely. "Whom not? After all, he's supposed to lead the most powerful gang in the area."
"The Spiders."
"Disgusting guys. and break the bones of anyone they don't like."
"Like George Nelson Rizzo, called Neo George."
"What about him," Allison asked pretty gruffly. "Did someone shove his bad crack down his throat?"
"He got a few bullets and a rope around his neck. We believe that Monty Gordon and his'Spiders' had something to do with it and were actually hoping Linda would get to Gordon."
Allison picked her beard restlessly and finally nodded. "There is a perpetual war here in the Bronx," he declared after a short break. "And the trigger is the drugs. Everyone wants to have the business to himself. "This goes for Gordon's people as well as Rizzo's suppliers, who include the Puerto Ricans under Paco Moreno."
Paco Moreno was the leader of one of the largest drug syndicates on the East Coast, "How do you know that Rizzo was supplied by Paco Moreno's organization?
"You hear a lot when you keep your ears open," Allison said and giggled a little strangely. Then suddenly he became much calmer. "Do you still need me?"
I shook my head. "No, but we may have a few questions for you later."
"No problem. But then donate something to our therapy centre," James Allison returned and handed me one of his cards. "You're not to be envied, after all you have to do the dirty work - not that you misunderstand, but that's the way it is." Allison swallowed.
In the meantime, Milo had already phoned Lieutenant Alexander from the responsible City Police station.
"We have reinforcements on the way, and an SRD team," he reported.
15
In the early evening we met some of our colleagues near a billiards club called'The Trap'. Among the colleagues who participated in this mission were Clive Caravaggio and our Indian colleague Orry Medina as well as the special agents Fred LaRocca and Josy O'Leary.
"We searched George Rizzo's apartment," Clive turned to me. The flaxen Italo-American was the second man in our New York Field Office after our boss Jonathan D. McKee. "The computer is still under investigation, and so are the telephone lines."
"He had a real gun warehouse at home," Orry added. "He's made deals with everything that's forbidden. Heroin, cocaine or synthetic drugs. We also found an apparatus that he used to boil cocaine with baking powder and extend it."
"Crack," I muttered.
"This is the biggest profit, because of course only a fraction of the actual cocaine is scattered into the'stones'!"
"Who supplied him?" I asked.
"DEA colleagues include him in the distribution network of Big Paco Moreno, the rising star of the Puerto Rican drug syndicate."
On this point, the view of our DEA colleagues apparently coincided with Allison's assumption.
"And the Spiders? I bet they get their stuff from another source," I assumed.
Clive nodded. "Big Paco would like to sweep the Spiders out of the Bronx and replace them with his own dealers. And he does so - and at low prices. Conversely, the territory of the gang has doubled within six months. There's a war of sorts between Gordon and Moreno. Who supplies the Spiders is unknown, but there are increasing signs that they are not part of any fixed syndicate structure, but are getting their stuff according to market situation".
"This is a risky game!"
"But it explains at least in part their brutality."
"Weren't the other two victims we found with a rope also linked to Paco Moreno?" I asked.
"Yes," Clive confirmed. "And that confirms the suspicion of Gordon and the Spiders."
Our colleague was right about that, of course. Behind Paco Moreno was a powerful syndicate that could afford to push the competition out of the market through dumping prices. For gang leaders like Monty Gordon, there was only the sheer violence to defend themselves if they wanted to stand up to Moreno's organization.
Fred LaRocca and Josy O'Learys watched'The Trap from the outside. The colleagues Jay Kronburg and Leslie Morell, who arrived a little late, positioned themselves in the neighbouring street so that they could see the back entrance, while Milo and I entered the restaurant together with Orry and Clive.
A broad-shouldered man with a leather cap and bodybuilder figure wanted to point us out again at the entrance, but the ID card that Clive Caravaggio held under his nose proved him wrong. "This is a clean place," he said.
"What's your name?
"Knowle Callaghan."
"If you can decide here who goes in and out, the name Monty Gordon will tell you something."
The guy grinned. "Unlike you, I'm not gonna ask everyone for their names that show up here!"
Clive held his index finger at him like a gun. "Now listen to me, Mr Callaghan! We can also take you to the Federal Plaza, ID you and run your name and face through the computer. "If this match is just any connection with Monty Gordon, you're gonna have a lot of problems, because Gordon's up to his neck in the mud."
"You're looking for Gordon?" he asked, visibly impressed. His question was solely for the purpose of gaining some time. "You can save yourself the trouble of looking here. Monty's not here."
"Let's talk inside. We would like to see for ourselves," I demanded.
Knowle Callaghan growled something. The fact that he was suddenly so tame had to do with the fact that he did not want to come into conflict with the judiciary under any circumstances. Maybe he was still on probation or didn't show up for a court date.
The Trap' had a dim light inside. Heavy metal music was playing in the background. At most a dozen billiard players were at the tables and let the balls rush over the green felt.
Callaghan led us to the bar.
A lean man with a high forehead stood behind it. He had crossed his arms, which were covered with tattoos.
"These are FBI agents looking for Monty," Callaghan reported.
I gave the lean man my ID card.
"Are you trying to ruin my business here or what?" the man shouted outraged.
"Take it easy!" Clive tried to appease him. "And as far as your business is concerned, it all depends on what business you mean. "Nobody here has anything against billiards and beer."
Meanwhile I let my eyes wander through the tap room. I noticed a young man. He seemed rather slender and wore a baseball cap with the inscription 'Brand New'. He was pushing towards a door that must have led to the back exit. His jacket slipped to one side and gave a brief glimpse of the handle of an automatic for a moment.
Possession of a gun would have been reason enough to arrest him. But in view of the confusing situation in the billiards club, it would have been irresponsible to rush into action.
The man in the Brand New cap finally disappeared through the door.
We were all connected by a head set. I turned quietly to my colleagues. "There's a guy coming in the back way," I said. "That's not one of the faces we're looking at right now, but I don't think he's going anywhere for no reason! He also wears a gun under his jacket."
"Got it, Jesse! He's showing up here right now," reported our colleague Jay Kronburg. "Now he gets into a car. Blue Ford, let's run the plate right through the computer."
<
br /> The result was there in a few moments.
"The car belongs to Cole Davis, twice convicted of drug trafficking, spent four years on Rikers Island and is believed to belong to the 'Spiders'."
"Then go after them!", I meant.
"We'll take care of it," decided Josy O'Leary. "The car has to come right out of the exit and show up with us. Then we'll hang ourselves on it."
16
Fred LaRocca sat at the wheel of the inconspicuous Chevys from our car pool. Josy O'Leary was in the passenger seat.
"The Trap won't be the only meeting place the Spiders know," she was convinced.
"Yes, but unfortunately we don't know the others," Fred LaRocca said.
"Which could soon change."
"Like Jesse said, the moment he realized what Clive and the others were in the restaurant, I think we had a hot lead!"
Fred LaRocca smiled mildly.
"Optimist!"
Josy O'Leary struck back her hard-to-tame red mane and took a deep breath.
Fred LaRocca always kept a distance just close enough not to lose contact.
Cole Davis drove pretty fast.
He first turned right, then left again - only to suddenly race into a one-way street.
"This is a test, but we don't fall for it," Fred said.
"Take the next crossroad, so we should get back on his trail," Josy suggested.
Fred LaRocca turned left into the next street and depressed the accelerator. A truck backed out of a driveway. Fred honked and then applied the brakes.
Vehicles parked at the edge and narrowed the road. There was no way out of the way.
With squeaking tires and breaking rear the Chevy came to a halt - only half a metre before it could slide into the side of the truck.
Fred LaRocca hit the steering wheel angrily with the ball of his hand. "Damn, the guy's gone!"
"That's just bad luck, Fred!"
Fred and Josy got out.
The truck driver gestured out the window of his driver's cab.
"FBI! Move that truck! Immediately," Josy O'Leary demanded and showed the guy her ID.
"Just a moment! I can't do witchcraft either!"
The truck drove back into the driveway.
Fred and Josy got back in and the Chevy roared along the next hundred yards. The road they reached afterwards must have been used by Cole Davis as well. But now, with the best will in the world, he could no longer tell in which direction he had gone.
"We can only guess," said Fred LaRocca.
Josy O'Leary took her cell phone to her ear. The radio connection over the head set did not reach so far that one could still maintain the connection to the colleagues on this way.
A moment later, our Irish colleague had me on the phone.
"I'm sorry, Jesse, but we lost him."
17
Paco Moreno resided in a penthouse on East 92th Street on Carnegie Hill, Manhattan. He had a preference for Chinese tea. With a cup of wafer-thin porcelain he stepped out through the open glass door onto the roof garden, from which one had an outstanding panoramic view over northeastern Manhattan. It was already dark and you could see the lights of Astoria in Queens. New York was like a sea of lights with a few dark spots in only a few places. Like where Carl Schurz Park was.
Noise from the streets came up to Paco Moreno, while he led the cup to his mouth with two fingers and sipped on his tea. The tea had been prepared by his Chinese personal chef Zhedong in such a way that he calmed and did not stimulate. And Paco Moreno needed reassurance right now, because there has been a lot of trouble lately in what he called his'business'.
Moreno was 45, had a high forehead and a square face. The hair was dark and combed back. The strong eyebrows formed the most striking line of his V-shaped face.
A young woman came through the glass door. She was wearing nothing but a wrongly buttoned man's shirt. She was barefoot, her footsteps barely audible. She wiped the thick, blond mane from her face.
"Damn, did you put away the snow, darling? "There was something on the bedside table earlier, now I wake up and everything is gone!"
Moreno drank the tea and turned to her.
"You're taking too much of this stuff, Grace! Your nose is already completely destroyed."
"Hey, you don't care, do you?"
"Do me a favor and reduce your consumption a little. You'll sniff my hair off my head." Moreno giggled.
Grace cursed aloud. A gush of swear words came over her full lips sprayed into a pout mouth. She went back. You could hear them cursing for a while until a door was slammed somewhere.
The best time with her should be over, thought'Big Paco'. I will have to think of something to get rid of her and at the same time take away her conviction that she would have acquired a right to material for life from me!
But at first there were other problems to solve, which were even more urgent.
Paco Moreno looked impatiently at the clock.
You should have been here a long time ago, Juan, he thought.
At that moment, one of Moreno's bodyguards entered the roof garden. In his company was a slender, dark-haired man with a protruding chin. His hair reached over his shoulders and was combined into a ponytail. The handle of a gun flashed out from under the jacket of his grey made-to-measure suit.
"Juan! Finally! Where the fuck are you?"
"Fucking rush hour! It was impossible to be here earlier!"
Moreno put the tea cup on a table and then turned to the bodyguard. "Leave me alone for a moment with Mr Fuentes."
"As you wish," was the bodyguard's response. He left the roof garden and closed the glass door behind him.
"Hey, what's the thrill, Paco?" asked Juan Fuentes.
"Things in the Bronx are coming to a head. It's time we played a more active role there."
"Hey, man, that's exactly what I used to tell you, Uncle!"
But Paco Moreno shook his head decisively. "No, I think you misunderstand me."
"Well, I'm curious."
"I have a special assignment for you, Juan. A particularly sensitive and delicate matter."
Juan Fuentes grinned crookedly. "You know I'd do anything for you, Big Paco!"
"Yeah, sure."
"Go ahead, then! Who do I kill?"
Now even Paco Moreno had to laugh. His face visibly relaxed. He patted Juan Fuentes amicably on the shoulder. "You don't know anything like fear, do you?"
"Neither fear nor scruple," Juan replied. "Consider it done, Uncle Paco!"
18
Our investigation around the Billad restaurant 'The Trap' was a total failure. Nobody wanted to tell us anything and work with us. Everyone was afraid that the Spiders would take terrible revenge in this case.
We showed photos of the dead all around, but most of the respondents didn't even look right.
Our agents posted outside filmed the license plates of cars and motorcycles parked around'The Trap'. The check did not reveal anyone we would have had a handicap against at the moment. The only exception was Cole Davis, who had run away in time. He has been indicted for drug trafficking. He had not appeared at the court hearing, the bail had expired and an arrest warrant had been issued against him. If he was caught now, he could be sure that he would not be released on bail.
Unfortunately Fred and Josy had lost track of him, which nobody blamed them for. Cole Davis grew up around here. He knew every side street like the back of his hand.
"He's probably taking turns staying at some friends', Milo said, while we were already on our way back to Manhattan. We were just crossing one of the bridges over the Harlem River, as the link between Hudson and East River is called.
It was already dark, but New York is the city that never sleeps. After all, the rush hour was over, so we made quite fast progress.
"How about we go out for dinner before you drop me off at the familiar corner," Milo said.
"No objection," I agreed. "My stomach is growling so loud, I'm surprised no one's noticed."
W
e went to a snack bar on the northern edge of the Upper West Side and ordered a hot dog for everyone.
We hardly talked about the case any more. We had to wait for the reports from the SRD laboratories and forensic medicine before we started speculating.
19
The next morning we arrived in our boss's office. Mr Jonathan D. McKee ran the FBI Field Office in New York.
I was a little surprised to see another man sitting there, apart from the agents involved in yesterday's operation and our office worker Max Carter, who was initially unknown to me. He was lean, tall, with greying hair and sunken cheekbones.
Mr McKee introduced him.
"This is Agent Harry Branson of the DEA. He will work with us on this case and can also contribute some interesting details about Wayne Smith. You have the floor, Harry!"
"As you can imagine, it is very difficult for investigators to get into the inner circle of a gang. That's why we often depend on second-line informants. That was the case with Wayne Smith. He provided us with information on a regular basis. There was also the prospect that he would eventually be accepted by the gang, which would have given us the chance to blow up the whole group. The murder of him - in which unfortunately our NYPD colleague Sergeant Ryan O'Leary was also killed - can, in my opinion, only be explained by the fact that Smith's informant activity has been discovered for us."
"This also fits in with the identity of the shooter, which we have found out in the meantime," Max Carter from the Investigation Department said. "His forged license had the name James Myer on it. In fact, the man is Roger Sheldon, 32 years old. He served one and a half years in the U.S. Armed Forces before being dishonorably dismissed for various crimes. Offences include threatening superiors with the gun and multiple assault as well as embezzlement of army assets. He did a few years in prison and then returned to the Bronx, where he grew up. Sheldon was stationed at Fort Levenworth, where he also left a wife and a small child."
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