"That's how much he respects the investigating authorities," Harry Branson wondered and interfered in the conversation.
Roger Sheldon laughed hoarsely. "The police would be too dumb to find Gordon unless he's betrayed. "No offense, but I don't think Monty's really scared of being arrested right now."
"Then what is it?", I checked.
Sheldon hesitated again for a moment and continued a few moments later: "Well, the killers of the Moreno syndicate will not remain inactive. Given the situation, they can't. Besides, I guess Big Paco wants to be at the top of the game a while longer." He sighed audibly. "Rizzo wasn't the only Kleindeal man to complain about lately. "But I think you've already found that out without my help." He grinned.
But nobody in the room replied and so Sheldon stopped very quickly.
"So you could testify that Monty Gordon was the man behind the murdered petty dealers who were later found with a rope around their necks."
At first, our counterpart just shrugged his shoulders. After a long pause in reflection, Monty Gordon finally continued: "I'm sorry, I wasn't at any of the meetings where this was discussed. But the fact that these guys were a thorn in Monty's side, who went down so far with their fabric prices that it was hardly worth staying in the business was no secret. And that's exactly what Moreno's people are trying to do. They're trying to smash us with their money! But Monty made sure they got a lesson. By the way, I know where you can find the guy who gave me the gun and the job."
"Come on, speak up," I demanded. "In order to put on a big show here and at the same time hold back the crucial details, we didn't have to set that date!"
"Kenneth Easton lives with Clarissa Maxwell."
"Address?"
"Randall Street. I don't remember the house number, but the apartment is on the third floor. There is a coffee shop on the ground floor. You have to go through that one to get up there. I think the owner of the coffee shop also rents out the apartments. "Although in that case..."
"What?", I checked.
"I guess the coffee shop owner is more likely to give Kenneth something for protecting him."
"We need all the names, addresses, venues, and so on, of people who are in the gang right now."
"Hey, man, I tried to get into the inner circle, but I haven't been in yet. So I don't know any of them."
"But enough for the prosecutor to make an offer in good conscience, I suppose."
"You can make these statements," his defender assured him. "In court, what information has been exchanged here is considered not to have been said. "And D.A. Thornton needs you to open your mouth in what are bound to be subsequent trials of Monty Gordon and the other gang members."
Roger Sheldon nodded. "Okay," he muttered.
24
Sheldon made us an extensive list, which was immediately faxed to our field office at the Federal Plaza so that our office staff could take care of it. The persons mentioned had to be checked.
When Milo and I got back in the sports car and left Rikers Island, we talked to Mr McKee on the phone. The speakerphone was switched to loud, so we could both listen in.
"Arrest this Easton," he instructed us. "Maybe we can get to Monty Gordon through him!"
"I think so too. "After all, Kenneth Easton is probably higher in the gang hierarchy."
"The quick query about NYSIS lists the usual criminal convictions you can expect from someone like him. But there's nothing against him at the moment. Is Harry Branson still with you, Jesse?"
"He's following us in his car."
"That makes three of you. That should be enough to appoint Easton. "You'd better be on your way. The warrant should be a formality after we get the statement from Roger Sheldon."
"All right."
"Backup is on its way, by the way. Don't take any chances. This Easton is considered dangerous."
Afterwards we talked to Max Carter. A first review of Clarissa Maxwell revealed several convictions for prostitution.
"If you ask me, that Easton is not her boyfriend, he's her pimp!", Max suspected on the phone.
During the trip, we displayed photos on the TFT screen of our Jaguar showing both Kenneth Easton and Clarissa Maxwell in their recent arrests.
Finally we had to recognize them when they crossed our path.
Twenty minutes later we had reached the address Roger Sheldon had given us.
The coffee shop was quite large and took up most of the ground floor. There was also a flower shop, a laundry and a Mexican fast food restaurant of the'Hot & Spicy' chain. The roadside was covered with vehicles.
In addition, there were relatively many passers-by in front of the building.
"There are better places to make an arrest," Milo said.
We got out.
Harry Branson had followed us in his inconspicuous company car. He had only parked about a dozen yards behind us.
"I suggest we take him while he's still in the apartment," Branson said.
"How do you know he's there?" I asked.
"I've made a vehicle owner query on NYSIS. "No vehicle is registered on Kenneth Easton, but two on Clarissa Maxwell." He pointed to the SUV that partially obscured the view of the'Hot & Spicy' store. "That's actually his car, I'll make a bet."
The question of whether we should watch the building for longer and wait for reinforcements, or whether we should strike right away, became superfluous when we saw Easton coming out the door of the coffee shop. He turned towards the off-road vehicle registered in the name of Clarissa Maxwell.
We crossed the road.
Milo turned left and circled the suv, a Ford Maverick. Branson made an arc to the right, near the entrance to the coffee shop, while I approached Easton directly.
"FBI, freeze and put your hands up!", I shouted, ripping out the gun and ID. Milo and Branson did the same thing.
Easton ripped out his gun and fired immediately. He hit Branson, who sank to the ground. The bullet had hit smoothly through the chest and emerged from the back.
Easton stumbled, fired wildly and ran back to the coffee shop. I followed. Milo, too.
While I stormed into the coffee shop, Milo took care of Branson, who was apparently still alive.
The front door of the shop flew to the side.
I fell into the barroom and just saw Easton disappearing through a back door. He was firing in my direction before. The shot rushed past me. One of the large windows facing the street was broken. About a dozen guests were in the coffee shop. They were reason enough for me not simply to fire back over their heads and thus endanger the lives of the uninvolved.
I followed the fugitive. And I held up my ID. "FBI! Stay under cover!"
Some of the guests had crawled under the tables.
I reached the back exit, stalked myself with the service weapon in my right hand and pushed open the door. A corridor opened up. But there was no one to see. I kept rushing. Past the kitchen, a pantry and finally the toilets.
I didn't think Easton hid there. He had to get out of the building as quickly as possible if he wanted any chance of getting away from us.
The corridor made a bend.
Then I reached a door, stepped aside and was outside again. A parking lot, which was surrounded by several buildings, followed here.
Two men came out of a van and cleaned out boxes. They looked at me in astonishment.
"FBI! Where's the man who just walked out here?" I asked.
"No he comprendido, señor!", one of them said.
"Qué es pasado?" asked the other one.
In the Bronx there is the largest Puerto Rican community outside Puerto Rico and it is quite possible to grow up there without ever having to speak a word of English. In this case, however, I rather assumed that the linguistic inability was faked.
The men just wouldn't talk to us.
At that moment, behind one of the dumpsters on the other side of the parking lot, a figure sprang out of the cover.
It was Easton. Ruthlessly, he fired in my direction
. The two Latinos immediately ducked behind the parked vehicles. So am I.
The hail of bullets ebbed. Footsteps clacked on the asphalt. Easton was wearing brass-framed cowboy boots. They flashed briefly as the sun's rays caught them. Then he entered a shadow zone.
I followed in a crouched posture.
In the distance I already heard sirens, both the City Police and the Emergency Service were on their way and the various horn signals overlapped.
I ran through the narrow alleys that had been left between the parked vehicles. A maze of cars. After all, it offered me cover when Easton suddenly stopped and the magazine of his automatic suddenly fired empty in my direction. He shot in quick succession and very purposefully. The shots fizzled right over me. I fired back for a moment and then ducked behind a van. The next moment my opponent's bullets shot his targets in pieces. A rain of glass splinters came down on me and some of these little splinters got into my hair and clothes. I tried to shake it off.
The characteristic clack of the cowboy boots could be heard again. His shoes were anything but suitable for a quick sprint. Maybe that was the decisive advantage I had on my side.
As soon as Easton stopped shooting at me, I ran back out of cover.
There was no sign of Easton. I assumed that he had simply mixed in with the passers-by in the nearby main street.
When I reached the road, he just crossed it and took cover behind a truck. Traffic was dense and moved to the rhythm of the green phases of the nearby traffic light.
At the moment it was red and so it had all stopped.
On the opposite side was a disused warehouse. A wooden fence separated the property from the surrounding area. In total, it had three floors on which screws had once been produced until the company filed for bankruptcy. Since then, the building has been empty. A sign on the board fence informed about the imminent bankruptcy of Matthews & Brownwell.
Easton broke his path by ripping one of the boards out of the fence. After that, he disappeared for me. At least I couldn't see him.
Traffic resumed. Cars honked when I crossed the road anyway. The hole in the fence I found quickly and crawled through as well.
Easton was about twenty yards from me. He had almost reached the factory hall, whose rusty gate was a gap wide open. He had cover there.
I fired into the air.
"Freeze, Easton!"
He froze. Apparently he realized that he could no longer reach the hall without risking a hit.
He turned around slowly. He still held the automatic in his right hand. I approached carefully. "Put the gun down! Sofort“
"Hey, man, how far do you think you'll get around here?"
"Anyway, you won't see this area again so soon after you shot my colleague. Now put the gun down! Immediately!"
He hesitated for a moment. Then he dropped the gun to the ground and raised his hands.
"You're under arrest, Mr. Easton!" I threw him the handcuffs. "Put these on! "I hope for your sake that our colleague Branson survives, otherwise you'll be charged with policeman's murder - and neither judges nor prosecutors understand any of this fun."
"Hey, what was I supposed to do? This is ´ne bad neighborhood and then someone comes at me with a gun in their hand!"
"This is ´ne bad neighborhood because there are people like you on the road here, Easton! "You have the right to remain silent, by the way, anything you say from now on can be used against you in court."
"Thank you, I know my rights!"
I got closer to him. "We're looking for Monty Gordon. If you want to get something more for yourself, then you should cooperate with us, and now, otherwise it looks quite gloomy for you!"!
"I have no idea who you're talking about, G-man!"
"You want to protect your gang leader. But you should think about whether Gordon would do something like that for you."
He spat out.
"Fuck you!"
25
I brought Easton back.
In the meantime, City Police and Emergency Service had arrived. But for Harry Branson, any help came too late.
"There are a few things I'll probably never get used to," Milo said. "For example, if a colleague is caught who has done nothing more than his duty."
Easton was taken away by our NYPD colleagues and put in one of the company cars. I tried to get something out of him again. But he kept quiet.
"He's gonna have a lot to look forward to," Milo believed. "A murder of a police officer and accessory to the murder of Wayne Smith. After all, he got the gun."
"A weapon that's been used before in other shootings that Easton seems to have had a lot to do with."
A Mitsubishi parked by the roadside. The car must have come from our motor pool, because our colleagues Fred LaRocca and Josy O'Leary got out and approached us.
Josy looked towards the car Easton was in and said, "I brought the appropriate warrant. Also a search warrant for Clarissa Maxwell's apartment."
"This job is next on our list," I said.
Fred LaRocca's gaze turned to the pool of blood that had formed where our DEA colleague Harry Branson had died. Meanwhile, his body had been taken away.
"What happened here?"
"Easton shot Branson. We'll probably have to stay here a little longer..."
26
Josy and Fred stayed at the scene. Fred interviewed Edward Marciano, the owner of the coffee shop, but it turned out to be quite monosyllabic. He was simply afraid to say something that the Spiders might have interpreted as treason. Colleagues from the Scientific Research Division arrived shortly after and began their investigations to ensure that the trial of Easton was adequately documented.
Milo and I stood in front of Clarissa Maxwell's apartment door a little later.
We knocked. There was no bell.
Initially, there was no reaction.
"Miss Maxwell, this is Special Agent Jesse Trevellian, FBI. Open the door or we'll be forced to use force."
Now the door opened a crack. At first, however, the curtain chain remained snapped.
"Your ID," demanded a resolute woman's voice.
I handed her my ID card through the rift. I couldn't see more than her hand.
On her middle finger she wore a ring with a rather valuable stone.
A moment later she handed the ID card back to me. "Come in!" she muttered and opened the door. A curvy blonde with a thick, curly mane stood in front of us. She wore a gossamer-thin kimono that just reached her thighs.
"We have a search warrant for your apartment."
"Stick the paper somewhere else! You're doing what you want, mister!"
"Agent Trevellian. And we're just doing our duty."
"Of course! "Like you cops didn't want to frame Kenneth for a long time and were just too stupid to get it right."
I no longer noticed her unfriendly interjection.
"How long has Kenneth Easton lived with you?"
"He doesn't live here. He only spends the night at my place once in a while..."
"He's got a lot of his dressing room in your apartment," Milo shouted from the bedroom.
"What are you looking for? Drugs? I'm clean! And if you want to frame me for prostitution..."
"We're not from the Vice Department," I taught her. "And we don't really care if he's your friend or your pimp."
"He's my friend," she said.
"If you say so..."
"If you already know the answers anyway, you don't have to ask me any questions and you can leave me alone!"
"As I said, we're not trying to frame you."
"Then what do you want?"
I took a picture of Monty Gordon from the inside pocket of my jacket and showed it to her. "I assume you know who that is."
"Are you kidding?"
"Do you know where Monty Gordon is right now?"
"Who's that supposed to be?"
"Now please don't tease us."
She took a deep breath. "I have no idea," she finally claimed. "I know Monty only brief
ly."
"By Kenneth Easton?"
"Yes, Kenny brought him here once. But I can't tell you his whereabouts."
"But perhaps you could influence your friend to open his mouth after all. "Provided he really is your friend and you care about him."
"I don't think I understand what you're getting at."
"We accuse Kenneth Easton of complicity in the murder of a man named Wayne Smith. Now he shot a DEA officer instead of getting himself arrested. and if he wants to save his throat, he should open his mouth and cooperate with us."
"Ask him yourself!" she hissed.
"Jesse, look at this!", Milo interfered. He was wearing latex gloves. In the right he held a two kilo package. There was a white powder in a transparent plastic bag.
"I don't think we need a drug dog to realize that this is not detergent," I stated.
"The stuff was hidden in the toilet flush. "Apparently Miss Maxwell didn't come up with a more original hiding place in a hurry." Milo turned to Clarissa. "And now you're not telling us that this amount was for personal use."
She swallowed.
"It would be good for you to cooperate with us now," I said.
"Even if I knew where Monty Gordon was, I wouldn't tell you! "After all, I don't want to be put down somewhere with a rope around my neck and a bullet in my head one beautiful morning!"
27
We took another thorough look around the apartment. Finding the cocaine also gave us much more leeway. After all, it was not clearly attributable and so Clarissa Maxwell was as suspected of owning this package as Kenneth Easton. In the case of shared apartments, only the rooms used by the suspect may normally be searched. In such a small apartment, where almost everything is shared, this is practically impossible to separate. Now we no longer had to take this into consideration and could, for example, search Clarissa Maxwell's clothes, for which otherwise any public prosecutor would have given us a lecture, because the evidence obtained in this way might not have been admissible in court and the whole trial might have burst due to a formal error in the taking of evidence.
Strangled! Page 6