31
We went to the Bronx with the red light on the roof. Cole Davis was found in a certain Teresa McPherson's apartment. When we got there, there was already a small traffic jam on the road because there were City Police and SRD vehicles standing around everywhere.
Crime scene's been cordoned off all over the place.
I had no choice but to park the sports car in a parking lot almost ten minutes from the scene.
So Milo and I set out to the last stretch on foot.
We held our identity cards against our uniformed colleagues, whereupon we were waved through.
Since the elevator had just been seized by SRD's security guards, we had to use the stairs.
Finally we reached the apartment.
Sergeant Barry Alexander confronted us.
"The gate has already been picked up," he explained to us. "He was just behind the door, wearing a terry coat and a gun. But he didn't get a shot. "We assume the doorbell rang, Davis opened the door and outside stood his killer, who just fired."
Before we entered the apartment, we had to slip over foil shoes in order not to leave any traces. The spot where Cole Davis had been lying had been marked. A pretty big pool of blood had formed. The blood was almost black and absorbed from the carpet.
"When was he killed?" Milo asked.
"Dr. Claus says the crime was committed in the morning. Before noon, anyway. Miss Teresa McPherson left the apartment around noon, stating that Davis was still wearing the terry coat. She just got back this morning and found Mr Davis here."
"Where is this Teresa McPherson?" I asked.
"She sits in the next room and is in shock. But their statements were reasonably coherent. "There is hardly any doubt about the course of events."
Milo pointed to the spy in the front door. "Davis must have seen who was outside the door and still opened it."
"Yes, that could indicate that he knew his killer and did not consider him dangerous."
"I assume all other details were the same as in the previous murders."
"Yes. The rope is the same make. He's on his way to the lab. But not much will come out of it, because it's really a commonplace product."
"And the caliber of the murder weapon?"
"We found casings for the 9 mm calibre and also recovered the projectiles that penetrated the body of the murdered man. "Since the neighbor didn't hear a shot, a silencer must have been used."
"Who's the neighbor?", I checked.
"An old lady," Lieutenant Alexander told me. "I have only been able to talk to her for a short time, but to avoid a misunderstanding: She does not wear a hearing aid and still has very good ears, as I was able to convince myself. "Anyway, if it hadn't been muffled, she would have heard the shot from a gun."
"Well, I'd like to talk to Miss McPherson," I said.
"And I'm gonna take a look around," Milo announced.
32
I entered the bedroom. A young woman was sitting on the bed. Her makeup was lost. She was obviously crying.
At first she didn't even notice me.
"Miss McPherson?"
She looked up and looked at me with a scrutinizing, suspicious look.
"I've already said everything there is to say," she said.
"My name is Jesse Trevellian, FBI. My job is to find out who killed Cole Davis!"
"It would be the first time any of the authorities have tried to help him. And I don't believe you either, that you really care about Cole and his killer."
"Then what is it?"
"I don't know. Probably just want to know more about Cole's business. Admittedly, they weren't quite kosher."
"That's a very harmless-sounding paraphrase for belonging to a drug gang."
"Oh, stop it! What do you know?"
"I know I will do everything I can to find out who killed Cole Davis. Like any other victim."
She sighed audibly. "Just ask your questions and then leave me alone!"
"Okay. Question number one: Were you two a couple?"
"What does that have to do with who shot him?"
"I want to know how well you knew Cole."
She swallowed and looked me straight in the eyes for a few moments. "We slept together once in a while, but we didn't mean to start a family or anything."
"Where were you after you left the apartment?"
"In Manhattan. I work as a table dancer. In the Avenue A a new club has opened, I have introduced myself and have been taken immediately. "Since two girls have the flu right now, I could start right away."
"They didn't get back until the morning."
"You're not Vice Department..."
"No, that's right."
"I need money badly right now because I have some debts. When the opportunity arose to go with one of the club guests and spend the rest of the night, I did it. But if you ask me to repeat that in front of a judge or make this statement in writing and sign, then you are wrapped crooked."
"Cole may have known his killer. Do you have any idea who might have done this to him?"
She shook her head. "He had a noose around his neck. There's been a lot of talk about it around here. "There must have been a couple of other victims draped like that."
"Cole is the fourth victim. They were all drug dealers. So far we thought the Spiders were behind it, but they probably wouldn't shoot their own man."
"Unless he was a traitor. But I don't think so. Cole was loyal."
I showed her photos of the other victims, I gave her their names. "Can you think of anything that would have connected Cole Davis to these men?"
"Cole would have hospitalized any of these men as soon as they showed up in the area," Teresa McPherson was convinced. "They didn't belong here. Probably the bastards who sell Puerto Ricans' cheap stuff. Cole used to call her names." She looked at me. "I'm sorry, Agent Trevellian. I can think of a lot of reasons why either one of these guys could have killed the other - but none to kill all four. And it was definitely the same killer?"
"Yes." I gave her my card. "If you think of anything else, please call me."
"All right."
33
Paco Moreno looked at the table where his cook had prepared the food for him.
"That looks wonderful, Zhedong!", he turned to the slender-looking Chinese on his right.
"I hope you'll enjoy it, sir!" Zhedong replied in completely accent-free English. Zhedong had worked in Hong Kong's best restaurants for twenty years before Paco Moreno discovered him on a business trip, made him a better offer and employed him as his personal chef ever since. Moreno had dollars like hay and for something it had to be worth it to pile up so much money.
Moreno turned to his nephew Juan Fuentes, who stood there a little impatient.
"You're just in time for dinner, Juan! Would you like Zhedong to fill you up?"
"No, thank you."
"Don't you like Chinese cuisine?"
"My stomach can't take the spicy stuff for some time!"
"Poor you! You're missing something!"
"I'd like to talk to you. It's urgent!"
Moreno sat down, took the chopsticks in a way that showed he wasn't using them for the first time and started eating. "Speak calmly. I have no secrets from my cook, and Grace is on a shopping spree. But do me a favor and sit down. You usually make me nervous."
Fuentes settled on one of the chairs, whose high backrests contained elaborate carvings.
"I've gotten in touch with Monty Gordon through an intermediary after all. He agrees to meet. But only if it takes place at the highest level."
"Whatever."
"Place and time will be announced."
"All right."
"By the way, there was a fourth dealer found with a bullet in his head and a noose around his neck."
"Who says so?"
"I have it from a reliable source. But this time it's one of those dirty gang!"
"So, in fact, they're not behind it!"
"What we already suspected"
&n
bsp; Paco Moreno breathed deeply and pushed the plate a piece of himself. He had lost his appetite. "Clear this up, Zhedong."
"Is it too spicy, Mr Moreno?"
"No, no. It has nothing to do with your cooking. "It's a little different in my stomach..."
The Chinaman cleaned up. Before disappearing into the kitchen, Paco Moreno bent over and said to Fuentes: "They know what that means? "Most likely, a foreign syndicate is reaching out to our market!"
"But we would have heard of that! "We would also see it more clearly in the price trend that something is being filmed." Fuentes shook his head vigorously. "I can't believe this!"
"Let's see what Monty Gordon has to say."
34
Lieutenant Alexander left us the key ring that had been with Davis' things. We found the current address on his driver's license.
It took Milo and I 15 minutes to get there.
Cole Davis' actual residence was in one of the few Cast Iron style houses in the Bronx. However, he had rented the apartment under the name Roy Brown and that was probably one of the reasons why his trail seemed to have vanished into nothing after his'escape' from the billiard club'The Trap'. Davis was obviously afraid of an unannounced visit. Originally, it was probably a warehouse that had been converted with the help of prefabricated elements. The key fitted. An automatic surveillance camera followed us every step of the way after we passed the front door.
We took a freight elevator to the third floor. This was part of the special charm of this industrial building complex converted for residential purposes.
Finally we reached the apartment door made of fireproof steel. Noisily she slipped aside. Cole Davis' apartment was very spacious for New Yorkers, but consisted of only one large room.
The very simple furnishings were illuminated through high windows. A futon served as a bed. There were shelves with CDs and DVDs and a few computer manuals. DVD covers of first-person shooter games lay around the computer.
There was also a kitchenette. However, the refrigerator was switched off.
"Cole Davis doesn't seem to have been here very often," Milo said when he discovered this.
"Apparently he had plenty of opportunities to spend the night away," I replied.
He found two guns in the freezer. A Uzi and a.45 caliber automatic, plus a silencer and enough ammunition to survive a major shooting.
We didn't find any narcotics.
Cole Davis had apparently been smart enough not to keep any of it in his apartment.
I noticed a few photo albums in the bottom row of the shelf wall. I took out a few of them, carried them to the computer table and turned on the computer. While the computer was starting, I was browsing through the first album. There were a few photos from childhood. Father, mother, little Cole in between. A picture from the first day of school.
Then there was a large time gap, before finally newspaper clippings and Polaroid photos followed, which had apparently been taken at martial arts competitions.
In addition a few certificates for tournament victories in kickboxing.
"This apartment is as personal as a hotel room," I heard Milo say. "And that's how Cole Davis seems to have seen his four walls. As an overnight accommodation, when it was not desired anywhere else. I don't think we're gonna find anything here that's gonna get us anywhere!"
"Wait," I muttered and turned the page.
In one of the pictures showing Cole Davis kick boxing, the HELP emblem was clearly visible in the background.
Milo looked over my shoulder.
"Well, did you find anything interesting?"
"Cole Davis was obviously an addict once and tried to get rid of his addiction."
"At least he was looking for HELP's help!"
"Yes, and that was only three years ago."
I opened the next page. Another newspaper report was stuck there, including a black and white photo. It showed Cole Davis together with James Allison. The caption read:'This year's champion of the Riverdale Kick Boxing Contest together with his trainer James Allison'.
"I think Allison might be able to tell us something about Cole Davis," Milo believed.
I slammed the album and nodded.
35
We then checked the computer, which was no problem, as all security settings were still set to factory default. Cole Davis had apparently only used his computer to play and receive emails, the latter mainly receiving spam mails.
Finally we left the apartment and went to visit James Allison at the HELP therapy centre.
I first called Allison's cell phone number, which was on the flyers, but only got his voice mail. Then I tried the landline number of the therapy center. There was a young woman on the phone who couldn't find James Allison right now.
"Probably some intern," Milo commented.
"We should still go there. Firstly, Allison will probably return to the therapy centre sooner or later and secondly, there will surely be other employees who remember Cole Davis".
Milo shrugged his shoulders.
"No objection, Jesse!"
The therapy centre was located in Riverdale, in the middle-class northwest of the Bronx. It was housed in a four-storey Brownstone building with a somewhat dilapidated facade.
A helper named Janet welcomed us at the entrance and led us into a gym. Teenagers screamed loudly at sandbags. Sparring was fought according to fixed rules and a few young men and women trained their condition with the help of ropes.
About a hundred of them hung from a hook on the side wall. I took one of them.
"That's exactly what they tied around Cole Davis and the other one, Milo!"
"Yes, and probably fifty of them in the next primary school! And don't forget the kindergartens!"
Janet led us to a man in his fifties with a wide cross and a strong upper body. It was unmistakable that he had obviously trained here often.
"Mr White, there are the FBI agents who called to talk to Jim," Janet said.
Mr White turned around, took a look at the IDs and finally introduced himself. "Ray White. I have to say it here. You wanted to talk to Jim, Mr. James Allison?"
"If that's possible, we'd like to talk to someone else who knew Cole Davis. But since Mr. Allison had invited us, once..."
"Excuse me?", White interrupted me.
He frowned. He put his strong arms in his hips. "Jim took the whole week off. He wasn't even here."
"We've met him on several occasions in our investigations. He visited former addicts who were cured here at the therapy center."
"This is nonsense. We don't visit our alumni," White said plainly. "It's the other way around, they can come here any time they feel bad or relapse. I have no idea why Jim told you this nonsense."
"All the better that we can talk to you now. Do you have an office somewhere where we can talk undisturbed? "I don't think it'd be good if everyone here knew what this was about."
"Of course," nodded Ray White.
Deep furrows had formed on his forehead. White led us out of the hall. We walked through a corridor and finally reached an office that seemed rather chaotic. The computer was almost buried under the piles of files.
Two scraped off leather chairs were ready for guests.
"Sit down," White offered us. "Can I get you anything? Coffee maybe?"
"No, thank you," Milo said and dropped into a leather chair. I followed his example. The feathers were through and squeaked when you moved. "Yes, we are dependent on donations in every respect," White explained to us before any of us could complain.
"Four drug dealers - all small fish - were shot with a 9 mm caliber gun and silencer. Afterwards, a rope was tied around their neck in a noose," I explained.
"I've heard of it," White said. "Word gets around, of course. Some of the mostly young people who do their therapy here got their stuff from the murdered earlier. crack, cocaine, heroin, speed, whatever."
"Actually, we're here to learn something about Cole Davis, but now it might be just as interesting if you
tell us something about James Allison," Milo said.
"What there is to say about Cole Davis can be summed up quickly," White said. "A former addict who took his new chance to become a gangster. That's not exactly the goal of our aid program!"
"I can guess," I said.
"And as far as Jim Allison is concerned, he's one of our most dedicated employees. A whole week's vacation, as it is at the moment, is rare with him. And I hear he takes care of people who need it even then."
"He used to be an official of the DEA," I tried to steer the conversation in a different direction.
"Yes, it takes idealism to give up a secure job with the drug police, including pension entitlement, and instead work for an organization like HELP, where you only get a monthly sum just above the minimum wage. "We just can't pay more."
"Where does this commitment come from?" I followed up.
"Allison had a son who got into a drug swamp and eventually died of a drug overdose. That must have changed him. His wife never got over the matter, has separated from him and now lives in a Buddhist monastery."
"It seems Mr. Allison has found his own personal way to deal with the loss," I muttered.
36
"Jesse, you can't be serious," Milo said on the way to the sports car.
I still had the rope from the gym in my hand and held it to my colleague. "And what is this?"
"In any case, this is not proof!"
"But there are clues that we cannot simply ignore. The circumstances of these murders had a great effect from the beginning - how shall I put it? - personally dyed. These executioner snares, that's fitting for a private lynching campaign against drug dealers, which the court unfortunately has to leave at large, because the evidence is not enough and the police can't put a cop behind every citizen who's watching him!".
We stopped. Milo saw me stunned. "You really think James Allison is behind rope fashions?"
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