City of Fear

by Larry Enmon

  Dana stripped off the dirty gloves and slipped on a pair of cheaters that hung around her neck. She examined the photos, scrolling her finger across the screen. Her expression changed from serious to a smirk as she moved from photo to photo. She handed the phone back to Frank.

  “Okay, you’ve had your little joke for today. Now, what do you really want?”

  He held up the phone. “I want to buy some of these plants.”

  She frowned. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, absolutely serious.”

  She snatched the phone back and moved her finger across the screen again, eying each plant. “So were you on vacation in New Hampshire or Nova Scotia when you took these?”

  Frank didn’t answer.

  Her eyes moved from the phone and she stared at him. “Well?”

  “Neither.”

  She continued scrolling. “You won’t find any of these around here. They won’t grow. Texas summers are too hot. These are zone two, three, and four plants.” She pointed at the first one. “Frosted Violet Euchre. The farthest south it can survive is zone six. We’re in zone eight.” She moved her finger and a blue flower appeared. “And this here. Monkshood, grows in mountain meadows. Some folks call it Wolf’s Bane—never survive a Dallas summer. And this.” She scrolled to a green shrub with red berries. “Bearberry. A sub-alpine that’s native to Canada.” Her eyes narrowed and she moved her finger across the time and date at the top of each photo. She readjusted her reading glasses, and her jaw went slack. “These were taken recently. Where?”

  “Near White Rock Lake.”

  She handed him the phone. “That’s not possible. It’s a joke, right? They’re artificial.”

  Frank scrolled back to the Monkshood. Using thumb and index finger he enlarged the shot and pointed to the photo. “Butterflies don’t feed on artificial flowers.

  26

  When Frank walked back into CIU, Rob was rushing out, slipping on his jacket.

  “Hey,” Rob said, “just about to call you—let’s go!”

  “What’s up?” Frank’s spirits rose. Was this the break he’d been hoping for?

  “Come on. I’ll explain on the way.”

  They trotted over the third-floor walkway to the parking garage. As Rob ran he stuck a pinch of Copenhagen in his lip.

  “What’s the hurry?” Frank asked.

  “Call just came in. Sniper in downtown parking garage just shot a black guy getting out of his car.”

  “Do they have them in custody?”

  “Nope, active shooter,” Rob said, unlocking the car.

  Rob jumped behind the wheel, spit into a plastic cup already half full, and sat it back on the dash.

  “You need to give that up,” Frank said. How people could put that stinky stuff in their mouths still baffled him.

  Rob slammed the car into reverse. “Doesn’t hurt you one way or another.” He braked and shifted into drive. The cup of brown spit slid off the dash and dumped into Frank’s lap. Rob’s lips flattened. “Sorry about that.” He burned rubber out of the garage.

  Frank cleaned his pants with a napkin, gagging with bile rising in his throat with each wipe. “Who called it in?”

  Rob swung onto Lamar and hit the grill lights and siren. “Sims called me—don’t know who called him.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Thanksgiving Tower—1601 Elm.”

  Frank dreaded this. Bad memories of July 2016 rushed back—the last time a sniper shot anyone in downtown Dallas. Rob and Frank had been there, working the intel side of the event. Five officers were killed during a rally and march.

  Texas lawmen take a dim view of snipers in general. But after killing five brother officers and wounding seven more, the Dallas Police Bomb Squad rigged one of their robots with a homemade bomb and blew the guy up. First time in U.S. history something like that was done—killing a suspect with a remote bomb.

  A six-block perimeter had been established. Television, radio, and social media warned downtown workers to remain inside and away from windows. As usual, the faces of hundreds pressed up against window panes in every building. A SWAT command post was set up at the corner of North Griffin and Commerce. Rob and Frank parked behind the Federal Building, badged their way through the perimeter, and approached the black SWAT war wagon. Paul Sims leaned against the truck, popping Gummy Bears into his mouth. SWAT Lieutenant Carl Gunn had one foot propped on the back step of the vehicle and leaned his elbow on his leg. He had a street map of downtown Dallas spread on the floor of the truck and spoke into a mic.

  “… and let me know when you’re ready to execute.”

  A voice on the radio answered, “Will do.”

  Rob and Frank nudged beside Sims, keeping the bulk of the armored vehicle between them and the shooter in the parking garage.

  “What do we have?” Rob asked.

  Sims pointed over his shoulder. “Unknown suspect on the third or fourth floor of the garage shot a guy near a car on the street.”

  “Was the guy a gang-banger?” Rob asked.

  Sims shrugged and popped another bear in his mouth. “No idea. Ambulance did a load and go before he could be interviewed. Have detectives at the hospital now trying to get a story out of him. Witnesses reported seeing the shooter, and uniforms have secured the building. Been evacuating occupants for the past fifteen minutes. SWAT’s about to assault the garage.”

  Lt. Gunn stared at the threesome. “What the hell are you guys doing inside my perimeter?”

  “Hey, Lieutenant,” Rob said. “Think this shooter might be the one we’re after?”

  Gunn scowled. “Try not to get shot. I have enough on my plate just about now.”

  A voice from the radio said, “Evacuation complete. Ready to commence assault.”

  Gunn spoke into the radio, “Sergeant Burns, the operation is yours.”

  “How many teams?” Rob asked.

  Gunn removed his cap and drew his hand across the short gray stubble. “Three. One will move up the ramp and the other two will take the stairwells. If he’s up there, we’ll get him.”

  “If it’s a ‘he,’ ” Frank mumbled. About a dozen thoughts raced through Frank’s mind, causing a mental roadblock. Was it Jesse? Could they have gotten that lucky? Did she seriously miscalculate and get trapped this time?

  About five minutes later, a volley of weapons fire echoed through the downtown canyons. Rob, Frank, Sims, and Gunn exchanged glances.

  “Shooter down!” Sergeant Burns’ voice yelled over the radio. “Requesting an ambulance to the third floor. Clearing the upper floors.”

  Gunn grabbed the mic. “Copy. One down. Request ambulance, clearing upper floors.” He and Sims huddled near the back of the truck.

  Rob bumped Frank’s arm and motioned with his head. They strolled down Commerce until they got to North Akard and hooked a left. On their way to the garage, they ran into SWAT guys, in full battle dress, filing out of the building.

  Frank held up his badge. “Where’s the shooter?”

  One of the officers removed his helmet, wiping sweat from his brow. He motioned with his hand. “Third floor on the west side—DOA.”

  Rob and Frank went up the west-side stairs and badged their way past another SWAT officer. The scream of the ambulance’s siren died as it pulled up below. Huddled around a body on the concrete were four SWAT members and Sergeant Burns. As Rob and Frank approached, the officers parted. On the cold garage floor, curled in the fetal position, with blood pooling around his back, lay Alonzo Salazar—Ricardo Salazar’s little brother.

  * * *

  At four o’clock in the afternoon, Antoine Levern still lounged in his pajamas in his dark living room and snorted another line of coke. He’d taped black paper over all his bullet-proof windows, blocking out any view or light. He rubbed his nose, coughed, and listened to the radio news report of the downtown shooting. Crazy-ass people. Fools killing each other.

  Something stunk. Even through the coke-clogged nose,
Levern smelt it. He sniffed under each armpit. Oh, yeah. Skipped the shower last night. He ran his hand over the stubble on his cheeks. Needed a shave. Maybe tomorrow. Not going out today anyway. In fact, for the time being, Levern had no intention to go out again, period. Too dangerous on the street. With one of his guys being dropped almost every day by this sniper, going out was insane. Besides, he hadn’t felt well in a few days—wanted to sleep all the time.

  A knock on his door and Tabor stuck his head in. He shifted the toothpick to the side of his mouth and said, “Boss, you still eating dinner in tonight?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  Tabor grinned. “Have plans if you’re not going anywhere.”

  “Lady plans?”

  “Yeah. A hot one.”

  “Go ahead. Have fun.”

  “Thanks.” Tabor closed the door.

  Levern laughed to himself. Guy was such a geek. Most awkward dude around women he’d ever seen. Never been able to keep a woman, much less a hot one. Wondered what his definition of hot was, anyway?

  * * *

  After work, Rob and Frank sauntered into Sarge’s just as the place was starting to get crowded. Sarge always played country and western music after five o’clock. His wife, Jill, waved them to the rear booths where Sarge leaned on a table talking to Paul Sims. Sims had a small package of pretzels and snacked on them with his beer.

  Frank really needed a drink. Not a good day.

  “Hey, guys,” Sarge said, “the usual?”

  “Yup,” Frank answered.

  Sarge remembered thousands of drink preferences. Because “the usual” at twelve noon for someone wasn’t always “the usual” for the same guy at five o’clock. When Sarge was Frank’s supervisor in Vice years ago, he had the worst memory of any cop Frank knew, but he always recalled what everyone on the squad liked to drink. Probably found his true calling by retiring and opening his own place.

  Paul Sims downed the rest of his beer while Rob and Frank slid into the booth. Sims had called this meeting to bring them up to speed on the downtown sniper incident.

  Rob stared at Sims as he opened his notebook and slowly turned the pages. Frank almost laughed watching Rob’s fingers drum the table. His partner didn’t have a lot of patience with slow, fat people. Finally, Sims cleared his throat and looked up.

  “Okay, so some of our information was wrong.” He paused a moment before continuing. “The guy that Alonzo Salazar shot this afternoon wasn’t black as first reported—he was a dark-skinned Hispanic.”

  Sarge arrived, shoving beer and red wine toward the trio and collecting Sims’s dirty glass.

  Sims emptied the crumbs from the pretzel bag into his mouth and took a sip of his new beer.

  Rob’s left knee had a nervous bounce, getting ready to propel him across the table if Sims didn’t hurry up.

  “We sent detectives to interview the guy Salazar shot. He’s still in the hospital. They also interviewed Salazar’s mother,” Sims said. “Starting to look like just a domestic incident. Guy was messing around with Salazar’s old lady. Dude said Salazar had been following him. Figured he try something sooner or later. The mother said Alonzo was fascinated by the sniper shootings—all he talked about.”

  Sims leaned back. “He must have squirreled out and figured he had the perfect opportunity to off the guy and make it look like another sniper shooting. Uniforms sealed off the garage exits sooner than he’d figured, and he got himself trapped. Don’t think it really has much to do with our primary case.”

  Rob’s knee stopped bouncing and he took a long swallow of beer.

  Frank’s disappointment deepened. He’d hope this would crack the case, or at least point them in a direction that might pay off. He’d not told Rob about his strange visit to Alma’s or the impossible plants she grew. Frank would keep that as his personal investigation for now. The gangster’s identification of her wouldn’t hold up in court without additional evidence. Who’d take a crook’s word over an attractive lady Ph.D.?

  “So that’s it?” Rob asked.

  Sims grinned. “There are a couple of other things.” He flipped a few pages in his notebook and took another swig of beer, obviously in no hurry to finish his dissertation.

  Rob’s right eye started up with that tic, waiting for Sims to casually turn one page after another. When Rob’s knee started bouncing again, Frank laid a hand on his arm.

  “Oh, yeah. Here it is,” Sims said and took another slow sip.

  “Well, what the heck is it?” Frank blurted out.

  “That kid I interviewed,” Sims said, “he might not have been making up the story about the blonde lady sniper after all. Forensics hasn’t finished analyzing all the stuff from the gangster massacre at the old house yet, but they called and said they’d found an anomaly.” Sims checked his notes again. “All the hairs in the house are from black people except one. Found it at the site of the scuffle—an eight and three-sixteenths–inch blonde Caucasian hair. Can’t see how it moves the ball for us, but it adds credence to the kid’s story. Guys don’t usually wear their hair that long.” He glanced at Frank. “Well, most guys. You two turned up anything new?”

  Frank sipped the red. “Rob and I think the sniper is probably a woman.”

  Sims sat back in the booth. “Because of the long hair?”

  “That and the size of the footprints upstairs,” Rob said.

  “Forensics had a couple of questions about them too,” Sims said.

  Frank raked his hair away from his eyes. “You said there was a couple of other things.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Sims flipped a page. “Got a measurement on that shot from the old house to the dry cleaner parking lot. They make it close to nine hundred yards.”

  “No way,” Rob said. “That’s over half a mile.”

  Frank sat motionless. Half a mile? His mind drifted to Levern. How do you protect yourself from someone that good?

  An uncomfortable silence descended around the table. Finally, Sims finished his beer in one long gulp. He stood and stared at Rob and Frank.

  “Any chance of going back to that federal source to get more info about this sniper?”

  Rob stared at him. “It’s not that kind of source, Sims.”

  “Figures. I can tell you this much. If we don’t get a break soon, the sixth floor will come unglued. Everyone from the mayor’s office to the governor is calling, wanting an update.” Sims waddled toward the door without saying good-bye.

  Frank didn’t say good-bye either. But one thing was for sure. Sims was right on this one: the sixth floor was looking for someone to come down hard on. Sims and Homicide was number one in their sights. CIU and Edna weren’t far behind.

  Rob took a sip of beer and stared into the glass. “The other day you said you might have a contact who could pull records from sniper schools.”

  Frank nodded. “Yeah, well not so much a contact. More like a relative.”

  “Relative?”

  Frank downed half the red. “An uncle.” Christ, he hated the thought of calling him.

  Rob shrugged. “You going to talk to him? Because if you are, there’s not a better time. Not everyone can shoot from nine hundred yards and nail a guy in the head.”

  “I called and left a voice message the other day. Hasn’t called me back.” Frank had hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to call his relative again. Uncle Clyde was his dad’s youngest brother. Asking favors from the old SOB turned Frank’s stomach. Pushing sixty, he was scheduled to retire the first of next year. Frank had asked him for a favor in the past, but the guy was such an asshole about it Frank dreaded the thought of asking again.

  Rob stayed for another round, but Frank just wanted to get to a familiar place and be quiet for a while. His patio was his oasis, the place where ideas popped into his head with little effort. He parked in his assigned space and walked to the elevators. Someone had apparently just taken both up, so it took a few seconds for one to return to the basement. The elevator arrived and Frank stepped inside
and pressed his floor.

  When it opened, the sight of poor Mrs. Silverstein fumbling with her door key, while holding her oversized purse and juggling a bag of groceries, brought a smile to Frank’s face. The old girl always tried to do too much with too few hands. He rushed to her aid.

  “Let me help.”

  She jerked her head in his direction, dropping her purse. “Oh, dear,” she exclaimed.

  He took the groceries as she pushed her door open.

  She sighed. “Thank God for you, Frank. You always show up when I need help the most.”

  “My pleasure.”

  He bent down and picked up a tube of lipstick, a notepad, and book that had spilled from the purse. When he picked up the book he stared at the cover, unable to move. His breath caught and that old tingle raced down his spine. That’s it!

  “Frank … Frank?”

  He looked up. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I said would you like to read the book? We discussed it at my book club this week. I’m finished, if you want to borrow it.” She showed the sweet smile he loved.

  Frank handed it back and shook his head. “No, thank you. Have all the information I need from the cover.”

  A perplexed expression raced across her face and she nodded.

  An hour later, Frank had finished a light dinner, showered, and was relaxing on his balcony. He gazed around at the lush plants and stared at the Dallas skyline. Twinkling lights filled the sky. He broke the seal on a bottle of red and screwed the opener into the cork. After drinking a couple of glasses, Frank did what had to be done. He called his uncle again. The guy was an arrogant prick who knew it all, but he did have access to military records. He’d made the Air Force a career. His current assignment—NORTHCOM in Colorado Springs.

  After the usual pleasantries, Frank told him what he needed.

  His uncle cleared his throat. “Frank, this might take some doing. I’d have to call in a bunch of favors. Even if I can manage it—no telling how long it might take.”

  “I’ll wait,” Frank said.

  “Okay, I’ll start the ball rolling. Call you when I get something. Oh, by the way, my birthday’s next week.”