by Larry Enmon
Clive was a New Jersey native. He’d also gone home after leaving the Air Force. Hearing his voice again was like a breath of much-needed oxygen.
“Hey, Jess. How’s it going?”
Jesse’s heart swelled with love. “We’re all good. How are you?”
“I’m great. Got a new job and moved into my own place. So you have any plans?”
Jesse didn’t answer for a few seconds. Her mind whirled, thinking about what to say. Before she could answer, Clive said, “I love you, Jess. Come and be with me.”
Jesse covered her mouth with her palm, and warm tears formed in her eyes, clouding her vision. It sounded better than a marriage proposal.
Jesse said good-bye to her parents and flew to New Jersey. Clive met her at the airport. He’d let his beard grow. The black mane that outlined his face gave him an exotic, sexy appearance. She ran and leapt into his arms. Their kiss was like a hot relaxing bath she never wanted to leave.
That weekend he showed her New York. They got a room at the Plaza, slept late, and walked across the street to Central Park. They visited SoHo, the 9/11 Museum, and had lunch at a Manhattan deli. That night they saw Annie on Broadway. Jesse was in love. Not just with Clive, but also New York.
Sunday afternoon they checked out and drove to his apartment in Elizabeth, New Jersey. It was on Front Street, and Clive’s balcony overlooked the river.
Clive took her in his arms. “I have to work for a couple of hours tonight.”
“Work? On a Sunday night? Who works on Sunday night?”
Clive released her and moved back a few paces. “I do. It’s my job.”
Jesse hadn’t asked anything about Clive’s work. “What exactly do you do?”
Clive grinned. “I’m like a bodyguard for a guy who does collections.”
Jesse laughed. “You work for a collection agency?”
Clive lowered his gaze. “Naw, just the guy who does the collections.”
Jesse thought the whole thing was weird.
A few days later, Clive asked for her help.
“Jess,” Clive said, as he wiped pizza crumbs from his lips, “I could use your help tonight on one of my collections.”
Jesse never expected this. Had no idea what help she could be. Something felt wrong. Clive wore an expression she’d seen before, the same expression he showed in Afghanistan when he and the Reapers were about to go into a hot insurgent area.
“What can I do?”
Clive walked to the other side of the room. “I work for what’s known as a high-risk collection group. The reason I’m paid so well and work so little is because we only go after collections where a certain amount of danger is involved.”
Jesse didn’t like the sound of this but still didn’t fully understand what he meant. Something was screwed up somewhere. “You can’t just take them to court for the money?”
Clive shook his head. “It’s not that kind of deal. They make high-risk loans to high-risk clients. The guy I protect, Michael Calabrezie, is the collector. He works for the main company; I’m just a contract employee.”
“Is this what people call a loan shark operation?” Jesse asked.
“Yeah, I guess so,” Clive said, “I know they charge sky-high interest rates.”
“Is this the kind of work you want to make a career of?”
“No way.” Clive waved away the suggestion. “I’m looking for something else.”
“What do you need me to do?”
Clive strolled to the closet and removed a rolled up blanket. Unwrapping it, a familiar shape came into view—an M-24 sniper rifle. Clive held up the brand new rifle and scope.
“Still remember how to use one of these?”
“Why would I need that?”
We’re collecting from some Puerto Ricans tonight. Rule of thumb is: never collect from a Puerto Rican without backup.”
Jesse didn’t want to say yes and she didn’t want to say no. Oh, God. Why is he even asking me? Every fiber of her being screamed—NO! But her heart said yes. If she allowed something bad to happen to Clive when she could have prevented it, she wouldn’t be able to live with herself.
“I’ll do it just this once, but don’t ever ask me again,” she whispered. “Okay?”
“Can I get you anything else, miss?” the waitress asked.
Jesse shook the memory away and looked up at her. “No, thank you.”
The waitress collected her plate and cup and turned to tend to a guest at the adjoining table. A bout of fatigue swept over Jesse. Her whole body felt heavy and lethargic, what her dad used to call the melancholy blues. She smiled at the thought. She needed something to cheer her up.
After dropping a twenty on the table, she collected her book and strolled toward the bakery.
* * *
Frank was deep into administrative paperwork when Rob strolled into the office. He tossed Frank’s keys on his desk.
“Sunglasses aren’t in your car,” Rob said. “Must have dropped them somewhere.”
Rob had a worried expression, and Frank blamed himself. With all his speculation about Alma, he’d kept Rob off balance every day about something weird happening. Rob didn’t like weird. When Frank drifted too far off course, Rob was the anchor who kept him grounded in reality.
Frank began to feel a little giddy, relaxed, and light-headed. As five o’clock neared, his phone rang—Uncle Clyde.
“Got something I could use?” Frank asked.
A sarcastic voice answered. “That’s what I like about you, nephew. No ‘how are you?’ No ‘how’s Aunt Wanda?’ No ‘kiss my ass,’ or nothing. Straight to business.”
Frank gritted his teeth and took a long breath before asking, “So how’s Aunt Wanda?”
Clyde laughed. “She’s fine. Thanks for asking. Ready to talk?”
Frank sighed, grabbed a pen, and slid a notepad closer. “You have something?”
Clyde’s voice lowered a notch. “I’m sending you an email. Not sure if this is the person you’re looking for, but she’s the only female sniper named Jesse on record.”
“Can you give me a thumbnail right now?”
“Served in Afghanistan. Got just about every metal and award the Air Force has except one.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Got an early out with an honorable discharge, but no good conduct metal—go figure.”
“What do you think?”
“Must have been a disciplinary issue. Nothing in the report, but the copy I got is only a summary. I’ve included all her identifiers and a photo in the email.”
“When will you send it?” Frank asked.
“Just did.”
“You’re the best.”
“I’ll expect a box Padron’s for Christmas. I like the Maduro 7000’s.” The line went dead.
There goes another $250!
Frank reviewed the email, and after showing it to Rob, they strolled into Edna’s office. Frank was still light-headed. He staggered a little as they walked in. What was wrong? Terry met them there. One look at Edna’s face told Frank this might not have been a good idea. Perhaps waiting until tomorrow would have been better. Any time you came at Edna with new information at the end of the day, you never knew how she’d take it. The sixth floor had been riding her like a cheap mule, and from her demeanor it was clear she’d had just about enough. Even Terry, as mild mannered as he was, showed signs of fraying.
Edna read the email and kept pushing hair from her face. Her tight bun had begun to unravel and now resembled a long-haired cat that had been tumble-dried on delicate cycle. When she looked up, her brow knitted.
“So there might really be a woman sniper.” Edna studied the photo of the young blonde woman in Air Force dress blues. “We know anything about her?”
“No, hadn’t checked. Figured I’d run it past you first. Looks like our best lead though,” Frank said.
Edna raked more hair behind her ear and looked at Terry, handing him the photo.
“I wouldn’t
have believed it, but it’s starting to look like she’s our suspect,” Terry said. “You run this past Sims yet?”
“Nope, just got it,” Frank said.
Terry passed the photo back to Edna. “Okay,” he looked at Rob, “put Sims and Homicide in the loop and let’s find out all that’s out there on this Jesse woman. Send out a BOLO with this photo to all the hotel and police agencies in the Metroplex. Be sure to Photoshop out the uniform—just the face. Say wanted for questioning only.”
“Speaking of woman, any luck on the red head?” Edna asked.
Frank had a great argument put together explaining how Dr. Alma Hawkins was responsible for Ricardo’s death, her revenge for the part he played in her daughter’s death. Instead, Frank sat mute. From Edna’s expression all she needed was a small push to send her over the edge. That would probably do it.
Frank broke eye contact and lowered his head. “No.”
“Any chance this Jesse is the same woman that went into Ricardo’s that night? You know, wearing a disguise?” Terry asked.
“Not likely,” Rob spoke up. “Too many differences.”
Frank was grateful no one asked about the differences. That would have led to an area he didn’t want to go to just now.
Edna smirked at Frank. “So now you have two women to find. Shouldn’t be hard for you.”
It would have been fair to say that Edna’s last comment dripped with sarcasm. Frank ignored her and turned to Terry.
“Come on guys,” Terry said and led them back to his office.
Frank was so relaxed he didn’t care what Terry had to say.
“Grab a seat,” Terry closed his door and settled behind his desk. “Got a call from the Sheriff’s office.” His eyes drifted from Rob to Frank and then back to Rob. “They got a complaint from one of the Mexican gangsters arrested at Ricardo’s. Seems a couple of DPD detectives interviewed and roughed him up a little. Claims it was the Hispanic detective who smacked him.” Terry kept his eyes on Rob. “Know anything about that?”
Rob stared back. “He was a spitter, Terry.”
Terry turned to Frank.
Frank shrugged. “Gangster was wearing a spit hood when they brought him in. Someone must have tried talking to him with it off is all I can figure. You know how cops hate being spit on.”
Terry’s eyes narrowed. He slowly nodded. “Look, guys. We can’t do that kind of stuff.”
Rob leaned forward. The skin had bunched around his eyes and he shot Terry a pained look. “But he was a spitter.”
Terry ran his hands down his face. “You know, guys,” he whispered, the weariness seeping into his words. “This isn’t the old days. Too many cameras recording everything. Too many cell phone videos. It’s a dangerous world on the streets. Know what I mean?”
Rob didn’t answer, but broke eye contact.
“I’ll fade the heat one last time … one last time,” Terry said with a sigh.
This was one of Terry’s favorite go-to lines. He’d faded the heat one last time about a half dozen times this year already.
Terry’s gaze landed on Frank. “I don’t believe for a second you haven’t gotten anywhere on the red head. I’m not sure what you’re holding back, but if it blows up, you don’t want it going off in your face. Neither I nor Edna can help you if that happens. Know what I mean?”
Terry also liked saying, “Know what I mean?” It was another one of his verbal tics.
Frank sat up in the chair. “I know, Terry. I just want to be sure. That’s all.”
When Rob and Frank got back to their cubicles, Rob plopped into his chair and woke up his computer, his jaw was set so firm that the muscles in his neck bulged. He didn’t get angry too often, but when he did it took a while to cool down. From his posture and expression, it might take a little longer this time. He didn’t just touch the keyboard, but assaulted it as he banged each key.
“Hey, you okay?” Frank whispered.
Rob didn’t look his way, only nodded.
Frank was a poor consoler, but he gave it a shot. “Talk to me, Rob.”
For perhaps ten seconds Rob didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe. He’d stopped typing and drilled a hole in his monitor with his stare. He finally released a breath and looked at Frank.
“Growing up as a kid, I was the smallest of the group. There was a gang of older—bigger—boys who used to pick on me and my friends.” Rob no longer spoke to Frank, but talked to the floor. “Anyway, they liked to stroll past and spit on us. My friends got to where when they saw them coming they’d run. I never ran. I stood my ground and they always spit on me.” Rob looked up and flashed a sad grin. “And then I came out swinging. Managed to land a good punch on at least one of them before they beat me to a pulp. My friends asked why I never ran. I couldn’t … that was the reason. I had just as much right on that street as anyone. Why should I run?”
“And so you took the beatings?”
Rob’s lips cracked into another grin. “Yeah, not all that smart. But we can’t let people disrespect us for just doing our jobs. We have just as much right to make a living as the next guy. It’s bad enough they assault, shoot, and try to kill us. If we allow them to disrespect us, we’re not men and don’t deserve to carry a badge. I may lose my job someday, but I’ll never let them spit on me without consequence.”
Frank understood. Probably why Rob started lifting weights in the Marines and took up boxing when he joined the police department.
Frank’s cell rang and he answered it.
“Kelly here. Thought you’d want to know we were able to isolate and identify most of that white powder stuff found at Ricardo’s.”
Frank grabbed a pen. “What was it?”
“Combination of natural sedative and psychedelic plants ground up into a powder as fine as talc. Valerian, Belladonna, Kava, and Kratom. Plus a couple more we’ve not been able to identify yet. I’m emailing the full analysis to you and Sims.”
“These plants, do they grow in Dallas?”
“Yeah, some do, but not all. Not all even common to the U.S.”
Alma’s garden and herb collection. “Thanks, Kelly,” Frank said and dropped the phone into his pocket. He checked his watch—five o’clock. He tilted his head from side to side, stretching his neck, and then glanced at Rob, who was busy working on the BOLO. “Shoot Sims a call about the Jesse email.” Frank put on his jacket and powered off his computer.
“You splitting?” Rob asked.
Frank adjusted his coat collar. “Yeah.”
Frank just didn’t feel quite right—almost drunk. As a matter of fact, the exact same way he felt when he’d gone to Alma’s house for dinner the other day. What was going—Wait. The gel tabs! He’d taken the gel tabs Edna gave him just before going to Alma’s. He hadn’t been enchanted. He’d been drugged. And the yellow rose “petal” at the foot of his bed. Had he’d spun himself up into believing Alma was a witch based on false premises?
His brain was mush. A few hours to recharge and refresh for tomorrow, that’s what he needed. Put everything case related out of his mind. He grabbed a cup of coffee to go—needed to sober up. As he stepped into the parking garage, Major Higgins walked toward his car. Frank slowed his stride. He wasn’t one of Higgins favorite people for a number of reasons. Most of Frank’s official reprimands had originated from Higgins’s office. Best to let him leave first.
Frank tiptoed to his city car, silently unlocked it, and eased into the cover of the driver’s seat. Good, foiled the old SOB again. Frank cranked his car and the siren screamed the Hi-Low wail. The echo chamber of the garage amplified the sound about a dozen times. Frank spilled the whole cup of coffee down his leg as he scratched at the knob to turn it off. When he looked up, he met eyes with Higgins driving past, and he didn’t have on his happy face. Come to think of it—he didn’t even own one.
Frank leaned his head against the steering wheel. Thanks a lot, Rob.
When Frank got home he tried to relax. Took a hot shower, ate dinner
, and sipped wine on the patio. He picked up the note pad he always kept near. He’d settle this once and for all. One last thing to ponder. He doodled out a list of reasons Levern was or was not involved. The was side started with the leaving of the Voodoo doll as the scene of Ricardo’s death. The was not side started with Ben telling them it wasn’t Levern’s style—he was more direct. But the biggest reason that Frank believed Levern wasn’t involved was Alma’s daughter. To his way of thinking, there could be only one suspect in Ricardo’s death—Alma.
33
When Rob strolled into the office Wednesday morning, Frank was hard at work on the computer. Neither mentioned the siren incident. It was understood by cops that what goes around, comes around. Rob sometimes felt bad about punishing Frank with a life lesson, but never bad enough not to do it again when called for. About eleven o’clock Frank gazed over the top of the cubicle.
“I just got an email from Ford,” Frank said. “He wants to do lunch.”
Rob really didn’t want to eat at Humperdinks today. His mouth watered for a cherry Coke and ham sandwich at Sarge’s. But Ford always had something important, so what the hell.
Frank led the way into Humperdinks with Rob bringing up the rear. They found Ford at a table by a window. As usual, he was studying the menu like a physics student cramming for finals.
As they took their seats, Ford said, “Think I might try something different today.”
“We discovered some information about that enforcer, Jesse,” Rob said. He ran down to Ford what he’d found out. “I sent out a BOLO yesterday.”
Ford shoved the menu back into the holder. “You have good sources. Thought you’d want to know that the U.S. Attorney’s Office gave us a call this morning. A guy who works for Antoine Levern is ready to give him up.”
Rob scooted his chair closer. “No shit?”
“Yup. Says he can put old Levern away.”
“And who is this guy?” Frank asked.
“Benny Fontenot. Runs the cargo hijacking for Levern. Been with him from the start.”
“Why his sudden interest in giving up Levern?” Rob asked.
Ford picked up the menu again and thumbed through it like he might have missed something. He dropped it back into the holder before answering. “Says he’s scared Levern’s going to kill him. Wants to make a deal.”