by Larry Enmon
“So what’s the AUSA thinking?” Frank asked.
“They’re going for it. Guy’s coming to our office. We’ll put him on the box to confirm what he says before opening a full investigation. Pretty sure Levern will be indicted before too long. Is he still a suspect in the Ricardo killing?”
Rob glanced at Frank. Didn’t know what he felt about that. He’d let him field that question.
“Not really,” Frank said.
“Since Levern’s already under one indictment, the bond will be outrageous for this one. That should get his attention,” Ford said. “Either way he’s going down. If the New York enforcer doesn’t get him, the feds will.”
Rob didn’t know whether he should take satisfaction or feel sorry for Levern. He hated the guy, but anytime someone’s world came crashing down around them Rob felt their pain. His experience with Carmen had taught him humility.
* * *
The next morning, Rob picked up Frank at his place. He’d dropped his city car at the garage for service and needed a ride in to work. Rob didn’t care if he missed his workout this morning. He’d spent a few extra minutes helping Carmen with breakfast and the dishes before leaving to pick up Frank.
As they backed out of the parking lot, Frank’s cell rang. After a brief exchange, he straightened up from his slouch position. “Are you sure it’s her?” He paused and gave Rob a loaded look. “What’s your address? Okay, be there in a few minutes.”
He disconnected and turned to Rob. “Extended Stay America hotel on Greenville. Manager has information on a girl fitting Jesse’s description.”
When they pulled up in the hotel’s parking lot, Rob’s head was on a swivel. The Extended Stay America was an older property at Greenville and Loop 635. Not expensive—rooms under a hundred bucks a night. The manager was a short guy in his sixties. His wild Einstein-like gray hair and bushy gray mustache made him look more like a cartoon character than a man.
“You William Sexton?” Frank asked.
The guy extended his hand. “Shane, everyone calls me Shane.”
Rob and Frank displayed their credentials. Rob held out a copy of the BOLO alert with Jesse’s photo. “Tell us what you know about this woman.”
Shane reached under the counter and produced a brown envelope. As he opened it, he said, “Received your email a week ago about the person named Jesse. Didn’t make the connection until I received the BOLO with her picture yesterday. Yeah, she was here.”
“Was?” Frank asked.
Shane emptied the envelope’s contents on the counter. Several sheets of paper slid out and a DVD. “Checked out a few days ago.”
The sound of those six words dropped Rob’s spirits into a deep, dark pit. When were they going to catch a break on this one? “How long was she here?” Rob asked.
“Little over a week. Maybe ten days. Left real sudden. Didn’t give any notice. Still had a couple days left on her payment.”
“What kind of payment?”
“She paid in advance—cash. Twelve days.”
Frank took notes. He stopped writing and asked, “That seem a little unusual? Someone paying in cash.”
Shane laughed. “I asked her about it. Said her credit cards kept getting hacked, so she stopped using them. Only deals in cash now. Guess it makes sense. Hard to hack cash.”
“Can we see her registration information?” Rob asked.
“Figured as much.” Shane picked through the sheets of paper before handing over the registration card.
Frank craned his neck over Rob’s shoulder for a glimpse. “Linda Honeycutt? That’s the name she was registered under?”
“Yeah. Is that her real name?”
“Still trying to figure it all out,” Rob mumbled and pointed to the vehicle description for Frank.
“This says she drove a white 2009 Toyota Avalon with Texas tags,” Frank said. “Is this tag number correct? Did you compare it to her car’s tags?”
Shane shrugged. “No reason to. It was a white older model Toyota though. Can’t remember if it was an Avalon or not.”
“How did she act when she was here? Any trouble? Say or do anything that seemed strange?” Rob asked.
“No, not really,” Shane said. “Quiet—kept to herself. Pretty little thing. Never met a commercial architect before, especially one that was a lady.”
Frank moved closer. “She told you she was a commercial architect?”
“Yeah, she was unloading her car one day and had this long cardboard tube. Almost dropped it and her bag trying to carry them both. Asked her if I could help, and she said, ‘No, thanks,’ she was used to it, being a commercial architect and all.”
Rob shot Frank a look then asked, “How long was the tube?”
Shane spread his hands. “Oh, about four feet or so. What’s she done?”
Neither Rob nor Frank answered.
Shane crossed his arms. “Please don’t tell me that cash she laid on me was counterfeit. Please. I can’t eat that much.”
“Relax,” Rob said. “There’s no problem with the money.”
“Thank God. Can’t trust credit cards or cash any more. Don’t know what this world’s coming to.”
“Find or notice anything unusual in the room when she left?” Rob asked.
Shane shifted from one foot to the other and crinkled his brow. “No, can’t say as we did.”
“Have any video of her, or her car from the hotel cameras?” Frank asked.
Shane grinned. “Figured you’d want that too.” He turned and picked up the DVD off the counter. “Burned you a copy of her coming through the lobby.”
“Would you recognize her if you saw her again?” Frank asked.
“Sure. Like I said, she was attractive. An all-American girl look.”
“Let’s take a look at that DVD,” Frank said.
Shane popped it into his office computer and the video came to life. The image of Jesse marching through the front doors of the lobby splayed across the monitor—the same woman in the photo Uncle Clyde had sent.
Frank pointed to the monitor and turned to Shane. “We need you to make a definitive identification for the record.” Frank tapped the hotel registration printout. “Are you certain that’s the woman you knew as Linda Honeycutt who drove this car?”
“Yup, that’s her,” Shane said. “I’m a damn good detective,” he beamed, “almost became a policeman myself.”
Rob knew guys like Shane. Every cop did. Those who almost became a policeman. When asked why, they shrugged, smiled, and said something like, “Just never got around to it” or “had a better opportunity come up.” They never said, “Too much drug use, domestic violence, or theft.” No, they always had an excuse for why they didn’t do—according to them—what they were born to do.
After getting a signed statement, Rob slipped Shane a card. “If she shows back up or you remember anything else, give us a call.” Rob and Frank turned toward the door.
Shane accepted the card, his lips pursed as if he wanted to say something.
“Was there anything else?” Frank asked.
Shane looked into the distance and mumbled, “There was one thing that seemed strange.”
Rob was halfway out the door but stopped at Shane’s next words.
“Her room had a funny smell.”
“Funny?” Rob asked.
“Yeah,” Shane muttered, “like some kind of solvent or lubricant.”
* * *
On the way to CIU, Frank called Sims and briefed him on what they’d discovered. When they walked into the office, he was gnawing on a chunk of peanut brittle. Sims handed Frank the registration results from his check on the license plates of Jesse’s white Toyota.
Frank studied the attached stolen Texas license plate report filed ten days ago by some guy named Robert Biggs. Jesse wasn’t going to make it easy. Driving a nondescript older car with stolen tags. Staying in low-end hotels. Paying in cash. This girl was so far below the radar she was invisible. It took guts to dri
ve around with stolen license tags knowing she could be discovered anytime someone cared enough to check. Lots of guts and confidence. Thing was, she never gave anyone cause to suspect her. Jesse was a chameleon who dwelled in the shadows and only emerged long enough to kill. Able to present herself as anyone, at anytime, and blend in anywhere.
“I’ll see you guys later,” Sims said. “Going to show the photo of Jesse to the kid in the tree—see if he can identify her.” On his way out he dropped the candy wrapper on the floor, missing the trash can by a foot.
“Was the Avalon hers, or a rental?” Frank asked.
“Had to be hers,” Rob said. “Who leases ten-year-old Toyotas?”
With a photo and vehicle description, most crimes could be solved. Just flood the TV channels and social media and wait for the calls to roll in. Usually got their man in a day or two. But they weren’t going to be able to use that tool yet.
During the Dallas Police sniping incident in 2016 when five officers were killed, the department had posted the photo of a man on all the news services and named him as a possible suspect. As it turned out, they had the wrong guy. No one wanted to accuse another innocent person and put it out there on the news in Texas. With so many citizens carrying weapons, some go-getter might decide to make a citizen’s arrest. It had happened before.
Edna had already told them the chief’s office wouldn’t use TV and social media until they’d confirmed Jesse was the sniper. They needed something concrete, just in case the information was wrong.
Frank’s desk phone rang.
“Guess what?” Paul Sims said.
It wasn’t even lunch and Frank was already tired, his head throbbed, and he wasn’t in the mood for guessing games. “I give up. Discovered you could eat just one Lay’s potato chip?”
The line was quiet for a moment before Sims’ solemn voice said, “Frank, that’s very ungenerous of you.”
Frank exhaled. “Sorry. What?”
Sims cleared his throat. “Just got a call from the feds. They’re checking that hair we found in the old house for DNA against Jesse from her military medical records.”
“Thanks,” Frank said. The case had reached that tipping point. They always do. That point when there was enough evidence to question someone, but not quite enough to arrest them. The only question now, which direction would it tip. And of course, where was Jesse?
34
Jesse had spent Thursday morning following the tricked-out yellow Dodge Charger all over South Dallas. As it made several stops, the driver always took precautions not to get sniped, either parking in someone’s garage or under some type of overhang. Jesse didn’t care. Being adaptable and versatile was something her dad and the military had drilled into her. Have patience … wait for the target to present itself. Don’t rush or crowd it. It’ll come.
Jesse glanced from the printout on her car seat to the Charger owned by Jaylen Martin, leader of Cuzz Texas. He might be a little more challenging than she’d thought. Just then, he darted out of the house and trotted to the tin-covered parking area in back. Slamming the vehicle into reverse, he burned rubber out the driveway and fishtailed down the street.
Jesse followed. Jaylen drove for ten minutes, making four or five turns, and then pulled into the two-story parking garage of some medical facility off Gaston Avenue. Interesting. A doctor’s appointment or just another meeting? Jesse cruised past the entrance, noting the Charger turning left into the covered garage. What to do? Would he stay there long enough, or was this just another quick stop before taking off again? She’d bet he intended to stay. He’d been on his cell since leaving the house. Probably another meeting.
The guy was such a dork. If you googled low-class gang leader, Jaylen’s photo would probably pop up. He had the complete look. Baggy Adidas joggers hanging off his hips, wearing some foreign military-type field jacket, and his hair in dreadlocks to his shoulders.
Jesse circled the building and drove into the same entrance. She turned left and scanned the rows of cars and trucks. Following the signs, she took a right leading up to the second floor. There it was—parked in a dark corner on her left. Another car was parked beside it, and two heads appeared through the back windshield of Jaylen’s ride.
Yup, another meeting.
Jesse drove past and parked about a dozen spaces farther down, closer to the elevator landing. Today she wore a short, frilly pink dress with a plunging neckline and ruffles. She reached into the backseat and picked up the infant doll wrapped in blankets. Jesse checked the parking lot before removing the pistol from her purse. She screwed the silencer onto the barrel and then slipped the pistol under the doll, letting the drooping blanket cover it. She popped a piece of peppermint under her tongue and took a long, deep cleansing breath.
A woman holding the hand of a small boy exited the elevator and walked toward her as Jesse covered the doll’s face with the blanket and cuddled it closer. As the woman walked past, a knowing smile crossed her lips.
“Is it a boy or girl?” she asked.
Jesse rocked the doll and smiled back, whispering, “A little girl.”
“Aww,” the woman said, her brow creased, and kept walking.
Jesse reached into the backseat and pulled the diaper bag from the floorboard. She waited for the woman to leave and took one final look around before walking at a fast clip toward the Charger parked at the back wall. Only the clicking of her high heels echoed through the garage as she closed the distance. The two heads were bobbing, and some rap song drifted from the car’s closed windows. The sound of a vehicle heading up the ramp caused Jesse to slow her pace. She took long even breaths, relaxing her grip on the pistol. Not too tight. The car drove past and parked at a space around the corner. The brake lights of the Charger flickered on. Jaylen resting his foot on the pedal. Jesse stopped beside the driver’s window.
Jaylen had turned away and was staring at the passenger when Jesse bent down, making sure a little breast spilled over the edge of the loose neckline. The look on the passenger’s face was funny. His jaw dropped and he said something, causing Jaylen to jerk his head in her direction. She needed the window down, so with her free hand she gave the sign for “roll down your window.” There was a large caliber automatic near the gear shift between the two guys.
Better make my first shot count.
Jaylen rolled down the driver’s window and eyed her. He broke into a naughty smile and asked, “What do we have here?”
Jesse had practiced this shot before, but it had been a long time. Keeping the doll’s head lined up with the target was key. The closer, the better.
Jesse smiled and put the doll’s head about two feet from Jaylen’s face. “Excuse me,” she said, “but do you gentlemen know if—” That’s when she pulled the trigger twice. The sneezing sound from the silencer didn’t even alarm the passenger at first. Jaylen’s head jerked to the side, a tiny hole appearing just below the right eye and another in the center of the forehead. It took about three seconds for the passenger’s grin to morph into a grimace. He reached for the pistol. Jaylen lolled forward, blocking Jesse’s shot. She took a quick step to the left and lined the doll’s head up as the passenger grabbed the large automatic. She squeezed the trigger three times. All the rounds found her target’s face. His hand relaxed and the pistol fell to the floorboard.
Jesse released a breath as the growling of a diesel truck wheeling up the ramp drifted through the garage. Without hurrying, she casually strolled back to her car. The end of the blanket smoldered from the heat of the shots. A burning cloth odor floated past her nostrils as she smothered the smoking blanket with her hand. The truck passed her and parked on the left. Jesse made a show of buckling the doll into the baby seat until the truck’s driver got to the elevator.
Pulling out of the garage into the sunlight, Jesse thumbed through the sheets in her folder. Something familiar about the passenger stirred a memory. As she turned onto Gaston Avenue she found the photo of Lemarcus Murray—leader of the Cliff Ma
nor Gangsters. What do ya know. Two for one. These idiots were so easy.
Jesse worked her way out of downtown. As she passed through the city of Irving, her TracFone rang. The only person who had its number was Tony Palazzo in New York. Good, she was just about to call him.
It wasn’t Palazzo.
“We want the contract concluded as of today,” an unfamiliar voice said. That was the prearranged code for, kill Levern and get out of town. So that’s that. Time to finish it.
“I understand,” she said. “Scratch Cuzz Texas and the Cliff Manor Gangsters.” Then she added, “and make my deposit.”
There was a short pause before the voice answered, “Will do.”
Jesse went over her plan as she drove west on Highway 114. She’d already planted the seed, now it was time for the harvest.
35
Frank and Rob had just returned from a satisfying lunch at Sarge’s. The newest tragedy was still in the news. The sixteen-year-old sister of a gang member was killed the night before when someone did a drive-by and sprayed the house with automatic weapons fire. It angered Frank that so many young lives were being affected by this moronic violence. Some, like this sixteen year old, would never get to experience life past high school. All because a bunch of idiots were acting out some movie fantasy and firing indiscriminately into neighborhoods. That was the problem with gang violence. There were no frontlines—no safe place to retreat when you were beaten. All danger all the time. Stupid!
Frank’s desk phone rang. For a couple of seconds he considered not answering it. After the third ring he picked it up. It was Sims.
“Just got word,” Sims said, “two more gang leaders found murdered in a parking garage off Gaston. I’m heading over there. Want to meet me?”
Rob reared back in his chair relaxing after the meal. He tapped his Copenhagen box a couple of times before removing the lid and getting a pinch of snuff. After tucking it inside his lower lip, he dusted his fingers on his pants and replaced the lid.