City of Fear Page 3

  Terry’s brow crinkled. “He can’t be serious. That’s the Gang Unit’s job more than ours.”

  Edna kept her voice under control. She didn’t want Terry knowing how furious she was with Major Higgins. Good leaders support their superiors. “Higgins isn’t over the Gang Unit. He’s over CIU. Said we shared equal responsibility with them.”

  “We have a little time to work it out. This might be a one off,” Terry said, “besides we really don’t have to worry until civilians get into the crossfire. That’s when the shit gets real.”

  Edna didn’t answer. Terry had just said a mouthful. Until civilians get into the crossfire. Just sitting and waiting for something to happen wasn’t in her nature. It felt like being in a stew pot waiting for someone to turn up the heat. Her whole police career hung in the balance. Once transferred or demoted, it was almost impossible to make a comeback.

  She’d not touched her coffee. Acid gnawed at her gut, and she just wanted it to stop before she became sick. She stood and sat the cup on the desk.

  “Thanks, Terry. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what happens.”

  Terry also stood. “Try not to let it upset you. The guy getting hit last night was probably just an anomaly.”

  4

  Tuesday morning after his workout, when Rob strolled into CIU about nine o’clock, Frank was already there, still sitting in the same position Rob left him yesterday. One might assume he’d spent the night there, except he had on different color Dockers and Polo shirt. He stared at the computer monitor, biting the inside of his cheek.

  Nothing about this case gave Rob any comfort. He’d told his wife, Carmen, about it last night, but she didn’t show much interest. She didn’t show much interest in anything anymore as her depression worsened. Rob felt as if his twenty-years-plus marriage was fading like an old photograph, an image that got hazier every year. Now Frank even had a zombie look.

  “Morning,” Rob said.

  “Hey,” Frank mumbled, without taking his eyes off his monitor.

  Terry meandered from his office sipping coffee, his brow wrinkled, his expression pained. He paused at Frank’s desk. “The sixth floor decided what they wanted to do. It’s going to be a joint investigation. Narcotics, Homicide, and Criminal Intelligence will work the thing. There were enough drugs in the house to hold the two gangsters you found on the sofa. Narcotics is sweating them. Since they’re investigating it as a homicide, Paul Sims is handling that part. They want you guys to concentrate on identifying and locating the missing red-haired woman. Higgins is hoping for quick action on this,” Terry said. “If another gang leader gets killed before we figure it out, well.…”

  No one needed to tell Rob about Major Higgins. Guy always rolled as much shit downhill as possible. Staying on his good side was a full-time job for Edna and Terry.

  Terry opened his mouth to say something else, but instead strolled in the direction of Edna’s office.

  Rob removed his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. He eyed Frank. Guy always had the kind of laid-back expression that caused you to wonder if he was about to go to sleep or just waking up. Since they were pulled back into the investigation, Rob figured Frank must be calculating on how to find the mysterious woman. But then again knowing Frank, he might be wondering if fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches were really the preferred meal of Elvis during his later years.

  * * *

  The thing Frank loved about working CIU was also the thing he hated the most. Unlike other units like Homicide, Missing Persons, and Burglary and Theft, CIU could work any case the department investigated. But not being in the specific unit investigating the case always left CIU detectives unable to control it. Frank hated not being in control. The case officer always had more leeway into how the investigation was run. Most of the time CIU had to wait for them to share information before they could do much.

  He doodled and scratched out questions that needed answers. Why did they trip the power circuits at Ricardo’s? How did they kill the guy without touching him? A poison? What rendered the two guards unconscious? And the last, and possibly most important, what happened to the red-haired woman? Frank examined the doodle beside the list of questions. He’d subconsciously drawn the likeness of a Voodoo doll. The M.E. had the body, and DPD forensics had the trace material from the scene. Might have a preliminary report in the next couple of days.

  Whoever left that moronic Voodoo doll at Ricardo’s was singing to the wrong person if they thought it would intimidate Frank. No one in the police department was more grounded in reality than he was. His religious doubts were well known, and no amount of hocus pocus could distract him. As far as ghosts, he believed in Casper and that was it.

  Frank handed Rob a sheet of paper over the cubicle wall. It was a printer copy of the doll he’d been studying the day before.

  Rob looked it over a moment before asking, “What about it?”

  “The answer to the red-haired woman,” Frank said.

  Rob glance at the paper again. “I don’t get it. How does this help us find the woman?”

  “Connect the dots.”

  “Huh?”

  “I pulled that doll photo off of a Voodoo website. And Ricardo was a drug gang leader, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Ricardo was found dead with—” Frank pointed at the image of the Voodoo doll Rob held, “—that thing beside him, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So if you think of a criminal in the drug business and Voodoo, who comes to mind?”

  “Antoine Levern,” Rob answered.

  Frank clasped his hands behind his head, rocked back in his chair, and said, “Brilliant.”

  Frank and Rob strolled into Terry’s office, and Frank explained his theory. Terry studied the photo of the doll as they waited. The hum of the cubicle jungle drifted into the office. Frank liked the hum—it relaxed him. Made him feel at home. Terry lounged back in his chair. “So you believe Levern is somehow involved?”

  “Won’t know till we interview him,” Frank answered. “Know who in Narcotics might be working him?”

  “No one that I’m aware of,” Terry said. “Since Ferris retired, Narcotics has moved on to easier fish. Popular opinion is Levern has an industry contact that keeps him informed what drugs are going to be on what trucks. Makes it a lot easier to hijack the right shipment. Ferris knew everything about him. Worked him for years.”

  Rob took a sip of coffee. “He still around?”

  “Yeah. Fell on hard times after he retired. Wife booked out. I’ve heard he’s hitting the bottle pretty bad.”

  Frank stood. “Think we’ll swing his place by for a chat before we see Levern. You know the guy?”

  Terry pointed to a photo on the opposite wall. “We went through the academy together over twenty-five years ago.” Terry strolled to the picture and Frank followed. “That’s him.” Terry pointed to the third row up. The tall officer in the photograph wore his police cap low, almost touching the bridge of his nose, the sides of his hair buzzed close to the scalp. His intense eyes stared directly into the camera with a determined resolve.

  Terry had that sentimental look he always showed when a fellow officer went down hard. “Give him my regards.”

  As they walked out of Terry’s office Frank said, “I’m going to check my hair and make-up before we go. Be right back.”

  Frank meandered to the men’s room down the hall. Terry’s expression and last words were burned into Frank’s memory. The thought of having his mind and wits erode bothered Frank almost as much as the thought of being killed. As he aged, he had no one to look after him. Going to a home was out. What kind of life could he have there? If only Carly were still alive. But life’s twists and turns never ask you what you want before doing their thing. Just go with the flow. Perhaps someday another might come along that he’d want to love—perhaps not.

  When he walked back into CIU, a round of laughter erupted from a group of detectives gathered arou
nd Rob’s cubicle. Once or twice a week Rob would go on a joke-telling binge. Rob had a lot of funny jokes.

  Frank caught his eye. “Ready to go, Seinfeld?”

  5

  Most of the apartment complexes off Harry Hines Boulevard and Northwest Highway in Dallas would not fall into the plush or luxurious category. Some would not fall into the safe, comfortable, or well-kept category either. But that’s where retired officer Ben Ferris lived. Rob craned his neck, searching for the building number. Frank slept in the passenger seat. How does he contort his long legs and back into that weird position? Rob poked him.

  “Hey, we’re here.”

  Frank gazed around and ran a hand down his face. “Already?”

  “Get a load of this place. Ben lives in a dump,” Rob said. The car bounced from one pothole to the other in the parking lot. Few vehicles were around. A stray dog sniffed a paper bag beside the nasty swimming pool that looked like a biology experiment that had gone terribly wrong. The building’s walls were tagged with gang graffiti. The complex had that “we’ve spent all we’re going to on this joint and now we just want our money back” look.

  Rob swung into a parking place beside a rusted ’92 Toyota Corolla with a busted passenger window covered with plastic and duct tape.

  “This isn’t where I’d like to end up in another ten years,” Rob mumbled.

  They walked through a grimy breezeway. The smell of Mexican food floated through the air. Apartment forty-one was on the right. An overflowing bag of trash drooped against the wall. About a hundred flies were searching for a way in. Taped to the door—a note.

  Jim,

  Had to step out for a while. Door’s unlocked and cold beer in the refrigerator.

  Be back in a bit.

  Ben

  Rob frowned and turned to Frank. “Has he lost his mind? He’ll be cleaned out.”

  Frank tried the doorknob—unlocked. He cracked it open. The interior was a dark cave. “Ben, hey, Ben … you home?”

  Rob got that kind of feeling he used to get in Iraq. Just before he knew it was time to run for cover.

  Frank pushed the door open a little more before Rob touched his shoulder. When Frank turned around, Rob shook his head and put his index finger to his lips.

  “Hold on a second,” he whispered. “Hey, Ben,” Rob called. “You there? It’s me, Rob Soliz. DPD.”

  In the darkness a quiet, raspy voice answered, “Rob. That you?”

  “Yeah, okay to come in? Got my partner Frank Pierce with me.”

  The voice called back. “Sure, come on in, but close the door.”

  They slipped inside the apartment just as a wall lamp switched on in the corner. The hair on Rob’s neck stood at attention as he realized what had almost happened.

  In an oversized beanbag chair sat Ben Ferris, or what was left of him. The retired cop squinted in the bright light and laid the cocked .44 Magnum beside the almost empty bottle of Jim Beam. A smile moved across the shriveled lips below his ragged Fu Manchu mustache.

  “By God, it is you.”

  Ben struggled to extricate his skinny self from the man-eating beanbag chair. A four-day growth of gray stubble outlined his thin face, and the long ponytail had a greasy look. He stood, wobbled once, and stuck out his hand. Rob shook it.

  “How’s it going, Ben?”

  Ben pumped Rob’s hand like a rescued hostage does his rescuer. “I’m good, damn good.”

  Ben’s grip was still strong, but his breath smelled like a cocktail lounge and bread mold. He turned to Frank. “Haven’t seen you guys in years.”

  “Good to see you again,” Frank said.

  Ben ambled to the kitchen and thumbed a light switch. The hanging lamp over the dinette table flickered on. Motorcycle parts, old food containers, and stacks of newspapers littered the table. Rob glanced at the rest of living room. Little furniture, but a black Harley Davidson motorcycle sat on a blue tarp in the corner with the engine partially disassembled. Place had that old garage odor Rob remembered as a kid working in his uncle’s tire shop after school.

  “Pull up a chair. Don’t mind the mess,” Ben said, “cleaning day is tomorrow.” He chuckled. “Can I get you boys something to drink?”

  Frank shook his head while pulling out a chair. “We’re good. Still on duty.”

  Ben laughed. “Being on duty never stopped us before.” His brow tightened. “Hey, is this an official visit?”

  “Yeah,” Rob said and took a seat.

  Ben cleared his throat and sat back in the chair. “What’s happened?”

  “Hear about the Ricardo Salazar thing the other night?” Rob asked.

  Ben nodded. “Finally got what was coming to him. About time.”

  “That’s not the whole story,” Rob said. He filled Ben in on the unpublished details. When he got to the part about the Voodoo doll found beside Ricardo’s corpse, Ben’s forehead wrinkled.

  As Rob talked, Ben fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and held the pack out to them. They shook their heads as he lit up. It was a short unfiltered thing with coarse, black tobacco. Some foreign brand that smelled like burning horse hair. Ben inhaled a long draw and let the smoke flow out in a narrow stream between his lips. He nodded a couple of times during the briefing. After Rob finished, Ben rolled the cigarette tip in the ashtray, already overflowing with butts, and asked, “And you believe Levern might have done it?”

  Frank pursed his lips. “Not necessarily. But he does have the Voodoo reputation.”

  Ben laughed and slapped his leg. “That’s just for show. His grandmamma was no more of a Voodoo priestess than yours. A French Quarter whore, just like his mama.”

  “You know him better than anyone,” Frank said. “What do you think? Could he have done it?”

  Ben gazed at Frank with the same intense stare he had in his police graduation photo. “I’m not saying he couldn’t do it, but I’d be surprised. Levern is more direct.”

  “Is Levern as heavy into the drugs as rumored?” Rob asked.

  “You mean using or distribution?” Ben said.

  “Distribution.”

  Ben took another deep drag from the cigarette. “Yes and no. Old Levern stumbled into that sweet spot between the lines. He doesn’t deal in drugs per se, except a few stolen pharmaceuticals. He represents most of the black drug dealers as a go-between with the Chicago mob. Levern takes a generous cut in exchange for keeping the gang leader’s pockets full and the supply flowing up north. About the only thing he’s directly involved in is the cargo hijacking.” Ben walked across the room and scooped the bottle of whiskey off the floor. He pushed aside some papers on the table, found a semi-clean glass, and drained the bottle into it.

  “You never made a case on him?” Frank asked.

  Ben dropped his head. “Nope. Guy’s too careful. Ever since that incident when he was attacked as a kid, he’s been spooked. Now he keeps a lot of protection around, lots of middle men to guard and insulate him.”

  “Heard the feds might have a case on him,” Rob said.

  Ben tried a swig of Jim Beam and smacked his lips. “Don’t believe everything you hear. They might have a case or indictment, but he’ll walk. Levern’s too smart.” Ben stared at the floor a moment and appeared to lose his train of thought. He shook it off and sucked hard on the cigarette. “Yeah, Levern’s thought of everything but one.”

  “What’s that?” Rob asked.

  Ben had drifted off again, staring at the floor. “What?”

  “Thought of everything but one. What’s the one?” Rob asked.

  Ben coughed. “He forgot about Chicago. The mob has its hooks so deep in him he’ll never wiggle off. They own him for as long as they want.”

  Frank stood as if to leave. “Thanks, that’s information I can use.”

  Ben jumped up as Rob also rose. “You guys going already?” His baggy eyes gave him an old dog appearance.

  “Yeah, we’re on a mission from God,” Rob said.

  Ben’s lips cra
cked into another smile. “You mean Edna?”

  Rob shrugged. “One and the same.”

  “Terry said to tell you hello,” Frank mumbled as he walked to the door.

  Ben swallowed hard and the smile faded. “Tell him I miss him.”

  Rob wanted to give Ben what he probably longed for. The knowledge that his career had amounted to something. That he’d given up his life for something meaningfully. But no one could do that except Ben. That was the challenge every cop faced when they retired. That’s what drove many of them crazy with self-doubt and self-worth.

  A copper plaque hung on the inside of the front door. In Old English script was the words, “If You Ain’t Police—You Ain’t Shit!”

  * * *

  Walking back to their car, Frank recalled the reasons for Ben’s early retirement. Alcohol, erratic behavior, and dereliction of duty. The same things that had collapsed his marriage.

  “Thanks for saving me back there,” Frank said.

  “Hate to see that kind of stuff,” Rob answered. “Burglar baiting is sick.”

  Frank chewed his lip. What would have happened if Rob hadn’t been there to stop him from going in? Not the first, or probably the last time, he owed him.

  “I can’t believe how screwed up Ben is,” Rob said. “I’ve seen cops fall before, but never that low.”

  “You just never know about the human condition,” Frank said, “people conceal things they don’t want to, or can’t share with the world. Like the old Billy Joel song, ‘The Stranger.’ ‘We all have a face that we hide away forever, and we take them out and show ourselves when everyone has gone.’ ”

  Rob stared at him. “You sure that’s Billy Joel? Sounds like something Elton John would sing.”

  Rob knew country and western music, but drop him back in the pop days of the seventies and eighties—guy didn’t have a clue. Frank released a long tired breath. “No, Rob. It’s Billy Joel.”