Baltimore Trackdown (11 page)

The Executioner heard the crazed laugh again as he prepared for his dash. There was no guarantee that he would make it. The ravaging fire would suck up all of the oxygen in the air. He must try to hold his breath until he was out of the flames.

The wild laugh came once more and Bolan unleashed two shots from the .44 AutoMag in that direction, then held the big gun and backed up six feet to make his dash.

He was ready. Was this the way he was going to buy the farm? If it happened, it happened. He began to run.

As he moved the wind shifted, and he stopped, unsure what effect it would have on the flames. The fickle wind changed again, now blowing in the opposite direction.

Lightning split the cloudy sky, hitting a tree about half a mile away.

The flames ahead of him died down for lack of fuel, blowing back on the blackened wasteland. The fire behind him raced forward, but all he had to do now was jump over the crawling, low flames to the smoking ashes of the ruined wheat field.

Carboni’s wild laughter had turned to screams of terror. Bolan saw him ahead, charging around in the middle of a circle of fire. Carboni was trapped.

Lightning struck the ground a hundred yards away and the smell of raw sulfur blended with the smoke. Bolan jolted into action. He ran through the burned area, getting safely away from the flames.

When he looked back at the spot where he had last seen Carboni, he could see only the flames whipping forward, consuming the entire circle that had protected the Mafia hit man. It had developed into a searing, boiling fire storm.

Bolan knew he should wait for the fire to burn out and check for a body to be sure that Vince Carboni was dead. But an inner voice drew him away.

He figured Carboni had had only a small chance of escaping the flames.

Now Bolan had to return to his contacts in the police department and talk to Nino Tattaglia in the Mafia snakepit to find out if the schedule was holding. He had to know for sure if the “changes” in the police department were still set for tomorrow night.

For a moment he wondered if he could trust Assistant Chief Jansen. He could have set up that “blackmail” situation for Bolan’s benefit. For now Bolan would trust only his own instincts and make everyone else prove himself.

Immediately he had the problem of getting back to town. He discarded the Uzi in the wheat field. It had been a gift from the Mafia. He threw away his combat webbing and web belt. He had extras in his hotel.

He hid his two handguns in his shirt as he jogged to the closest highway, then hitchhiked into the nearest town where he could find a taxi.

The thought still plagued him — could he entirely trust Chief Jansen, or did Jansen have his eye on the top spot as chief of police working with the Mafia?

The phone rang five times before Assistant Chief Jansen picked it up. He had been sleeping soundly.

“Yeah, I’m here. What time is it?” He looked at the clock on his nightstand. “Two-thirty! Who the hell is this?”

“I’m your blood brother, Jansen. You remember the motel. I’ve been busy today. Anything new going down on the new police policies?”

“Not that I could see. There was a fire in Gwynns Falls Park. Looks like Captain Davis met hell a little early. I figured you might have made the introduction. That’s been put down as an accident. Any comment?”

“He must have deserved it. Anything doing with the other two assistant chiefs?”

“Not a thing. They’re sitting tight, doing what they have to do but really marking time. One of them took the day off today.”

“Has Chief Smith showed up yet?”

“No. You said he wasn’t hurt? There’s a lot of speculation downtown about him. The police commissioner is furious.”

“Smith must be lying low for a day or two. Anybody else bother you?”

“No. Not a problem. I heard there was a shootout north of town today. You involved in that one?”

“For a while. Personal matter. Will you be at the mayor’s State of the City talk tomorrow night?”

“Plan to be. I’m part of the official delegation from the department.”

“Good. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Have a nice sleep.”

Bolan hung up and considered calling Tattaglia, but decided to wait. He could use a few hours of sleep himself. His left arm began to throb again. He put an antiseptic, antibiotic salve and a bandage on the wound. It would heal but leave a scar. He really did not need another one.

Ten minutes later he was asleep.

The next morning at seven, Bolan called Tattaglia.

“Who the hell is calling in the middle of the night?”

“Morning, Nino. Greetings from Leo. Any developments?”

“Oh, it’s you. Quiet yesterday. Probably before some kind of a storm. They don’t tell me much yet. But it’s tonight.”

“Right, at the mayor’s bash. I’ll be there. Heard anything about the chief?”

“Heard something about a chief once or twice, but I’m not high enough up the totem pole.”

“Get up there. We need you.”

“Working on it.”

“Leo will encourage you. Remember, he can yank you back to that cell anytime he wants.”

“I know it. I’m cooperating.”

“Keep your eyes open, and be sure you’re packing tonight. You have a legal concealed-weapons permit, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Stay hard.”

Bolan hung up and checked the name of a lawyer he had to see. The man should be in his office by nine.

The Executioner was sitting in the lawyer’s big swivel chair when the barrister came in that morning. No one else was in the office.

“Good morning, Payne Sanders. Sit down and let’s talk.”

“Who the hell are you? Get out of my chair and out of my office or I’ll call the security guard.”

Bolan stood over the five-foot-ten lawyer. Icy blue eyes bored into Payne’s. The smaller man stepped back.

“You touch me and I’ll sue you for assault and battery.” Sanders said it evenly, but the punch had gone out of his voice. He retreated another step.

“Stay here, Sanders. We have to talk. Sit down and make yourself comfortable.”

He wiped his sweaty forehead and sat in the client’s chair beside his desk, where he almost never sat.

“I understand you were legal counsel for Capt. Harley Davis. He left certain documents with you that were to be turned over to the police in the event of his untimely death. I’m here to pick them up.”

“I had no connection with any Harley Davis. I am certainly not his lawyer.”

Bolan sighed and rose. He stepped to the chair and stared down at the lawyer.

“Mr. Sanders, I’m hoping that such an obvious lie doesn’t mean that you’ve already disposed of the documents to a higher bidder. I know the Mafia don, Carlo Nazarione, would pay plenty to have those papers and pictures. Have they thought to contact you about them yet?”

“No. They haven’t contacted me because I have nothing they might want — certainly nothing involving Mr. Davis, whoever he is.”

“Good try, Sanders. Acting class was obviously your best subject. Don’t try it again. I don’t have a lot of time.” Bolan took a five-inch knife from the sheath inside his boot. The narrow finely-honed blade glistened in the brightly lit office.

“Sanders, I once read an FBI seminar brochure that said it is not productive to try to encourage a person to give out information by what they called digital trauma. You can figure out what that means.”

Sanders shrank in his chair. “If I knew this Davis, I’d be glad to cooperate.”

“I don’t agree with the FBI. Putting fingers out of joint can be a fine way to encourage a man to talk.”

Sweat appeared on Sanders’s forehead.

“What was the name again?”

“Capt. Harley Davis of the Baltimore Police Department.”

“My secretary takes care of all of those ‘in case of’ files. Let me contact her and see.”

Bolan shook his head. He touched the tip of the knife to the lawyer’s shoulder.

“No way. That valuable file is right here in your office. All you have to do is stand up, get the file and hand it to me. How much did Nazarione offer you for it?”

“A hundred thousand. I’m a businessman.”

“And you told him two hundred thousand and he dickered and you hung up.”

“Something like that.”

“You’re a brave man, Sanders. I’ve known Mafia dons who would have you turned into turkey meat for a cute trick like that. You’re also lucky. I’d say a week in the Caribbean should put you in the clear. Baltimore is going to be extremely unhealthy for you for the next week.”

“I was just trying to make a couple of dollars!” Sanders was blinking back the tears.

“They would kill you right now if they knew how to get the documents and photos. I’m going to turn them over to the police, so let’s have them right now.”

Sanders put his head in his hands and cried. He looked up, tears on his cheeks. “He suckered me into it three years ago. I have lots of ‘in case of death open and deliver’ files. But this one kept growing and growing. It was sealed, but I opened it and made copies. Man, he certainly had the goods on these Mafia goons! He could nail them to the wall anytime he wanted. I knew they were paying him off. The problem was they wouldn’t pay me off for the same material. I jacked up my price to Davis a little and he never even noticed. The file got so thick I stopped looking in it. When he died, I didn’t know what to do. Being an officer of the court I was honor bound to turn over evidence to the court, the D.A., the police. But I held off. Then Nazarione himself called me. We met and talked. He gave me a packet of twenty one-hundred-dollar bills as a tip. Said there was lots more.”

“Nazarione needs those papers,” Bolan said.

“Last night he called me at home. Asked about my three kids and my wife, and while there was no threat, I certainly got the idea they might not be safe if I didn’t do what he said.”

“The files, Sanders. Get them now. Nazarione will probably be here this morning with a wrecking bar to take your office apart.”

Sanders stood up like an old man. He was about forty. He went to a wall safe and spun the dials. When it was unlocked, Bolan eased the lawyer aside and opened it. Inside was a .38 revolver. Bolan took it out, then let Sanders reach in. He brought out two cardboard boxes.

“I could copy everything and give you the originals and give the copies to Nazarione...“

Bolan shook his head. “No time. Anyway, he would check for that.” The Executioner opened the first letter-size cardboard file and leafed through some of the papers and pictures. It was hard evidence. He closed the file and picked up both boxes.

“I suggest you call your wife and meet her and the kids away from your home. Then drive to Washington and take the first flight to Nassau. You deserve a vacation.”

Bolan carried the two boxes out of the office and took the stairs down the five flights to the street. He met no one coming up.

A mile away from the building, he stopped at a telephone booth and called Assistant Chief Jansen.

“This is your bloody buddy. Has the chief turned up yet?”

“No. We’re worried here. His wife hasn’t heard from him for two days.”

“Forget him — he’s dead, captured or scared. I have something you need for the show tonight. Meet me in twenty minutes in that McDonald’s just down from your headquarters. Alone, right?”

“You got it. The other two assistant chiefs are starting to show their muscle around here.”

“They won’t after tonight. Anything on Assistant Chief Vincent?”

“We’ve put his arraignment off until next week. I had a talk with the D.A., explaining what I think happened. I said things should be more clear after tonight. We might be able to withdraw the charges and get him back on duty yet.”

“Good. Twenty minutes.”

Bolan was there in five and watched from an inside booth. He saw no sudden influx of male civilians, no prowling unmarked police cars. Jansen was keeping his word.

The chief came in five minutes later, bought a milk shake at the counter and looked for a place to sit. He saw Bolan, walked up and sat across from him. They greeted each other.

“What’s the procedure tonight with the mayor?” Bolan asked.

“Usually he presents his speech for the audience and the TV cameras and then an open city-council meeting begins.”

“How does your police commissioner fit in?”

“He’s the politics end. He works with the mayor and gives directions to our chief, who implements them through the department.”

“So the commissioner and the mayor make the policy and the rest of you carry it out.”

“Right.”

The Executioner lifted a file folder from one of the boxes beside him and slid it across the table to Jansen.

“Here’s the file that shows and proves the Mafia’s penetration into the Baltimore Police Department, including the two assistant chiefs. Here’s a list of who is on the take and why. There is also a complete rundown of some ten or twelve top-echelon Mafia types with names and dates and evidence to back up killings, briberies, assaults and a dozen other crimes never charged against them before.”

He let Jansen look through the file.

“This is a bombshell! It will blow the department wide open!”

“Not if the district attorney goes at it slowly and the department does a lot of internal housecleaning. I was hoping we could set off the first bomb tonight with the mayor’s speech.”

“He’s probably still writing it,” Jansen said.

“Good. Maybe we have time. First, make copies of everything in these files. Then take the originals to the D.A. and explain the whole thing. Then take some select items to the police commissioner and see if he can get something in the mayor’s speech about law enforcement, the new crackdown on the Mafia, and mention a couple of cases. It might work. I didn’t see any mention of Police Commissioner Williams in any of the material. He must be clean.”

“Yes. The D.A. will go along with almost anything to get this evidence. Is this what Captain Davis had that he was blackmailing Nazarione with?”

“Yes, I got it from Davis’s lawyer, but he will never admit that. It’s found evidence. Maybe you could suggest to the D.A. that they prepare arrest warrants for the two assistant chiefs on bribery and four or five Mafia hoods on some of the cases covered in the files. If the mayor could announce those arrests and have the men picked up at the gathering, it would be a big political boost for him.”

“And the start of our cleanup. I’ll give it a try. The D.A. will go along. I just hope I can convince Commissioner Williams. I’ve never been one of his favorites.”

“You will be after you show him all that evidence and tell him it’s been turned over to the D.A. He won’t be able to stop it then if he is working with Nazarione.”

Chief Jansen finished his milk shake. “Anything on Chief Smith?”

“Not a word. Hasn’t he reported in yet?”

“Not so far. Maybe the Mafia found him at that motel where you left him.”

“Possible. Get things in motion. We don’t have much time.”

Chief Jansen nodded, left the booth and walked out the side door.

Fifty miles north of Baltimore, Chief of Police Smith paced the small motel room. He was unshaven and wore only his T-shirt and pants. For the third time he ran out of cigarettes. He crushed the pack and threw it against the wall.

What the hell was he supposed to do? He had tried to get through on the phone but they said not to call, to wait until after tonight.

This was the mayor’s big State of the City speech. He usually helped the commissioner put together something complimentary the mayor could say about the department, some new record of arrests or how crime was down in certain sections.

Maybe he should give the commissioner a call?

And how would he explain where he had been for the past two or three days?

He thought back to the day when he had been on his way home and had seen the crew wagon boiling up behind. He knew what to expect — he was on the floor of the side-armored police car long before his driver had shouted.

Then damn Bolan had interfered at the last minute and riddled those Mafia goons. There was nothing to do then but go along with the Executioner and his rescue. But what did Carlo Nazarione think about eleven of his men getting killed on what was supposed to be a simple kill of the driver and kidnapping of the chief?

Evidently he was damn mad.

Chief Smith put on shoes, socks and shirt. He had to get out of there and do some tall thinking.