Baltimore Trackdown (7 page)

That evening at nine-thirty, Assistant Chief Gene Vincent finished work, signed out at the front desk and went to his car. Lately he had been working overtime on a secret report on gambling in Baltimore and how it had touched even some police officers. There still was a lot of work to do, but he was making progress.

Vincent entered the official car and locked it. His mind was still on his report. Yes, he was right in presuming that the more money offered, the more takers you would find in any kind of a bribery situation. Just what it took to push a normally honest cop into going on the take, he was not sure. If he were lucky, he might find out.

He left the parking lot and headed for the expressway. As usual during the forty-five-minute drive home, he would relax totally.

He turned right and took his usual shortcut along a side street toward the highway’s access ramp. He saw a car coming up fast behind but decided it had time to slow down.

It did not slow down.

The other car rammed the chief’s rig, slamming it across the curb and into a pole. The seat belt held, but Chief Vincent swung forward and hit the steering wheel with his chest and the windshield with his head. It was not enough to make him lose consciousness. His first thought was that he would be terribly late getting home.

The car stopped, and someone ran to it, banged on the door, then smashed the window to unlock it.

Vaguely he saw a face over him, then felt something wet splashed over his face and suit. It smelled strange — whiskey! He was being soaked with booze! He tried to call out, but his mind was still foggy from the knock on the head.

He was being held in place. He heard the car keys come out of the ignition, the trunk opening and closing, the keys shoved back in the ignition.

For an instant his vision cleared and he saw two men staring at him, and then a .45 automatic moving toward him. The blow on his temple didn’t seem hard, but the whole scene suddenly became too difficult for him. He saw the darkness closing in and then he relaxed and let it come and fell into a drifting, uneasy unconsciousness.

Something sharp, painful stung his nose. Chief Vincent turned away but the smell followed, stringent, biting, strong. He moved his head once more but the smell again followed. Vaguely he recognized the odor as smelling salts.

“I think he’s starting to come out of it,” a voice said from a long way off.

“Chief! Chief Vincent!” The voice was closer this time and he blinked and saw lights.

Pain darted through him as his eyes opened.

Assistant Chief Gene Vincent knew he was alive.

“What...”

Then he heard a soothing and familial voice.

“Take it easy, Chief. You don’t seem hurt bad. Knock on the head where you hit the windshield. Don’t see how you didn’t get battered up more since you didn’t have your seat belt on.”

Chief Vincent blinked again, and stared at the fuzzy shapes and forms. He shook his head and the pain knifed through him again.

He blinked and his vision cleared. Leaning into the car over him was Capt. Harley Davis, the gambling specialist.

“Davis,” Chief Vincent said. “What happened? Somebody rear-ended me?”

“Chief. We got it all under control. You sure did get a jolt in the backside, but whoever it was tore out of here. A patrol car has already sent in a report. We got cops all over the place, so just relax.”

“Head... hurts like hell.”

“Yeah, lacerations. Doesn’t seem too bad. Can you move? Try your arms.”

He moved his arms, then his legs.

“Get me out of here, Davis.”

“Yes, sir. We’ve got an ambulance on the way.”

Slowly they pulled him from the small space between the seat and the steering wheel. The wheel had not collapsed or crushed, Vincent noticed. Wasn’t it supposed to?

He swung his legs to the sidewalk and remained seated.

“Chief, you smell like a roadhouse. We found an open bottle of bourbon on the floor. You taking a little shot on the way home?”

“No, I haven’t had a drop. Give me a breath test right now.”

“No need for that, Chief,” Davis said. “Just wondered.” He reached in and took the keys from the ignition. “We need to check the trunk to be sure there aren’t any internal fuel-line or gas-tank leaks. That rear end got jolted pretty good. Hope we can get the trunk lid up.”

Sirens wailed and more police cars arrived. When Vincent looked up the next time he saw Larry Jansen watching him.

“Hey, Gene, relax. It doesn’t look all that bad.” He glanced away. “What?” he called to someone.

Captain Davis came to his side.

“Chief, I think you better come and look at this.”

The two officers went to the rear of the car. Davis pulled back an old blanket in the trunk to reveal a plastic-wrapped bundle. Chief Jansen bent in and inspected it.

“Is that what it looks like?” he asked Captain Davis.

“I’m not sure, sir. I was just checking for a gas leak. I thought you better look it over.”

Jansen lifted the wrapped bundle. Beneath several layers of clear plastic, a white powder was clearly visible.

“Look at that marker on the side,” Davis said. “It’s a recording number from our narcotics vault where we keep the impounded evidence.”

“I see it, Davis. That’s the forty thousand dollars’ worth of cocaine we took three days ago. What’s it doing in the chief’s trunk?”

“Sir, I think we better ask Chief Vincent that,” Davis said. “We have half a dozen officers who saw me open the trunk just as you drove up.”

Jansen closed his eyes. Davis had set up Vincent, then suckered Jansen to give the final shot to end Vincent’s career. No matter what happened in the investigation, Vincent was finished as a law officer. Davis had taken out another top management officer who would not be blackmailed.

Captain Davis cleared his throat. “Sir, do you want me to handle this, since you are such close...”

“Yes, Captain, take Vincent downtown and book him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“First let me have a word with him.” Jansen went around the car. He looked at Chief Vincent and shook his head.

“Gene, there’s a package of cocaine in your trunk. It’s been stolen from the department’s drug storage lockup. Did you know it was there?”

“Cocaine? Hell, no. And I remember somebody pouring whiskey all over me just after the wreck and somebody smashed the window to unlock the door, then reached in and took the keys out of the ignition....”

“Remember that, Gene. Right now, we’ve got to book you. We’ll get it all straightened out. We’ve got some criminals wearing uniforms right now. We’ll get them all blasted loose. Hang in there with us, and remember what you just told me.”

He stepped back and motioned to Captain Davis, then got in his car and drove with elaborate caution toward the police station. He did not want to be in any “accident,” as Gene Vincent had been. No matter what would eventually transpire, Gene was probably finished with the department, unless they could prove a lot of things quickly. Damn!

Half an hour later Assistant Chief Jansen was back at headquarters. Chief Smith had not been to work all day. No one knew where he was. That in itself was unusual.

By midnight, Smith still had not come in. A phone call came through to Jansen’s desk. It was the first time the phone had rung.

“Yes?”

“Chief Jansen?”

“Uh-huh.”

“This is the guy who pulled you out of that bloody situation yesterday.”

“Yes, again my thanks. They just wiped out another assistant chief. Planted some cocaine in his car.”

“They also tried to kill Chief Smith this morning. I think we need to talk, somewhere safe. I’m allergic to police stations. Can you walk north on Greenmount just north of Thirty-third? I’ll be along to pick you up. No escort, no visitors — just us two.”

“Of course. After what you did for me, there’s no chance that I’d double-cross you.”

“Good. I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.”

Sixteen minutes later Mack Bolan pulled a rented Buick to the curb and blinked the lights. A tall man in a suit approached, looked through the car window and got in.

“All hell is breaking loose. Vincent is in jail, our other two honorable assistant chiefs are being blackmailed and now you say Chief Smith is in hiding? They actually tried to kill him?”

“You must have seen the report about his driver being gunned down this morning and a Mafia crew wagon being burned to a hulk.”

“Yes, but I never connected it.”

“Chief Smith is safe up north a ways in a motel. Looks like it’s up to you to run the store for a while.”

“They’re going to attempt the takeover soon,” Jansen said. “When would they have a better chance?”

“With you out of the way. Be careful the next couple of days. Is there any chance you can tie down Captain Davis?”

“I don’t know how, other than charging him with a felony of some kind, and for that I’d need proof.”

“And he’s too slick for that. I’ll take care of Captain Davis when I have a few spare minutes. Will you be running things until Chief Smith gets back?”

“I’m the senior, so I guess it’s up to me. I’ll put out a notice tomorrow that the chief is taking a few days’ emergency leave because of his ulcer. He’s had one for years and does have to take off a day or two now and then. But what about this takeover try? What are they going to do — blow us all away with bombs or just gun us down?”

“My guess is it’ll be more subtle than that. They’ll have to get rid of you somehow, so be careful. You might inspect your car before driving home, and be sure you don’t get in any car wrecks.”

“Or go into any dark warehouses with Captain Davis as my backup,” Chief Jansen said.

“Right. Now I’ve got to get in touch with my contact inside the Mafia machine and see what their next move is going to be.”

“You’ve got a contact inside Nazarione’s Mob? How in hell did you do that? I’ve been trying to do that for five years.”

Bolan told him briefly how they turned around the man. By the time the Executioner had finished the story they were back at the spot where Bolan had picked up the chief.

As Jansen got out, Bolan told him he would keep in touch.

“And be careful, Jansen. Don’t even trust your best friend.”

It was well after midnight when Don Nazarione met with his number-two man in his third-floor office.

“At least we have some good news,” Nazarione said. “Captain Davis tells me the frame-up on Assistant Chief Vincent went off like a military maneuver. The chief is in jail, booked on suspicion of possession of cocaine, theft of cocaine from the police lockup, drinking while driving and a few other charges they’re still working on. That eliminates one more. Now there’s only Chief Jansen to bother us.”

Scimone nodded. “But remember, we need somebody to help run the place who knows how. You don’t just wipe out the whole management staff of a new business when you take over. We need one or two down there besides our patsies.”

The Mafia boss grunted. “We’ll have Davis up as an assistant chief just as soon as possible. There’s an opening now.”

“Davis said he wants three more men eliminated as soon as possible. We’ll worry about that down the line.” Scimone took a drag from a long cigar. “What we have to do is give the impression that all is moving along smoothly, that everything is normal and routine. Any changes will have to be done slowly and look reasonable.”

The phone rang. At a signal from Carlo, Scimone picked it up. He listened for a minute, then hung up.

“Somebody rammed a pool cue through Jo Jo’s heart at that pool palace place. He’s in the morgue waiting for an autopsy.”

“Bolan?” Nazarione asked.

“Has to be. What about Jo Jo’s wife?”

“Send a couple of cars over there and bring her and the two kids over here. She’s a handful, and I’d rather a lot of nosy reporters don’t get to her. You know how sloshed she usually is.”

Scimone moved toward the door.

“I’ll go myself. We’ll put her and the kids in the south wing. They won’t bother you from there.”

Nazarione waved and headed for his private elevator. For just a few hours he wanted to get away from business.

Ardly Scimone took one man and a crew wagon and drove to the Albergetti residence. The police had been there, had talked to Angela and left. When Scimone arrived, Angela was lying in the middle of the living room, her blouse open, a drink in her hand, an empty Scotch bottle beside her. They bundled her up with the two kids and took them back to the Nazarione estate.

At first Angela barely said a word. She looked drunk, but in fact the booze had not yet affected her. She stared at Scimone and began swearing. By the time they approached the big house she had worn out her immediate anger.

“I’ll kill him!” she shouted. “I’ll kill the son of a bitch who did this to my husband. I’ll kill him!”

When Angela got out of the car, she couldn’t walk. Scimone had to carry her upstairs. The farther he carried her, the more relaxed she became as the alcohol finally took over her body.

Scimone set her on the bed in the wing where she would stay with her children, then hurried out the door. He locked the door from the outside. They were going to have trouble with that one. He had seen widows go this route before. When she sobered up she would be a real hellcat.

Mack Bolan had been hunting Captain Davis for over an hour. The captain was still on duty but not in the watch captain’s office. He was out investigating some problem or just cruising the town. Bolan had made some purchases earlier in the evening to be ready for a possible showdown. He wanted to handle Davis before he could do any more damage to the Baltimore Police Department.

The Executioner wished he had a police radio so he could contact the captain directly. Instead he phoned.

“Yes, I need to talk to Captain Davis. If you can reach him have him call this number. I’ll be here for five minutes. Tell him the name is Bolan.” He hung up at once. Now if Davis took the bait, he would come with plenty of backup firepower.

Would he call? Or would he find the location of the phone booth and close in on it? Not enough time for the latter; he would call. Bolan waited by the phone. The booth was in the darkness beside a filling station. He left the door open so no light showed.

Two minutes later the phone rang. Bolan picked it up on the third ring.

“Yes?”

“Bolan! What are you doing in my town?”

“I’m working over the Mafia. I need your help.”

“Go on.”

“I thought you might give me some inside information on the Mafia operation here.”

“Yeah, I could do that. Where can we meet?”

“Just you and me — no other cops involved.”

“Sure, sure, no problem.”

“You know where Gwynns Falls Park is?”

“Yes.”

“Drive there in an unmarked car. Come straight in the main entrance at the far end of the first parking lot. Open your door so the overhead light comes on and wait for me.”

“I’d be a perfect target.”

“Are you worried? Is someone gunning for you?”

“Of course not, but cops are always targets.”

“Your choice. See me there in half an hour or forget it.”

“I’ll be there.”

Bolan ran for his car. He was on the side of town nearest the park, and wanted to be there first. He hoped Davis wouldn’t send any patrol cars as backup. He figured not. Davis would know about the head money and would want the five million all to himself.

Ten minutes later, Bolan drove into the green area, eased into the second parking lot and checked out the first. It was too big to set up an easy trap. He filled a two-and-one-half-gallon garden sprayer with the cans of liquid he had bought earlier and set the nozzle to eject a steady stream instead of a spray. Then he sat behind a big maple tree and waited in the moonless night.

Precisely on time, a car rolled through the gate and into the first parking lot. It came to the end and stopped fifty feet north of Bolan. The headlights snapped off and the door opened, spreading light inside the car. It would make Davis almost blind to the outside.

Quietly Bolan moved into the darkness and trailed a three-inch stream of gasoline from one of the cans ten feet behind the unmarked police car. He made a U with the gasoline, pouring it on both sides of the car.

The darkness and the light inside the car let him do the task unseen. He crept into the wooded section at the end of the parking lot, shouldered the heavy sprayer and moved toward the car. He settled behind a wide tree to the right of the car but out of range of the headlights, in case the cop turned them on.

“Davis, is that you?” Bolan called. His voice sounded strangely hollow in the dark outdoors.

A figure stood beside the door.

“Yeah, so let’s talk.”

“Take out your piece and lay it on top of the car.”

“Hey, you don’t ask a cop to give up his weapon.”

“I do. I’m allergic to cops. But you’re safe with me, you know that.”

There was a pause, then a sound of metal against metal. Bolan figured Davis would also have a hidden weapon.

“You’ve been lucky so far, Davis. You’ve got away with everything. First the two thousand a month bribe money you’re taking from Don Nazarione, then the snuff on Lieutenant Paulson, and the blackmail on the two assistant chiefs. You even pulled off the cocaine plant on Chief Vincent.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You, Davis. You’re just dirty as hell. Do you want to give up all this and turn state’s evidence against Nazarione and his killers? If you do, we can save you from the death penalty.”

“You’re insane. I’m a cop. Six awards for valor, three commendations. I didn’t come out here to be insulted.”

“Don’t leave just yet.” Bolan drew Big Thunder and put one heavy .44 round from the AutoMag into the police car’s engine, then another. “Your wheels just died on you, Davis.” He struck a match, lit the remaining nineteen matches in the book and threw the flaming cardboard torch into the dark stain of gasoline on the tarmac.

There came an immediate whooshing sound as the gasoline and the vapor burst into flame. The trail of fire raced around the U shape he had poured.

Davis screamed and fired two shots from a handgun. Bolan, wedged behind a tree, pumped up the sprayer, triggered the nozzle and sent a stream of gasoline into the closest trail of flames. Quickly he laid down a gasoline line in front of the car, closing the box of flames around the car.

Davis fired again, missed and yelled.

“What the hell you doing? I came out here to help you!”

“You came out here to kill me and collect the reward from the Mafia commission. It isn’t going to work.”

Bolan sent a dozen shots of the gasoline at Davis, who stood beside the car. In a few seconds his clothes were soaked with gasoline.

“Now, Davis, you try to run through that ring of fire and you go up in flames. Let’s get practical. You answer some questions and I might not kill you.”

“Go to hell, Bolan! I’ll get inside the car.”

“Then I’ll shoot at the gas tank and set the car on fire.”

Davis had started to get in the car. Now he stopped. Through the snapping of the flames, Bolan heard Davis sigh.

“Okay. What questions do you have?”

“When is the takeover try on the police department?”

Davis inhaled sharply. “How did you know about that?”

“Doesn’t matter now. When is it?”

“They haven’t told me for sure yet. It’s soon.”

“How many cops does Nazarione have on the take?”

“How many... probably three hundred or so. He doesn’t tell me that.”

“Why was Chief Smith killed?”

“Because he was not the kind who could be turned around to our way of thinking.”

Bolan used the sprayer again to increase the fire surrounding the car, then sprayed Davis again before he slid inside the car.

“Just a reminder, Davis. You’re not fireproof.”

“Fuck you, Bolan.” The cop fired two shots; both missed. The Executioner moved behind the tree. He knew he had to get around behind the rig and spray a new line yet stay out of the light.

He walked deeper into the brush, then ran to one side and sprayed the fire line again. The gasoline burst into flames in the air and worked back toward the nozzle, but Bolan stopped the stream.

Two more shots came, one nicking the metal sprayer tank.

The fire line vanished for six feet across the back of the U.

Bolan ran toward it. He sensed the cop making a dash for it, too. There was not enough time for the Executioner to run there and reestablish the flames.

Instead he turned and drew a new line closer to the car, directly in front of the running cop. The thin line of fire and the lawman got to the same point simultaneously. After a second, Davis’s saturated clothing burst into flames.

Davis screamed.

Bolan stopped squirting and stared.

Davis became a six-foot torch. The flames shot up his pant legs and across his jacket in one whooshing vapor explosion. His hair sparked like fireworks in tiny balls of flames, then burst into fire as he screamed and tried to beat it out with his hands.

Somehow he had lived through the vapor explosion when the oxygen in the air around him had been sucked into the fire. Now he staggered and fell, trying to roll. His screams came one on top of another.

As he rolled, the fire snuffed out under him, but as soon as the air hit his clothing again the gasoline reignited and burned fiercely, as only a petroleum fire can.

Davis rolled again and again. His hand came out, seeking help.

For a moment in the firelight, Bolan saw the captain’s face clearly. His eyebrows were gone, his hair was blackened stubble, his ears were on fire. Now his eyes made one last frantic appeal. Then his hand fell, and his lungs filled with the inhaled gasoline vapor. Flames danced over his body. The vapor in his lungs exploded and Capt. Harley Davis’s chest erupted outward, blowing vital organs onto the pavement and snuffing out any life that had persisted through the twenty seconds of the immolation.

Bolan returned to the woods beyond the parking lot. Already the fire was going out. Scraps of clothing on the body only smoldered once the gasoline had burned away.

The Executioner dropped the sprayer and moved through the woods toward the second parking lot. Hearing sirens, he ran, started his Buick and drove out the far park entrance and continued slowly back toward town.

Davis had had a choice. He could have cooperated if he had wanted to. Essentially he’d killed himself. Bolan had only made it convenient for him to do so.

Somewhere along the drive, Bolan peeled from his hands the thin surgeon’s gloves he had worn during the confrontation and threw them out the window.

He still did not know when the takeover would be attempted, but realized it would be gradual. The public would not stand for a coup. The Mafia had its fangs so deeply into the department now that the takeover was almost complete. But Bolan figured they were planning a day or an event to wrap it up. He would find that out tomorrow.

He drove back to his small hotel and slept until dawn.