Jack Davis Mystery - 01 - Shakedown (3 page)

It wasn’t just a job. It was who I was—the right guy, doing the right job for the right reasons. I could never give it up, especially after our son Kevin was killed almost twenty years ago when I didn’t do my job. They’d have to take the badge from me. I owed that much to Kevin.

I wasn’t ready to deal with the possible causes of the shaking—brain tumor, Parkinson’s, MS, ALS, or some other equally grim alphabetical practical joke. I played with images of Muhammad Ali shuf?ing like an old man, not ?oating like a butter?y, his face a mask, or of Lou Gehrig telling a packed Yankee Stadium that he was the luckiest man alive. Whatever it was, I didn’t feel lucky. Every time I shook, I offered whatever it was a deal. Just go away, no questions asked. So far, there were no takers.

The late shift was a good place to hide, and I was in no hurry to go home. When Joy moved out, she left me a note saying she had tried to tell me what was wrong with our marriage ever since Kevin died but I never heard her. I called her cell, told her I was ready to listen. “Too late,” she said. “Now you can be with Kate Scranton.” I told her again that there was nothing between Kate and me; she’s a jury consultant, helps me with some cases. That’s it. It was Joy’s turn not to listen.

Our other child, Wendy, inherited the enthusiasm, wit, and determination that I’d found in Joy when I first fell in love with her. After Kevin died, Wendy hid it away, replacing it with fear of the dark, of being left alone, and, most of all, of being taken from us.

She had a stuffed animal, a monkey that she slept with every night after we lost Kevin. I made up a song that made her laugh, a rare occurrence in those days.

Wendy loved the song, changed her stuffed animal’s name from Pickles to Monkey Girl, and insisted we create a secret code in case someone kidnapped her. She’d use the code to tell us that she was okay and that I should come find her.

“That’s a great idea,” I told her. “Very smart for a little girl.”

“You know Monkey Girl?”

“Sure. We’re great pals.”

“When the kidnappers put me on the phone so you know that I’m still alive, I’ll tell you to say happy birthday to Monkey Girl. That way you’ll know I’m okay.”

“How do you know that’s what kidnappers do?”

“I heard you talking to your friends from work. One of them said that’s what always happens except the man that took Kevin didn’t do it the right way.”

I wanted to tell her that there was no such thing as a right way to kidnap someone, but she was holding onto that certainty like a lifeline, convinced she would be kidnapped and hoping her abductor would do a better job of it than had Kevin’s. I pulled her onto my lap, hugged her fiercely against my chest.

“Then you better hang onto Monkey Girl. I’d hate for her to miss out on her birthday party.”

Wendy had her own survival scars, growing up in a house where her brother’s ghost and her parents’ wars made certain that she never felt safe and secure. It was a breeding ground for her mother’s alcoholism, a disease Wendy ?irted with through drugs.

She lived in a state of perpetual rebound between bad choices and second chances. I was her spotter, ready to catch her when she fell and pat her on the back when she pulled herself up again, saved by an eternal ?ame inside her that gave her strength and gave me hope.

Her first stab at college lasted six weeks.

“It’s not for me,” she told me over the phone. “All the sorority debs, the jocks. That’s not me. And this college town is dead.”

“It’s not the people or the place,” I told her. “It’s you. You’ve got to deal with that no matter where you are or what you do.”

“I know,” she sighed. “Just not here and now.”

“Stay in school and mom and I will support you. Drop out and you’re on your own.”

“Fair enough. Front me the first few months and I’ll pay you back?”

“Deal.”

And she did, working, taking occasional classes until she discovered she liked the action in the commodities market. She landed a job at the Kansas City Board of Trade working for a broker, studying for her trading license. Along the way to getting her head on straight, she did two stints in rehab and I helped her get two possession busts expunged.

“You’ll always have to be careful,” I told her. “Staying straight and sober is like working without a net.”

“Except I’ve got a net. You,” she said, and kissed my cheek.

Wendy more or less lived alone, the less being Colby Hudson, one of the agents on my squad. I wasn’t surprised when she got involved with him. Kids repeat more of their parents’ mistakes than they avoid, sometimes seeking them out. It was enough to make me shake.

Five seconds and the latest shaking stopped. I timed it. No one noticed. No one said “what the hell was that”? Ben Yates didn’t get out of his warm bed in the middle of the thunderstorm to shove a claim for disability in front of me, telling me where to sign and saying that he was sorry I missed my full pension by a lousy five years.

I checked my computer monitor. The Winston brothers hadn’t noticed, either. DeMarcus Winston was taking inventory, bags of crack spread out on the card table Marcellus used as a desk. A TV so old it had a rabbit-ears antenna sat in one corner, an episode of
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
keeping Rondell from helping his brother.

Using the arrow keys on the computer, I zoomed out, adjusting the focus on the camera. I picked up the image from the TV and the trail of smoke rising from the joint Rondell held between his lips.

The storm intensified, playing hell with the transmission, filling the audio with static when an explosion of thunder and lightning rocked the neighborhood, causing the lights to ?icker on and off in the crack house. When the lights came back on, Rondell was staring at himself on the TV screen where Buffy had been a moment before. The electrically charged air had scrambled the signal from the camera, causing the TV to pick it up as a live broadcast.

Rondell stubbed out his joint, stepped closer to the TV, and motioned DeMarcus to join him. I adjusted the camera to give me a wide view of them as they watched themselves on the TV, waving like kids playing a game in a mirror, watching as they waved back at themselves, their faces scrunched, mystified. My face was as twisted as my gut. They’d lost a rerun. I was about to lose a case.

I had enough evidence to nail Marcellus, but I didn’t have what I really wanted—the identity of his supplier and a line on his money. Watching the Winston brothers watch themselves, I realized that Marcellus would be in the wind the instant he discovered the camera. I hated to shut the operation down, but I had no choice. Maybe I could persuade Marcellus to roll over.

I had a SWAT team on standby. I picked up my cell phone to call Troy Clark, the team leader, and send them in when Rondell threw a blanket over the television, his voice now sharp and clear.

“Ain’t no motherfuckin’ vampire killer gonna spy on us.”

“Which one of you the vampire?” Marcellus asked, stepping into the picture.

I wasn’t breathing, but I wasn’t shaking. I punched Troy’s speed dial.

DeMarcus explained, pointing to the television. “We on the box. Rondell covered it up so’s nobody can see what we doin.”

Troy answered on the first ring. “You aren’t going to believe this,” I told him.

Marcellus pulled the blanket off the television, jostling the rabbit-ears antenna enough to restore
Buffy
just as the credits rolled.

“Yo, dogs,” Marcellus said, “just count the shit; don’t be smokin’ it, too.”

I started breathing and shaking. Troy interrupted both.

“Believe what, Jack?”

“Nothing,” I managed, the shakes adding a quick stutter to my voice. “Call you later.”

I hung up the phone as the lights in the house went out again. There was no thunder or lightning this time, just Marcellus shouting “what the fuck?” the answer coming in a burst of gunfire. I called Troy back as I ran for my car, the sounds of additional gunfire echoing behind me.

Latrell found the utility box on the side of Marcellus’s house, ?ipped the switch cutting off the electricity, and vaulted the porch rail, the tired wooden planks sagging under his weight. The gun in one hand, he yanked open the front door. He was invisible in the dark, though he could easily see inside the house, the goggles painting everyone in a green haze. The Winston brothers, shaking the television like it was a vending machine that had eaten their quarters, ignored him; Marcellus shouted “what the fuck?” like it mattered.

Latrell assumed the firing position, just as he did on the range. Marcellus and the Winston brothers were nothing more than targets hanging from a wire. He pulled the trigger again and again and again, the inside of the house glowing with gunfire.

He saw the bodies where they’d fallen, Marcellus on his back in the middle of the room, the Winston brothers piled against one another in the corner next to the television. Latrell knelt on the ?oor, collecting his spent shells, sliding them into his pocket.

He cocked his head at the sound of the whimpering child upstairs suddenly gone silent, imagining Jalise covering his mouth with her hand. Though she had always left Latrell alone and the boy had never even chased a ball into his yard, Marcellus had ruined them. If he let them live, Jalise would end up like his momma, her boy growing up like Latrell. That would be wrong. Things had to be put right.

Latrell rose, slipping on the bloody ?oor, catching himself against the stair rail. He took the steps one at a time. There was no need to hurry. It was happening exactly as he imagined it would. He found them hiding in a closet.

Afterward, he went out the back door, standing on the concrete patio, the rain in his eyes. Blinking, he looked down at his feet. His galoshes were splattered with blood, the coppery smell all over him. He peeled them off, turned them inside out, stuffing one on each hip inside his belt.

Latrell held his hands up, squinting. They were steady. He put one hand on his chest, his heart barely registering.

All he wanted to do was go home, until he saw Oleta Phillips standing beneath a tree on the side of Marcellus’s backyard, staring at him through the driving rain. The tree’s limbs drooped in surrender to the summer’s drought, yellowed leaves scattered around the trunk. Her thin dress was soaked and matted against her bony frame, arms hanging at her sides, one hand clutching a wad of cash.

He didn’t know whether she’d seen him go inside Marcellus’s house, but she’d seen him come out and that was all that mattered. She didn’t move as he approached her.

“Thank you,” she said.

Latrell didn’t know what to say. He studied Oleta’s face, seeing her, then his mother, then Jalise, then all of them. He raised his hands to her throat, tightening his grip, feeling the bones in her neck crumble, twenty-dollar bills dropping from her hand, mixing with the dead leaves.

Police cars, lights ?ashing, had formed a barricade at each end of Marcellus’s block by the time I arrived. Overhead, a helicopter swept the neighborhood with a spotlight. The SWAT team had taken up position on either side of the crack house. I ?ashed my badge at a KCK police sergeant who let me through the line. Every house except Marcellus’s was lit up, people watching from covered porches, some standing in the rain. Troy Clark emerged from the shadows on one side of the house.

“What do we got?” I asked him.

Troy had grown up in Quindaro and ?irted with gangs until his grandmother set him straight, telling him he was too strong and too smart to die young for some fool weaker and dumber than he was. In his late thirties, pushing six feet and chiseled, he was tough, stubborn, and ambitious, a combination that could make you dead or make you famous.

Troy wasn’t afraid of death, and he didn’t care about being famous. What he cared about was my job, the SAC’s job, and the director’s job, all of which he made clear he intended to have before he was through. He didn’t hesitate to second-guess me and was right more often than I cared to admit. I didn’t like him, but I respected him even though his stubborn streak occasionally blossomed into an outbreak of hysterical blindness.

“Door was open. I had a look inside. Three dead. I’m guessing it’s Marcellus and the Winston brothers.”

“Anybody else?”

“Don’t know yet. We haven’t gone in.”

“You think the shooter is still in there?”

“No way to tell from out here.”

I looked up and down the block. “Why is his house the only one without power?”

“It’s got power. There’s a utility box on the side of the house. We were going to turn the power off, go in with night vision in case the shooter decided to stick around. No reason to make us easy targets. But somebody had already turned the power off.”

I nodded, understanding the tactical dilemma. “The shooter cut the power and killed them in the dark. Probably wore night-vision goggles, too. Means he can see you as easily as you can see him. If he stuck around.”

“I think the shooter knew.” Troy said.

“Knew what?”

“About the surveillance camera in the ceiling fan.”

“Based on what?” I asked.

“It fits. Gives him a reason to cut the power.”

“Maybe. Go see if anyone else is home. But go easy. No good guys die tonight.”

I didn’t want to discuss Troy’s theory until I knew more about what had happened, especially if Troy was right. There was only one way the killer could have known about the camera in the ceiling fan. He had to have a source inside my investigation or, worse, he had to be someone on my team.