Street Justice (13 page)

Adrian pulled the Crown Vic up to the curb in front a row of small but well maintained houses in the Lake Meridian section of Kent. The two men exited the car and headed to the address Steve had written down. The house in question was a small rectangle painted in beige and tan that looked identical to the houses on either side. Adrian reached the front porch, removed his sunglasses and rapped on the screen door.

Steve surveyed the quiet neighborhood as they waited for a reply. The wind cut softly through large shade trees. Most yards had a small flower garden or birdbath in them. Some had more lawn decorations than Steve thought was tasteful but he also understood he may not be the target audience for things like that. He did conclude this did not look like the place drug dealers hung out. The windows had actual curtains and many had small plants in them.

Steve turned back to the door as he heard a small dog yapping, feet shuffling just inside and the sound of a chain sliding on a chain lock. As the door opened, Steve and Adrian looked down on a tiny, elderly, African American woman, who could not have stood more than five feet tall. Her hair was hidden under what looked to be a cloth shower cap and she was dressed in a faded pink, floral print house dress. She looked up at the two men through large rimmed, thick glasses and smiled, “Yes, may I help you?” The tiny dog continued to bark but she did not seem to notice.

“Yes ma’am, I’m looking for Angela Loyd” Adrian offered as he pulled his credentials; flashing them to the old woman.

“I’m Angela,” she responded.

Adrian followed, “We have a few questions about your Audi.”

The woman opened the screen but moved into the opening rather than offering to let them in. The small dog scurried past one of her ankles, gave a screech of a growl, darted back behind its owner, stuck its head back out and repeated the noise. The old lady still did not seem to notice the tiny dog. “I’m sorry my what? I’m a little hard of hearing” she asked, increasing the volume of her voice as if it was Adrian and Steve who were having trouble understanding her.

“Ma’am, you have an Audi A6, it is an automobile, registered in your name,” Adrian bent over a bit and motioned in an approximation of a car silhouette.

“Oh, I don’t drive, I haven’t in years. My husband, he used to drive most of the time, oh but he has passed away, well, I guess it has been about five years now. And he couldn’t drive at the end. I remember though, this one time, see he was all excited, we had saved up for a new car, well not a new car but a new to us car…” the woman rambled.

“Yes, yes, ma’am,” Steve cut in, “But does your son maybe have a car in your name? Is that maybe an Audi?”

The old woman stopped and looked at Steve, as if she thought he was up to something, “My son is in prison.” Then in a clipped voice, “So no, he does not have a car in my name.”

The dog barked and growled, snaking like an eel out from its owner. Steve stood motionless, looking at the old lady. She looked back at Steve through the thick lenses of her glasses. Adrian looked at Steve, then the old lady and back again.

Suddenly the old lady smiled and said, “Little Charles, little Charles has a car, he’s my grandson, I’m not sure what it is, but it is some fancy German model, I told him to buy American but he just would not listen, in my day we all bought American but kids these days…”

Adrian jumped back into the conversation, “Angela, ma’am, is that car possibly registered in your name?”

Angela pivoted her gaze from Steve to Adrian and said, “Well yes, yes it is, you see, the government now, they have just been ganging up on my grandson. He doesn’t do anything wrong, but they just keep bothering him, he said the government told him he couldn’t put the car in his name because he was too young and they did not think he should be allowed to drive a flashy car like that yet. I said that is silly, you know Charles, he works hard, he has three jobs, so why shouldn’t he be allowed to have that car, I mean it is not to my taste but if he likes it…”

“Yes, yes,” Adrian continued, “Do you know where we can find Charles? Does he live here?”

“No, he has to live downtown for his jobs, he works hard you know.”

“I’m sure he does, do you know where?”

Scowling her brow, Angela looked at Adrian and asked, “Why, are you going to try and take away his car? You’re with the government aren’t you?”

Without missing a beat, Adrian said, “No ma’am, I’m with the FBI, any issue the government has with your grandson owning an Audi at such a young age would be handled through the Department of Motor Vehicles.”

Angela let that statement digest for a moment then seemed to be satisfied, “I don’t have his exact address but I believe it is over near Pike Place Market.”

“So his name is Charles Lloyd?” Adrian asked getting out a small pad to write down the name and anything else she could remember.

“No, he has his father’s last name. That boy was no good. I told my daughter that when she first started seein' him. No good. And see, I was right, his father done end up in jail.”

“Ma'am, may I ask his last name?”

“Now you ain't goin' to try and knock my grandson down are ya?,” she asked.

“No ma'am, you have my word.”

“Well, then, his name is Charles Forkner, F-o-r-k-n-e-r.” She answered.

“Well thank you ma'am,” Adrian said. Both men took a small step back, pivoted and hustled back toward the car before the woman could add any more.

“Have a great day,” Steve lobbed over his shoulder on his way.

Once in the car, Adrian headed north toward Shoreline. Steve said, “Well, let's hope this next one isn't such a talker.”

“On the contrary,” Adrian rebutted, “we like talkers when we need information.”

“We need information but what did we get? A name? I doubt this guy has an apartment, utilities and is paying taxes with that name. Heck, I bet he isn't even called that on the streets.”

“True, but it is also not nothing. We can run it through the system, see if we get a hit. He might have some priors, and if we're lucky, something outstanding. That way if we need anything, we have an excuse to pick him up. And who knows, maybe someone will mention his name or his street name is related. I can think of a lot of ways to modify Forkner.”

Steve chuckled, “Yeah, so can I.” Thirty minutes later they pulled up to a single story ranch-style house in Shoreline, overlooking I-5. The gray house was past its prime, with a couple of cracks in the foundation and some rot to the siding in the corners but overall in good condition. The front lawn was more moss than grass.

Steve and Adrian knocked on the door which was quickly answered by a young African-American woman, in her early twenties, wearing skintight leggings with bright horizontal stripes. Her red top hung loosely over a voluptuous frame. Her hair was done in tight braids then held back in a ponytail. She snapped and popped her gum. Looking Adrian and Steve up and down she smacked, “Whatch you want?”

“Angela?” Adrian asked.

“Yeah.” Angela replied, drawing out the vowels in the middle for a beat longer than normal.

“We’re from the FBI,” Adrian showed his badge, “We’d like to ask you a few questions about an Impala registered in your name.”

“You got a warrant or somethin’?” Angela shot back before Adrian was done.

“No, ma’am, but we’d just like to--”

“Then I ain’ts got to talk to you,” Angela replied. She stepped back into the house and started to close the door. Steve reached forward and placed a hand on the door to stop it. Angela looked up at the hand, then at Steve, then back to the hand. “Unless you want me to file a complaint with the F-B-I,” Angela over pronounced every letter individually, “You’d best be movin’ your hand.”

Steve looked at Adrian, who looked at Steve then at Angela. Then he slowly reached up and pulled Steve’s hand away from the door. “Sorry to bother you,” Adrian mumbled and turned. As the two men retreated toward the car he continued, “Well that was a dead end.”

“Maybe, maybe not. That definitely sounded like someone with something to hide,” Adrian replied as he slid into the car. “So that means we go back and sit on the Impala see where it goes.”

“Sounds like fun,” Steve drawled with deep sarcasm.

The sharp afternoon sun speared through the windows and Russ trundled from his room. He stumbled as he tried to slip shorts over his boxers. The rapping continued at the front door, jabbing into his still hungover head. He rubbed his bleary eyes then opened the door. Standing outside, holding two cups of coffee was Jeff.

“How are you this morning?” then turning to look at the sky, he corrected himself, “This afternoon.”

“Fine,” Russ replied, squinting at the light.

“May I come in?” Jeff asked, squeezing by Russ as he asked. He handed a coffee to Russ who clumsily took it. He followed Jeff over to the sitting area. Jeff dropped onto the couch and Russ sat in his usual recliner. “So I have a business proposition for you,” Jeff said, eagerly staring at Russ as if Russ should already know the offer.

“What?” Russ pulled back his head and squinted in confusion, looking as if he had just tasted something bitter. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh sorry, let me start from the beginning, sort of. I was thinking last night on the way home, how cool it was that you did what you did. Then I thought about you not having a job and I thought why not hire you as a bodyguard. Except I can’t really afford a bodyguard. But then it dawned on me, if we expanded our enterprise, then I could afford to pay you. You have a job and I make more money. Seems like a win-win.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” Russ said, yawning and taking a sip of his coffee, “I’m not a bodyguard and I’m not looking to get into that line of work.”

“No problem,” Jeff leaned back, “You can continue to look for a real job, but in the meantime, you can work for me, making some money to pay your bills.”

Russ looked around the room. His mind ran to his finances, savings and how much longer he could afford to pay rent. He did not have exact numbers but knew things were getting a bit tight. “So what is your proposal?”

Jeff leaned forward again, “Well, drug dealers come in two basic forms, you have the street guys, like you see in TV shows like The Wire, and folks like me, who hang out at bars or at their home selling to friends and referrals. Now the street guys make more money and they do for two reasons, one they sell to more people and two, they buy higher up on the food chain, thus they pay less for the product. Downside is they have to constantly defend their corner and is very violent plus they are more likely to have the random buyer be a cop.

“Now my way is safer, and with the exception of last night, usually without violence. But, the growth of my business is slow. The main reason for this is the mark up on the product. See I usually buy about an ounce at a time. From there the big jump is to a quarter of a kilo or even half a kilo. Since there are about thirty five ounces in a kilo, you can see we have quite a jump.

“But here is where you come in. The reason, for the most part, I am allowed to buy and sell as I do, is because I stay in line. The importer sells to the distributor who sells to the regional who sells to a large dealer who sells to me and I sell to my clients. Now if I could jump that line, buy from distributor or regional guy, the product would be purer and cost me a fraction of the cost, like thirty percent on a volume basis. Then I could make that jump, from an ounce to a half kilo.”

“So where do I come in,” Russ asked cautiously.

“Well, when I get out of line, and go around my dealer, he’s going to get mad. The distributor doesn’t care. He’ll sell to anyone with the money. But that means the dealer needs to keep me in my place. You watch my back, keep me safe. I deal with the money and distribution, you are security. Make sense?”

Russ sipped his coffee. The angel on his shoulder reminded him that drugs were bad. The devil pointed out he used drugs. The angel reminded the devil that it was different: that was him going out and relieving stress, this was drug dealing. The devil countered that there was money in drugs and Russ needed money. The angel implored there must be another way. The devil mentioned that Russ had tried to get a job, and still would, this would simply keep him afloat until he found a job. Russ glanced around the bare walls of his house and took a deep breath, “Makes sense, but I have some questions.”

As Adrian pulled up a block from the wheel shop, Steve hit end on his phone. “I let the guy who was sitting on the shop know he could have the night off and if anything did happen tonight it’d still be his collar. He’s headed home.” It was early evening, the lights were on inside and an Open sign glowed. The front of the shop was ceiling to ground windows about four feet wide, framed with black metal. Inside were displays of shiny black tires and gleaming rims. A counter covered about half of the back wall. Behind the counter, in the back wall, was a large two way mirror and a door.

The two men stayed in the car. Steve stared at the building, then at Adrian, “Really, must we do this?”

“Not all investigate work is flashy,” Adrian said staring at the shop.

“I know,” Steve sighed. Then he reached down and opened the soft-sided cooler between his feet. He pulled out a can of Star Hill Starr Pils and cracked it open.

Adrian’s head whipped around as if it had been a gun shot, “What are you doing?”

Taking a long pull Steve then scrunched his brow and replied, “Um, having a beer.”

“You can’t drink while we’re on a stake out.”

“No,
you
can’t drink while we’re on a stake out. I can.” Steve took another gulp.

“Seriously, that’s it, that’s your last one,” Adrian said firmly.

“Remember when we first met, I didn’t even come on stake outs? The only reason I’m here now is in case you need back up,” Steve looked past Adrian to the windows of the shop, “And it doesn’t look like that is going to be the case any time soon.”

Adrian turned and looked toward the shop as well. A sole female attendant stood behind the counter, flipping through a magazine. No cars were out front. The cars they could see in the back looked quiet, as if they had been there a while. “No, I guess not. But still, stop drinking. I can’t have you getting in and out of the car to pee all night. That might make them suspicious.”

Adrian locked eyes with Steve. Steve held his gaze as he finished the can in two more large swallows. He crushed the can and without taking his eyes off Adrian he slipped the can back into his cooler. His hand came back out, only this time with a glass jar instead of a can.

Adrian dropped his eyes to look what was in Steve’s hand. Seeing it was not a beer he said, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” said Steve. He popped open the jar and fished in it with his fingers.

Adrian recoiled and demanded, “What is that smell?”

Steve held up the jar with a smile, “Pickled herring snacks in wine sauce. Delicious.” Steve scooped another piece of herring and jammed it into his mouth.

“Are you kidding me?”

“Kidding you? What do you mean?”

“I won’t let you drink a beer so you’re smelling up the car with those snacks?”

“How would I have known you wouldn’t let me drink on the stakeout and planned this? I simply brought them because I like them,” Steve asked.

Adrian narrowed his eyes, squinting at Steve, “I have no idea, but I am sure you planned this.”

“Whatever,” Steve said as he continued to munch on the soft fish pieces. The two men were here because they had no place else to be. The reason Baskins and Schroyer had not gotten very far was because there was little to go on. They knew there were drugs coming in and out of here. There were a lot of drugs. But they also knew these were all street level players and they were tasked to get higher up. However, the gap between the street players and the next level up, and the routine and procedures were well practiced and tight enough to keep Adrian and Steve from making the leap to the next rung.

Steve continued to eat. He had brought the herring snacks because he did genuinely like them. He did not however, like sitting idle in the car and thought he would amuse himself by annoying Adrian. He began by slowly increasing the volume of his eating. He smacked his lips, slurped the next piece and swallowed loudly. Adrian stared straight ahead for several minutes listening to the ever increasing symphony as if by ignoring Steve for long enough he would stop. Steve would not.

"Alright, you win," Adrian said. But he was smiling too. While it was annoying, he did find Steve’s immaturity and ability to stick with a bit amusing as well. Plus it did break up the dreary time in the car. “What else is in that cooler besides beer and herring snacks; did you bring anything for me?”

Steve put the top back on the jar of fish and put it back in his cooler. He then made an overelaborate, exaggerated show of looking through the cooler. His hand came out with a jar again. At first Adrian was sure it was the herring jar again and Steve was continuing his own brand of humor. But Steve handed Adrian the jar and kept looking. Adrian read the label and was pleased to see it was blue cheese stuffed olives. “I love blue cheese stuffed olives.”

Steve paused his scavenging and looked at Adrian and said, “I know.” He then refocused on the cooler and brought out a collection of Greek olives, some hummus and a zip lock bag of assorted vegetables. He sat back and surveyed what he had exhumed.

“This is quite the spread,” Adrian said with obvious amazement.

“Well, I figure if we’re going to be here, then we might as well eat well.”

“I guess we had,” Adrian agreed and stuck his fingers in the olive jar. He fished out two olives and popped them both in his mouth at the same time.

“So how long are we waiting here?”

“Well, we need to wait until the cars return from picking up the drugs from the street corners. We’ll see if anyone we don’t recognize from that crew comes in before or after the return. Then we’ll wait for a while to see if anyone leaves and where they go.”

Steve thought for a moment and said, “I’m guessing everyone leaves here sooner or later. How are we going to know we’re following the guy who will take us to the next level up versus the guy who is just heading home.”

“I guess we won’t. We’ll just have to follow one of them, see where they lead us. If they lead us to their home, or what we guess is their home as opposed to the boss, then we try someone else the next night.”

“Seems a little tedious,” Steve offered.

“To say the least.”

Several hours later, the Impala and the Camry arrived as before. No other cars had arrived at the building between when Adrian and Steve had arrived and then. The two men continued to wait in the car but packed up their sprawled lunch.  They sat and watched the site for another hour. Finally two men came out and headed to cars already parked in the lot.

“So, want to follow one of these two?” Steve asked.

“Might as well, no time like the present I guess. Which one?”

“Hmmm,” Steve watched as one man got into a murdered out, all black Camaro. The other man climbed into a powder blue Nissan Cube. “Dude, we gotta follow that guy in the Cube. What grown ass gangster drives a Cube?”

“So we’re picking the guy just because he drives a car you don’t think he should?”

“Seriously, what man drives a Cube?”

“Well, I guess that is as good a reason as any to pick this guy,” Adrian replied, “Besides, the guy in the Camaro is most likely going out to do gangster things. The other guy might be the secretary, since he’s in a secretary’s car.” He smiled over at Steve who smiled back. They waited for the Cube to pull out and head down the road before Adrian fired up their car and followed.

The car headed back to Aurora Avenue but rather than head south, the car turned north. “This looks promising,” Adrian commented. The Cube continued up Aurora to 85
th
Street, then headed west. Adrian made sure to stay several cars back. He knew they really should have several cars to effectively tail leads, but lacked the manpower to do this right. Without any leads he did not want to go to Sam and ask for more resources.

Following the Nissan, Adrian made a turn onto 8
th
Ave, then turned into Blue Ridge Apartments. “Do you think this is the next level up?” Steve asked as they looked around. The Blue Ridge Apartments were clean and neat square buildings: each building had six units. There was a pool in the center of the complex but it was covered. The cover sagged in the middle and was filled with green water.

The man in the Cube pulled up in front of one of the buildings. Adrian and Steve continued on. Steve followed the man in the side mirror. He headed to the second floor and into one of the apartments. “I’m doubting this is where drug kingpin lives,” Adrian snorted, “Well, I guess we go back tomorrow and try again.”

“I guess,” Steve said dejectedly. Then he reached down and pulled a beer from the cooler and, as he popped the top, added, “And tomorrow I’ll bring curry with a side of roasted Brussel sprouts tossed in fish sauce.” Adrian just groaned.

It had been a few hours, several drinks and a couple of lines. Russ sat in his recliner and looked over at Jeff, “So let me get this straight, you want to go around our current supplier, start dealing on a larger scale and have me provide the protection?”

“Yup, that about sums it up.”

“But temporarily, right? I mean I am looking for a real job and when I find it, that’s what I will do, and not provide protection anymore,” Russ stated, pointing a finger at Jeff, though the finger waved back and forth due to the alcohol and drugs.

“Of course, I completely understand,” Jeff held up his hands in surrender.

“So what is our next course of action,” Russ inquired.

“Well, we need to find out who is above my contact, so we can buy in larger quantities.”

“You don’t know?”

“No, I told you, my contact is very protective of his source, specifically because of this.”

Russ sank deep into his recliner, closing his eyes. Without opening his eyes or moving he asked, “Does it have to be one of your guys? I mean your pipeline?”

Jeff looked confused, “Well no, but who else are we going to get?”

Sitting up, Russ said, “I might know someone.” Russ suddenly looked a lot more sober. He scurried into his room, then into the closet. Digging to the back he pulled out a military issued ruck sack. Pulling out insulated clothing, camelbacks and other assorted paraphernalia, he finally found the cigar box he was looking for. From the box he produced Eric Crawford’s business card and headed back to the living room.

Handing the card to Jeff he said, “This is a contact I had in Afghanistan, well, his son. Don’t let the card fool you, the main thing his family imports is drugs. But his father was a good informant.”

“A direct pipeline to a source in the middle east? Holy crap, Russ, this is amazing,” Jeff looked between Russ and the card several times.

“Well, let’s hold off the celebration until we call him,” Russ cautioned.

“No time like the present,” Jeff encouraged. He handed the card back to Russ.

Russ scrunched his brow, “What do you want me to do with this? I don’t know what to say.”

“Yeah, but he’s your contact, I can’t call him out of the blue. ‘Yeah, you don’t know me, but a friend of mine said you sell drugs, can you sell me drugs?’ I’m pretty sure he’d hang up on me.”

“Fine, what do I say?” Russ asked.

“I’m not sure, I’ve never done this either. Why don’t you just put him on speaker phone?”

“Sounds good,” Russ said as he dialed the number. When the phone started ringing he set it on the table and knelt on the floor next to it. Jeff sat on the lip of the couch staring intently at the handset. Three rings, four rings, five rings, the phone clicked, they heard a beep and the phone disconnected.

“Well, that was anti-climactic,” Jeff said flopping back into the couch and looking at Russ.

Russ picked up the phone and dropped it into his pocket. Shrugging his shoulders and tilting his head momentarily he said, “Well, I guess he changed his number. Back to square one. Beer?”

“Sure.”

Russ walked to the kitchen, grabbed two beers. On his way back to the room, his phone rang. He reached in to his pocket as he set the beers on the table. Retrieving it, he saw the number was unavailable. He hit the answer button, “Hello, this is Russ.”

“Hello, this is Eric Crawford.”

“Um, hello,” Russ scrambled to change to speaker phone and put the phone on the table, “Um, yes, this is Russ Evenhuis. Um, you don’t know me, but I met you father…”

“Yes, he said you would call,” Eric said calmly.

“Yeah, anyway, I heard you are in the, um, family import business.”

“Russ, are you a police officer?”

Confused, he said, “Um no, I worked in the army…”

Cutting him off Eric asked, “Are you working for the police?”

“No,” Russ said cautiously, waiting to hear where this line of questioning was going.

“Specifically, Russ, what are you looking for?”

“Um, drugs,” Russ responded looking at Jeff and shrugging, obviously not knowing what was going on.

“I said specifically.”

“Um,” then whispering, “cocaine.”

A chuckle was heard across the line, “Russ, you are doing well. I assure you, the reason I called you back was so that we could get this call set up without being listened to. This is a VoIP call running through multiple proxy servers in and out of the country. Now I just need to make sure you yourself are not working for the police and we can talk. What you are doing here is setting yourself up for entrapment, if you are in fact working for the police. If not, then these are all questions I will need the answer to anyway.