Dante sat in the car outside the rundown strip shopping center in front of the Popeyes Chicken building while his driver was inside waiting for the phone call. Dante never took chances in public alone and sat with his hand clutched to a gun resting on the car seat. His eyes roamed from looking forward to a glance up to the rearview mirror every few seconds. It took a while, and finally, the driver walked out smiling, giving Dante a thumbs up indicating Angie Browning was out on bail and ready for pickup.
The Bonneville pulled around the back of the prison slowly, watching police mulling around in groups. It was their turf, and the last thing Dante wanted was a problem with the police. Dante spotted Angie sitting on a bench. The car stopped, and he rolled the window down “Angie, let's go,” Dante said.
She walked to the car cautiously with concern. “Dante?”
“Yeah, girl. You know we take care of our people. Let’s get out of here.” With that said, Dante opened the door for her to get in the back seat.
“Oh my God. I never thought anyone would help me.”
“You hungry?” Dante said, turning to her in the back seat.
“You know it. I haven’t eaten since yesterday morning.”
The Bonneville pulled out of the police garage and turned on Tulane Avenue. The driver gave a big sigh of relief. “I hate being near that place.”
“Too many bad memories?” Dante said, shaking the driver's shoulder, letting out a chuckle. “I know what you mean.”
Angie pulled herself up by the back of Dante’s seat. “I never thought I would get out on bail. I mean, who would put post bond for me?”
“You finished Willard’s job. The police don’t have jack shit on you. Nothing a good attorney can’t fix,” Dante said, patting her hand. “You’re one of us now—we’ll take care of everything.”
The Bonneville pulled to the curb in front of The Dugout, an all-night restaurant. Above the door was a small wood sign that reads (Established 1945). Across the street was the New Orleans Pelicans Baseball Stadium, a favorite watering hole for ballplayers. You could find team players eating and drinking all hours of the day or night during baseball season. It was the restaurant to be seen in until 1957 when the team ended, and the stadium was torn down to make room for a hotel. Now it was nothing but a dirty, run-down old dive that still served good food if you could tolerate the homeless taking shelter under the front metal awnings which had also seen better times.
Dante’s sister, Marina, walked out the front door of the restaurant and met the car on the curb. She opened the back door. “Angie, I’m happy to see you,” she said, taking her hand and helping her out the back seat.
“Get her some food and take her to her apartment. She needs a shower to wash off all the filth from those jailbirds. Angie, get some rest and tomorrow we’ll go see your attorney,” Dante said, smiling as they walked into the dump of a restaurant.
Angie smiled back. “Thank you for everything.”
Marina picked out a booth and sat, facing the window. Angie slipped in across from her. A skinny waiter placed two water glasses on the table. He was outfitted in white pants and a white T-shirt, both of which were in dire need of a wash. He sported a funny paper hat to the side of his head with The Dugout restaurant logo in green. His stained, burnt orange fingers reeked of smoke. The thick lines and pale color in his face mostly caused by cigarettes made him look older than his years. He handed them a menu and waited for them to order. They both ordered the breakfast special.
Angie moved the sugar and napkin holder to the side of the tabletop out of nervousness. “He looks like he came with the place,” she said, giving a little chuckle.
“That’s for sure. Maybe you could take Gramps home with you? He needs a shower too,” Marina said, both giving a frown.
Angie got comfortable in spite of what was facing her and enjoyed a good homestyle meal. Marina paid the bill to the cashier at the front counter, then they headed to Angie’s house.
It was a short drive to Broad Street and Marina doubled-parked in front of her rental shotgun house. Angie got out the car and walked over to the driver’s side and gave Marina a little peck on her cheek. “Thanks for all your help.”
“We take care of our own,” Marina said. “See you tomorrow.”
Angie entered the front door and started putting things back in place from the disaster the SWAT team had caused. She picked up a picture frame with a crack in the glass. It was the only picture of her and Willard as kids. “Assholes,” she said, then placed the frame in its place on the nightstand. After spending a night in jail, a shower was welcome. She turned the water on.
Angie striped her dirty clothes off and stuck her hand in the shower. The water was getting hot. A rattle at the front door sounded through the house. Grabbing a towel, she covered herself and peeked in the hallway and heard the door rattle again and a car start.
“Drive careful,” her landlord said to a friend leaving.
Shotgun houses had thin paper walls, and if you slammed the front door, the glass rattled on both sides of the house. It was something you never got used to and just learned to accept.
She closed the bathroom door out of habit even though she was living alone. The towel hit the floor, and she stepped into the hot, steamy water, letting it run down her back. She washed her hair, letting the water run over her body until the water turned cold, indicating it was time to get out. Drying her hair took a while, and she finally surfaced to the bedroom to get a good night’s sleep, for tomorrow was going to be a stressful day.The bed was exceptionally comfortable considering how she’d spent the night before. As she tried to put the thoughts of her future legal process with the law out of mind, she was startled by a figure of a man standing in the living room. She popped up and rolled over to the side nightstand drawer. The man walked closer with her gun dangling on his finger.
“Don’t scream, we’re not here to hurt you,” the man said as another person appeared behind him wearing a black cap. “Dante sent us to make sure you're okay. I’m Tony, and this is Jake,” he said, pointing to the man standing behind him.
“How did you get in?” she said, pulling the chain on the bedside lamp. The light brightened the room, and she could see their faces.
“You know us—we work for the gang. We can get in any house,” he said, looking and walking directly to her. “Here is your gun. I didn’t want you shooting us.”
He rested the gun at the foot of her bed.
Angie was petrified even with the weapon near her feet—but it was too far to reach. Already considered for a double homicide, one or two more killed made no difference. If she was quick enough, she could dive for the gun, shoot the closest guy, roll to her side, and plug the other guy. At least these two could be justified as intruders.
Her eyes made contact with their hands, and they both had black plastic gloves on and clear plastic bags over their shoes. Before she could blink, Tony dove on top of her and his weight was too much for her to fight. Jake rushed over with a cloth and put it over her mouth and nose. Within a few seconds, she was unconscious, and her body went limp.
“You’re ready?” Tony asked as he eased off and stood over Angie, making sure she didn’t wake up.
Jake pulled a vial of cocaine out of his pocket and sprinkled it into her nostril. Holding his hand over her mouth, he forced her to take a deep breath from her nose. She did and inhaled some coke, leaving the rest on her top lip.
Tony pulled a black box out of his pocket, about the size of an eyeglasses case. Carefully he took out a syringe, pressed it to make sure no air was in the line, and stuck it in Angie’s arm. Pumping all the liquid in her, he pulled the needle out and placed it back in the box.
“Is that it? Is she dead?” Jake asked.
“According to Dr. Ross, it should not take long at all—one or two minutes at the most,” Tony said, watching over her as she slipped from a deep sleep to her death.
Jake took a small mirror and spread some cocaine in two lines. He
snorted half of one line with a straw and set the mirror on Angie’s chest, placing the straw in her hand.
They walked out the front door, leaving the door open just a little and got in a black Ford four-door sedan they stole from Bayou Saint John Avenue earlier. Driving around the corner, Jake parked the car in a grocery store's parking lot. They got in their parked vehicle; each took off the gloves and the plastic bags covering their shoes and put them in a brown paper bag.
They arrived at the flophouse within a few minutes and met Dante and Marina. Dante stood calmly, and Tony put the black syringe box in his hand. Marina took the brown paper bag and placed it in a barrel they kept in the backyard for chilly night bonfires and for destroying evidence. She dropped the bag in the fire, and Dante followed, flipping the black box into the barrel. The flames swirled, and the evidence was reduced to ashes within seconds.
It was early for Dante to be dressed and ready to leave the house. At least for him, anything before noon was early. He and his bodyguard drove the Bonneville to a pay phone on Elysian Fields Avenue. With the car parked on a side street, Dante used a payphone on the corner. No one noticed him other than a few people getting on and off a public transit bus that stopped across the street—few even looked his way.
On the third ring, the receptionist answered. “Doctor Ross please,” he said.
Another voice answered, “Doctor Ross’s office.”
With Dante’s best voice, he said, “I’m Doctor Alvarez, can I speak to Doctor Ross.”
The receptionist put him on hold, and seconds later Doctor Ross answered. “Doctor Alvarez, how are you—was the operation successful?”
“Very much so, my friend,” Dante said, almost laughing at times.
“Very well, I’ll see you soon,” Doctor Ross said as they both hung the phone up.
Dante arrived at the doctor’s office dressed in unusual attire for him—a button-down shirt and slacks—but played the part as Doctor Alvarez perfectly.
“Are you Doctor Alvarez?” the receptionist said.
With a smile, he said, “Why, yes, I am.”
“Doctor Ross left this for you,” she said, handing him an envelope.
“Thank you, and you have a great day,” Dante said, stuffing the envelope into his pocket and making a quick exit.
They headed back to the flophouse. Dante sat in the passenger’s seat holding tightly to the envelope of cash for a job well done, but not before they made a drive-by in front of Angie’s house. Within a block of Angie’s home, they saw what was needed. Police yellow crime scene tape stretched across the house and police cars were blocking the street. Traffic was detoured down a side road. From a distance, Dante watched the cops and the New Orleans coroner load a body into the black van parked in front of Angie’s house, confirming she was dead.
Doctor Ross accommodated Felipe more than once with secret juice and a syringe, making sure Angie never talked as a witness. All ends were neatly tied up after Kate’s attack, except she lived. Felipe gave the order, and Walter carried it out correctly, making Dante think it was his idea to kill Angie. There was no doubt Felipe planned to live up to his promise and kill Mario; killing Kate was just a bonus. His revenge with Mario for testifying against him would be carried out by his puppet, Dante—Felipe would carefully pull strings all the way from Calabar Prison.
Walter was well trusted by Felipe, having a long history of doing business. The doctor supplied the tools for Angie’s death, and he was well paid.
Felipe did the doctor another favor by ordering a gang member's death after learning he was skimming drug money. They used the traditional long process of brutally killing a dishonest member then leaving him hanging from a tree for public display as a reminder that you didn’t cross Felipe without consequence. Felipe went a different route with this distrusted fellow. Walter supplied a syringe filled with his magic juice to induce a heart attack. His body was rushed to the hospital where he was declared dead, and a donor card placed on his driver's license, giving Doctor Ross complete control of his organs. Felipe got what was needed to tie up the loose ends of Angie’s involvement. Doctor Ross got his organs from a healthy young body to repay Amir. The court returned two hundred thousand dollars worth of bond money to Big Gabe, who delivered it back to Larry. In the end, all that was out of pocket for Doctor Ross was about forty thousand dollars in fees, which were a small price to pay to get Amir off his back and continue their business relationship.
Walter sat in the physician’s lounge of the hospital, staring at portraits of great surgeons, one being his father. He was relaxing after harvesting the organs of a man classified as a local gang member whose hospital chart read he died of acute myocardial infarction (AMI). Walter’s peers congratulated him for his excellent service in providing a liver transplant to a man who was on the National Organ Transplant List and was a perfect match. Rebuilding his reputation was necessary with so much publicity of his trial and negative press in the newspaper. The doctor was back in good graces with the hospital and his fellow physicians. In the end, the man who had abused his liver got a new healthy one and Amir got two kidneys, a lung, and a pancreas to sell on the black market. In Walter Ross’s mind, that was a win-win for everyone.
CHAPTER 21
Mario promised to stop by Riverside Inn to discuss their theory of Ruth Weitman’s death. As far as Zack was concerned, Doctor Ross was a murderer and should have been in jail. His lawyers had kept him out of prison and allowed him to continue his evil ways to support his vices.
It had been two days since Zack called Mario, and if he didn’t stop in this morning, another pestering call would be made to him. Arriving early at Riverside, he could fetch those Danishes he liked and a cup of coffee while hearing Zack’s latest conspiracy theory.
By eight in the morning, you could always find Zack and his friends dressed like they were going somewhere and seated at their usual table in the dining room. “Do you people sleep?” Mario asked, pulling up a chair.
“We have things to do and people to see,” Zack said. “My friend will have some coffee,” he pointed to the waitress as she made her rounds with the silver coffee decanter.
Emma Lou, Pearl Ann, and Dave sat looking at Zack, waiting for the small talk to finish and for him to outline their thoughts on Ruth Weitman’s death.
Mario took a deep breath, knowing he was in for a battle with this group. “Zack, I understand everyone’s concerns, but truthfully Ruth’s death was classified as natural causes. The coroner's report said, based on her age—”
Zack stopped him from finishing. “Don’t give me that crap. Every time someone dies in this place, the records reflect their age. Ruth was healthy for her age.”
Taking a sip of his coffee, Mario stalled his reply, knowing this was a deeply rooted issue that they all believed. The fact was Ruth’s heart just gave out.
“I would love to help you, but I can’t ask for an investigation every time someone dies. There is nothing that looks suspicious and no evidence to prove otherwise.”
Zack opened a folder he’d carried in earlier. “Maybe this will help,” Zack pointed out to Mario. “Here is a copy of the original application Ruth signed when she came here five years ago. As you can see, the box checked says Not An Organ Donor.”
Mario took the paper and looked at it closer. “Maybe she changed her mind—that’s five years ago?”
“No, she didn’t,” Zack said.
“Where did you get this copy?” Mario asked, holding the page up.
Looking around, making sure no one was listening, he said, “I have a way to get in the business office at night.”
“Please don’t tell me these things. I am an officer of the law. Zack, you can’t go digging into people’s personal records,” Mario said, tossing the folder back to him.
“Sure I can. Dr. Ross is killing off people at will. I’m going to get to the bottom of this—and by the way, there is no way Ruth changed her mind. She voiced this many times. Maybe it was a re
ligious thing, maybe not, but she wasn’t an organ donor.”
“That’s a far stretch,” Mario said with a little uncertainty now. “Jews donate their organs. You might have it mixed up with tattoos.”
“No, I don’t have anything mixed up,” Zack said, looking to the group for help.
Pearl Ann was one of Ruth’s closest friends and spoke about this many times. “For what it’s worth,” she said, “you have to remember Ruth was from the old school. Today, based on circumstances, many Jews donate organs. She’s not one that would.”
“Again, that is very questionable,” Mario said, trying to reason with them.
“Do me one favor. Take this copy of her application and see if the signature matches the one on the form that states she is an organ donor,” Zack said, sliding the folder to Mario. “I bet to a trained eye they don’t match.”
“You understand if the signature doesn’t match all we have is fraud, not murder,” Mario said, looking at the group.
Zack leaned forward and whispered, “If the signature doesn't match, we have a motive.”
“A motive?”
“He killed her for her organs,” Zack said.
Mario knew it was best to drop it and have Zack play out his detective ideas. Maybe it was to impress his friends or to keep himself busy. For whatever reason, it was best to let it go.
“Folks, it was nice seeing you this morning, and thanks for the coffee,” Mario said, giving the ladies a kiss.
Pearl Ann stopped Mario, patting his arm. “How’s your Kate doing?”
“She much better. Still needs another surgery, but she is coming home today,” Mario said, holding Emma Lou’s hand.
“That’s wonderful,” Pearl Ann said.
Zack stood up and pulled Mario to the side. “I hate to sound like a cop, but how are you protecting Kate outside the hospital?”
“Zack, I know you mean well, but I’ve got it covered.”
“How so?” Zack asked.
“She is staying with her parents. They have lots of room and a housekeeper that can assist with Kate,” Mario said, going into more detail than he wanted.
Crescent City Detective Page 13
