Family Ties Mystery Series Box Set

by James Kipling

  The smile disappeared. “What do you want to know, Detective?”

  For the next hour, Jimmy went over the events of the previous day – again and again. Davis pushed on every point, revisited every detail, checked to ensure the story never changed.

  “You did a photo shoot with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was she clothed or naked?”

  “What?”

  “Simple question, kid. Did she take her clothes off?”

  “We were in the middle of the city. We’d just met.”

  “So …”

  “So, clothes on … every button buttoned … every zipper zipped.”

  “Good to know,” Davis said. “Her daddy’s a big shot.”

  “What?”

  “Hassan Radha – from Kashmir – pitching a peace plan between India and Pakistan to the United Nations.”

  Jimmy’s eyes bugged. “Seriously? She said she was from out of town.”

  “Well, girlfriend didn’t lie, did she?”

  Davis tapped his head with a pencil – another intentionally annoying habit. “Get any other pictures?”

  “I shot some of the cab,” Jimmy said. “I had them with me when I came in. Your officer took them along with my belt, wallet, watch, phone, and shoelaces.”

  “Can’t be too careful with you criminal types,” Davis said. “Think you can you make out anything like the license plate?”

  “Don’t know. I haven’t looked.”

  “Hand ‘em over.”

  “You can’t have them.”

  Davis made a move intended as threatening. Jimmy laughed. “Relax, Detective. You can’t have them because they’re not developed yet. Give me a little bit and I’ll be back with them.”

  “We can process them.”.

  “No one touches my work but me – not even crime scene photos.”

  They stared at each other.

  “I can lock you back up,” Davis said.

  “And I’ll have an ACLU lawyer down here making your life a living hell. You won’t get those pictures before you retire.”

  Davis hesitated, then waved his hand. “Quit wasting time. Go do whatever you do.”

  Jimmy was on his bike before Clyde could get a new cup of coffee.

  ***

  While Jimmy was working on the film, Davis made a call.

  He hated the voice on the other end – hated it because…well, because he was resentful – territorial – and a little jealous.

  “Ferguson,” the voice said.

  “Special Agent, Detective Clyde Davis here.”

  “Got something?”

  “Maybe,” Davis said. “I have a young man who was with Katrina when she was taken. He…”

  “Hold him there. I’m on my way.”

  Damn Feebs, Davis thought. They want to take over everything.

  “He’s not here, Ferguson.”

  Davis heard the intake of breath. “What do you mean he’s not there? Did you let him get away?”

  “Silly me,” Davis said. “That must have been what happened.”

  He hung up and did not answer any of the five times Ferguson called back.

  Good to his word, Jimmy was back in ninety minutes. He and Davis went over the pictures for two hours, looking at every detail. No matter how strong a magnifier they used, they could not get even a partial plate number. The car was non-descript sedan.

  “It was black or blue,” Jimmy said.

  “That’s not going to help much, but thanks,” Davis said. He knew the kid was frantic – and trying. Davis continued to pepper Jimmy with questions – the same ones over and over. The answers never varied. At least I know he’s telling the truth, Davis thought.

  Then, Jimmy saw something. He’d seen it every time, but it had not registered. Tattoos were so much a part of his everyday life – so much a part of New York – he never thought much about them. But, the same guy appeared in two of the three pictures – a stocky, African-American kid in a throwback Brooklyn Dodgers hat. In one of the shots, Jimmy saw the tattoo – a crown with a “7” running through its middle – the sign of The Seven Kings.

  Tango Cash’s gang.

  “Detective, I’m whipped. Can I head home?” Jimmy asked. “I promise that if I remember something, I’ll call you immediately, but I really need some rest.”

  Davis stretched out a kink in his back. “Sure, kid, I’m beat, too,” he said. “Nice work today. Sorry about the night in jail.

  “No worries,” Jimmy said. But, he thought. That’s why I’m checking out Tango myself, asshole.

  ***

  Jimmy exited the police precinct, mounted his bike, and headed to the Marcy Projects. He checked to make sure no one was following.

  The moment he’d seen the tattoo, Jimmy knew the kidnapping was all Tango’s doing. His old high school buddy was notorious, and Jimmy remembered the comment. What was it? “I’m working on something big myself.”

  Jimmy turned into Jesse Owens Park and steered towards the back-top basketball court. He could hear Spalding NBA all-surface balls singing against the asphalt and the sounds of hoots, hollers, and whistles. Night basketball in Bed Stuy – a tradition as engrained in the neighborhood as drive-by shootings.

  “Anybody seen Tango?” he asked.

  The game stopped as if some super villain had hit everyone with a freeze ray. Players stared at him. Nobody moved. Then, Jimmy felt a presence off his left side. A deep voice said, “You don’t look for Tango. He wants to see you, he’ll find you. Move on, white boy.”

  Nobody had to tell Jimmy twice. He was out of the park in a flash. He had an idea.

  Not Your Poppa’s Momma looked like every other strip club in every other town. Except Jimmy knew Tango owned it. He’ll be here, Jimmy thought.

  He walked down the stairs and through the front door – halfway. A paw of a hand caught him by the shoulder.

  “Where you going, snowflake?”

  Jimmy turned to face one of the largest human beings he’d ever seen outside an NBA arena. Standing at least 6’10” and, Jimmy guessed, tipping the scales close to three bills, the man wore a suit he must have ordered from a tent maker. The pinstripes were at least two inches apart.

  “Want to see Tango Cash,” Jimmy said.

  “And I want a chance to guard LeBron.”

  “Seriously,” Jimmy said. “I need to see the boss.”

  “Seriously,” the mountain said. “You ain’t getting in.”

  Jimmy peered through the semi-darkness. “Jamaal, that you?”

  “Yes, it is,” the man said. “And I know you, Jimmy Nolan, which is the only reason you can still walk right now. Turn your cracker ass around and go home.”

  Jimmy started to reply, but Jamaal held up a hand.

  “Already know you wuz down to Jesse Owens axing ‘bout T. Gonna tell you once because I used to know you – go home.”

  He placed a hand the size of a dinner plate on the back of Jimmy’s neck and guided him toward the stairs. Jimmy got on his bike. Three minutes after he turned the corner, flashing blue lights descended on Poppa’s.

  ***

  Inside, Tango was entertaining.

  Or, more accurately, being entertained.

  Sherrelle was pole dancing in his spacious, private booth. Her outfit left nothing to the imagination, but her antics on the pole made Tango’s fantasies run amok.

  “Damn, girl,” he said. “Shake that money maker.”

  She stepped away from the pole and approached, one shapely leg in front of the other, her hips swaying to the thundering beat of the music. She turned and thrust her backside into Tango’s bulging pelvic region. He moaned in excitement.

  As he reached for her, someone pounded on the door.

  “What the hell!” Tango sounded like a wounded lion. “This had better be good or someone’s gonna pay!”

  Jamaal’s enormous head appeared. “Best be moving on,
boss. Po-po’s out front, and they looked pissed.”

  -14-

  Clyde Davis had been doing police work long enough to spot a lie from one hundred yards – it was easy to see one across a room. When Jimmy feigned fatigue and claimed he was going home, Clyde’s BS Detector beeped at full volume.

  The kid took off on his bike. Davis trailed behind in his own car – a six-year-old Prius. Even though Jimmy kept looking back, Davis knew how to tail someone. Sometimes he turned his lights off … sometimes he turned on a side street, sped around the next block and picked up the trail. After a while, he knew exactly where young Mr. Nolan was headed – Bed Stuy.

  Boy’s got a death wish.

  Jimmy left the park. Davis was sure the photog would head home. A strip club was the last place he thought the Boy Scout would go. He must know something I don’t.

  Davis picked up his phone.

  “Sarge, Davis. Listen, I don’t want this on the radio. Send two radio cars to the strip club on Brimstone, will you. Lights, sirens … whole bit. No, I don’t have anything – just pouring water down a rat hole to see if anything crawls out. Say you got a tip about a fight – you know how to handle it. Don’t arrest anyone – no one will complain. Thanks. I owe you a beer.”

  Two minutes later, four officers exited two cars with the drama of a badly-written movie. They yelled and screamed. A lot of, “Nobody move” and “Keep your hands where we can see them.” Ultimately, nothing. Just as Davis suspected.

  But, he did notice the gigantic bouncer at the front suddenly evaporated. He cruised around the corner just in time to see the giant and another man slip into the backseat of a BMW 7-series sedan.

  Davis nodded. “And a good evening to you as well, Mr. Cash,” he said.

  Lacking probable cause, he went the opposite way. He got to Jimmy’s house just as the young man was securing his bike lock.

  “Go out for an ice cream, Jimmy?” he asked.

  “Just a little exercise before bed, sir.”

  “You seemed awfully tired in the squad room.”

  “The night air made me feel a little better.”

  Davis slammed his palm on the hood of the Prius. “That’s it, kid. One more half-truth out of you and I’ll run you in for obstruction. And, this time, I can make it stick because you are one lousy liar.”

  Jimmy swallowed – hard.

  “I saw something in the picture,” he said. “A tattoo.”

  “So what,” Davis said. “You drop a penny out of your pocket in New York, it’ll hit someone with ink.”

  “Not someone with a Seven Kings tat.”

  Davis whistled. “That’s Tango Cash’s crew. That’s why you were looking for him.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  Davis reached in his pocket, pulled out his badge, and flashed it. Sarcasm painted his face. “Clyde Davis, master sleuth,” he said.

  “I ran into Tango the other day.”

  “You know that guy? Bullshit.”

  Jimmy stood a little taller. “We were friends in high school. I used to help him with his math. He was a nice guy back then.”

  “He do well in school?”

  Jimmy threw his head back in laughter. “Oh God, no. He was terrible. But, he had to stay until he was eighteen. Otherwise the truancy cops would get him. He had his big birthday two days before I graduated and he disappeared. I think he was still in ninth grade. We sort of lost touch after that.”

  Davis shook his head. “He’s been on the wrong path most of his life, kid,” he said. “He just put on a happy face at school.” The toothpick made a reappearance. “You think Cash has something to do with the kidnapping?”

  Davis sat on the Prius’s hood. Jimmy joined him.

  “Maybe,” Jimmy said. “Just bothered me that one of his crew was at the scene. Tango might have been behind the wheel of the car that took Katrina. I couldn’t see his face.”

  Davis thought a while. “Don’t make anything up, Jimmy. If you can’t say for sure, then there’s no ID. You’ve been very helpful. I feel bad about the way I treated you yesterday. But, you have to back out now. This is not kid stuff. You stick your nose in this again, and I’m going to put you in jail for your own good.”

  Jimmy stood and backed away, palms extended in surrender. “Got it, Detective. Just find Katrina. She’s in a lot of trouble.”

  He went inside and turned off the porch light.

  Davis stared at the house for a while. Then, he said. “You ain’t kidding, buddy. That young lady is in deep shit.”

  ***

  At the Waldorf, Special Agent Ferguson poured over his most promising leads. He’d heard from Davis – everything about Jimmy, the pictures, and Cash – and he’d dismissed it all. This was way deeper than some two-bit hood. Radha said it wasn’t political because he didn’t want it to be. The man was not in his right mind. How could he be? His daughter was missing.

  This is big, I know it is¸ Ferguson thought. This will put me on track for the Director’s position.

  With twenty Special Agents under his command, Ferguson had assembled every piece of available information. Jimmy’s story checked out. People had seen him taking Katrina’s picture outside the Fashion Week convention hall. The agents had interviewed almost two hundred people, most of whom knew less than nothing. There had not been another communication from the kidnappers - no, call them terrorists. Everyone wants terrorists now.

  Ferguson was sure this was way bigger than a local situation. He was willing to wait – he was willing to gamble. The thought that someone with a ridiculous, comic book name like “Tango Cash” would be involved struck Ferguson as beyond ridiculous.

  Hassan Radha was hanging on by a thread. He’d made one appearance that the World Peace Summit and begged off another, claiming a sinus headache. His advisors pled with him to continue.

  “You have to show up this evening,” Syed said. “Everything is on the table. If you are not there, the movement will lose momentum. You can drive this through to a successful conclusion.”

  Hassan would not take his head from his hands, but Syed heard the muffled voice every clearly – it said the same thing over and over. “They took my daughter.”

  Mahmoud placed a palm on his oldest friend’s shoulder. “Hassan, everything will be fine. They will find Katrina. She will come back. And when she returns, she will expect that you have done your duty. This is something she would want.”

  “They took my daughter.”

  “We have no more word from them. For all we know …” Syed caught himself.

  Mahmoud glared at the younger man and tried to rescue the sentence. “For all we know, they are planning on releasing her tomorrow. Anyway, we have the funds prepared and are awaiting instructions.”

  Hassan raised his head. He stared through puffy eyes. “I will go to the accursed conference,” he said. “I will shake every hand and kiss every ass. I will make peace happen. But, know this. If anyone has harmed my daughter, I will rain hell upon them. They will never be safe. And, not one of them will be left alive.”

  Ferguson left the awkward silence to answer the door. He knew there were agents posted, but he wanted out of that room.

  Davis entered and shook his hand.

  “I did some intel on Tango Cash – already know a lot about him. We’ve had our eye on him for a while. He’s relatively small time, but he’s moving up fast. All the guys above him are in prison – or dead, so he acts like the Godfather of Bed Stuy. Don’t know if he had anything to do with Katrina’s abduction, but it’s a lead worth following.”

  Ferguson nodded as if he gave a damn. Davis knew he didn’t. “Good for you, Detective. Nice work, except I don’t think that punk could organize a church bake sale, much less an international kidnapping. But, as you say, better safe than sorry.”

  I didn’t say that, Davis thought.

  Ferguson kept spewing. “Stay with it and let me know what you find out.”
>
  Ferguson left the room and headed for the balcony. Davis just stared at him.

  Pompous ass thinks he’s J. Edgar Hoover reincarnated.

  An agent interrupted Ferguson’s flight. “Just heard from the kidnappers, sir. Came by email to Mr. Radha.”

  He handed a printout to Ferguson who read it, then passed it to Davis. Radha came from the bedroom.

  “I heard. What does it say?”

  Davis looked at Ferguson, who nodded. Davis read. “We get the money in two days or we mail your daughter back to Kashmir in peices.”

  Hassan collapsed.

  Davis slid over to Ferguson and handed him the paper. “Notice anything?” he asked.

  “Looks like a pretty standard kidnapping threat to me. They always promise disaster.”

  “Look at it closely – like an English teacher.”

  Ferguson scanned the note again. “What?” he said.

  “They misspelled pieces – they put the e before the i,” Davis said.

  “So,” Ferguson said. “Typo. Let it go, Davis. Let it go.”

  Davis shook his head. “That’s not the work of some international conspiracy. A sophisticated operation would not make a spelling mistake.”

  -15-

  Katrina struggled against her restrains.

  “Damn zip ties,” she said.

  They’d taken off her blindfold after she complained. “It makes it hard to breathe,” she said. “You don’t want the golden goose to choke.”

  Since then, everyone had worn ski masks. They were all African-American. Katrina was sure.

  None of them wore gloves.

  She’d been with them now for twenty-four hours. They’d taken her phone, but not her watch, and her hands were secured in front of her, another concession to her complains. As far as she could tell, this had nothing to do with India or Pakistan. It was, as she heard one of them say, “All about the Benjamins.”

  For kidnappers, they were nice. Courteous and polite. They unzipped her hands to let her use a remarkably clean bathroom. They offered her water and food. They let her operate the television remote – but they made her change the channel after four hours of The Next Top Model.