Howard had followed the Mercedes to the Le Pavillon Hotel. The doorman remembered two men because they said they were from Florida, but both had Northern accents. The doorman was born and raised in New Jersey; he was sure they were from Jersey.
Like most hotels, the Mercedes was valet parked out front with other expensive cars to dress up the place.
Howard slipped the valet a twenty-dollar bill and his cell number. “Stall this asshole if he wants his car.” The valet smiled and took the money. Howard called the license plate and VIN numbers into dispatch.
Inside, Mario bypassed several people at the front desk by flashing his badge and asked for the manager. A quick check of the Mercedes valet tag hanging from the mirror, and the hotel manager identified the owner as Michael Franklin by the driver’s license copied at check-in.
Howard rushed into the hotel and found Mario. He’d heard from police dispatch.
“It’s our guy,” Howard said. “The license plate is stolen, but the VIN number is registered to Michael Ferrari.”
Security led the way to the elevator, and they took it to the tenth floor. Security cleared the floor, having two maids move their carts from the hallway.
Mario and Howard approached the room number. A woman came out of a nearby room and all but fainted when she saw two men creeping with guns drawn. Howard quickly flashed his badge, and she ran to security at the end of the hall.
Mario, given a security keycard, slipped the plastic card into the lock, then gently pulled in and up. The light on top turned green, and he opened the door. Guns extended in one hand, with the other hand stabilized for accuracy, the two detectives entered the living room of the suite to no one. No voices, no showers running, and no TV sound. Michael Ferrari and his accomplice were gone.
“They left in a hurry,” Mario said, grabbing pictures off the coffee table—of himself. Photos of Mario getting out his car, walking into the condo, even entering police headquarters. “He knew my every move, and yet Truman was the one killed.”
A four-man hotel security team searched for Michael Ferrari. Restaurants, bars, common areas, and restrooms were checked. Surveillance cameras showed Michael and another man left the building through the loading dock, which led to an alley.
Howard and Mario rushed out front of the hotel, only to find the Mercedes was gone.
Valet man, cooling under an umbrella at the key box, got a finger in his face from Howard. “What happened to the Mercedes?”
“The black one? They’re gone.”
“I gave you twenty bucks to call me.”
The valet handed Howard a twenty-dollar bill. “He paid me a hundred not to call.”
The cocky grin set Howard off, and he reared back to knock the guy into tomorrow.
Mario held his arm back. “Not worth it, brother.”
Howard snatched the twenty from his hand, then called dispatch and had an APB put out for the Mercedes. With the VIN number, cops would check every black Mercedes on the streets, even if the driver pulled the existing plate off.
Howard and Mario went back to Michael’s room and taped it off as a crime scene. The more Mario viewed the pictures, the angrier he got. He pointed out that the time stamps on the photos were from two days ago, except for three images. The one of him entering the condo building, one talking to Jimmy the doorman in the lobby, and the third one of him entering the elevator were all dated a week ago.
“These are time stamped before Truman was killed,” Mario said.
Howard checked the dates against notes he kept in a pad. “They were taken the day before your neighbor was killed.”
“Could Truman’s death and my neighbor’s death be tied together?” A wrinkled forehead came over Mario, the look he’d give when he had a break in a case. “This is either the worse hitman ever or one unlucky person to mistake the target twice.”
“Either way, he’s our man,” Howard said. “We have to find these assholes before some street cop does.”
“Call home,” a voice sounded in Howard’s earpiece. Code when he’s undercover to call the chief on her cell phone; he did.
“We’re on it, chief.” Howard ended her call.
“What’s up?” Mario asked.
Howard pointed at the door and walked. “Chief wants us to check out two bodies found in Lafayette Square.”
Mario followed. “In the middle of an undercover operation?”
“She said to get down there.” Howard locked the hotel room door and added two strips of crime scene tape across the entry.
Lafayette Square was a few blocks away on St. Charles Avenue across the street from the former city hall. When they arrived, police had roped off the area, and a crowd of thrill seekers had formed.
The lead police officer met them at the entrance and walked Mario and Howard to the scene behind a bronze sculpture.
“A jogger discovered the man about an hour ago,” the officer said. “Deeper into the bushes is another guy. Neither have identification.”
Howard reached for the picture of the three homeless suspects he had in his coat pocket. Stepping through the brush, careful not to damage evidence, he matched the image against their cold, colorless faces. There was no second-guessing, the man with the prosthetic arm was Leon. He stepped slowly around the bushes to Mario. “This is why you couldn’t find Leon and Barry.”
“You’re sure?” Mario asked, wanting a different answer. He wanted to be the one to put a bullet in Leon, convinced Leon was the bombmaker.
“Check for yourself.” Mario waved him off.
Howard wrote in his notepad. One bullet in the forehead, each at close range. “Whoever is behind the bombing didn’t want these two talking.”
Chapter 16
Howard waited at Mario’s condo while he took a shower and slipped on some fresh clothes. On the sofa, he thumbed through some recent copies of Brides Magazine, why he wasn’t sure.
“How long does Kate’s subscription run on this magazine?” he shouted to Mario when the bedroom door opened. Kate was Mario’s former fiancée. After nearly being killed by one of Mario’s enemies, she called off the wedding and moved to Paris.
“Hopefully soon. I should have canceled it a year ago.”
Mario fixed his tie in the mirror. “Let’s go,” he said, taking the magazine from Howard and dropping it in the trash can.
“I was reading.” Howard made a funny face “Ten steps to make a honeymoon night to remember.”
“That might be the reason you’re not married. You need a magazine to tell you?” Mario put his earpiece in. “You ready?” Then pointed toward the door.
The elevator door opened, and the lobby button was pressed. Mario continued to count the reasons Howard wasn’t married. They had a good laugh. A welcome distraction from the nightmares that had surrounded them in the last few days.
At the lobby, the elevator doors opened. They were greeted by Jimmy, the doorman.
“Detective?” He jovially giggled. “Did you see your cousin?”
“What are you talking about?”
Jimmy said he’d sent two men to Mario’s floor just a minute ago. One man in a police uniform identified himself as Mario’s cousin, Johnny DeLuca.
Mario felt the blood drain from his face. Then he looked at Howard. “I don’t have a cousin on the job or by that name.”
Mario jumped back into the elevator. Howard took the emergency stairs. Both were ready for whatever came their way.
At his floor, Mario stepped cautiously out of the elevator. He whispered into his mic for Howard. He was on the second-floor stairwell, opened the door and flagged Mario at the other end of the hallway. With guns drawn, they edged down the hall. The door he had just locked was kicked in and opened.
Mario motioned to Howard, and he went in first, low, with Mario over his head, their guns pointed. No one was in the living room. Scanning through the kitchen, they entered the bedroom together and quickly.
“Nothing,” Mario said.
A
sound from the back alley prompted Howard to peek over the balcony, “There they are,” he shouted. “Unit five zero one.”
They rushed down the two flights of stairs while shouting into the radio to dispatch. The police car and the uniform had to be stolen. Mario couldn’t believe the possibility that another police officer would kill him.
Before they reached the lobby, dispatch had blasted over the radio to use caution when approaching patrol car 501. Driver wasn’t a police officer but had a uniform. The doors to the lobby opened. They were greeted with a big smile from Jimmy as they rushed past him. In the van, they took to the back alley of the condo and followed to the first cross street. Police had the roads blocked. Mario flipped on and placed the blue flashing light on the dashboard and took the sidewalk, bypassing the police cars.
Passing the corner, Howard shouted, “Clear.” And the same at the next block. Then retracted. “Stop!”
Mario slowly backed up while a police car with overhead lights flashing came up the street, moving slowly.
Howard reached for a pair of binoculars he’d brought along for their undercover sting. Aimed at the roof of the car approaching, he saw it was marked. “That’s our man, car five zero one.”
Mario floored the accelerator. Stopping sharply, he blocked the road. With guns drawn, they approached the vehicle. A man shouted with his hands out the rear window.
“Don’t shoot. I’m a cop.”
The rear door opened. A man with a white T-shirt and boxers stood. A gun was pointed at his head by a man in a police uniform.
“Put your guns down,” the uniformed man shouted.
It was a standoff. Mario didn’t recognize the guy with the gun to the police officer’s head. The driver slipped out of the seat with an automatic weapon. “Don’t be a hero, Mario.”
“Michael Ferrari, we finally meet,” Mario said, then glanced at Howard. A return nod from right to left meant Howard didn’t have a clear shot. There was no doubt Mario could put a bullet between the eyes of the man holding the police officer. But Michael, with an automatic, could gun them all down before they could get another shot off.
Mario tried to negotiate. “Any second backup will be here. Let him go.”
The two gunmen shielded by the white T-shirt of the officer kept their guns pointed and made their way to Mario’s van. The hostage was placed in the back seat, the gun barrel to his head. Michael got in and started the engine.
Slowly the vehicle backed out. Then faster, it took off down Magazine Street. Mario and Howard jumped into car 501 and took off in high pursuit. Mario drove while Howard called dispatch with an update. Not to shoot at car 501; real cops were driving. Mario was concerned that the entire takedown was so confusing he’d probably die from gunshots by his fellow men in blue.
The thugs took a hard left on Canal Street. Mario was a block away but coming up behind them fast. When car 501 passed a corner, a police car was right on his bumper. Two gunshots were fired. One bullet hit the trunk of car 501; the other blew out the rear left tire.
Howard immediately got on the radio to scream at dispatch. They made the turn on Canal Street on three good wheels. Sparks flew, and the gunshots stopped. They headed into a traffic jam. The thug’s van was stopped in traffic. It pulled onto the sidewalk but had to return to the street to keep moving.
Howard and Mario left the car and took to the street on foot. With guns drawn, screams could be heard as they passed cars.
Mario made it around to the front of the thugs in the van. Pointing his gun at Michael through the windshield, he demanded for him to get out.
Over his earpiece, Howard’s voice said, “On three.” Then he counted slowly.
On three, Howard put one bullet in the head of the guy in the back seat holding the cop hostage. With both Mario and Howard’s weapons pointed at Michael, they talked him out of the van.
“I’m throwing my gun out,” Michael shouted.
“No,” Mario yelled back. “Keep your hands high.” Sirens rang out; police backup was near. “Hurry up.”
Mario nodded at the cop in the back seat. “You okay?” He shook his head up and down. Then was told to get on the floorboard until Michael was handcuffed.
The van door opened. Michael stood, hands in the air, a gun tucked in his belt.
“Who ordered me dead?” Mario demanded.
Michael’s unwillingness to answer pissed Mario off. “Who!” he shouted, stepping forward, finger on the trigger.
“My uncle, Roberto Ferrari. I can fix this between the two of you.” He was down to pleading his case.
“Never met your uncle. Did you arrange the bomb?”
Michael spilled his guts quickly. Confessed to the death of Dale, Mario’s neighbor, and repeated twice he had nothing to do with the bombing. Mario, a seasoned cop, knew too well that criminals would say anything to save their asses. Like killing his neighbor wasn’t reason enough to fill him with bullets.
Mario gave Howard a side glance. Then he demanded that Michael pull his gun out from his waist. Michael reached, slowly pulling the weapon by the handle.
“Gun!” Mario shouted, and put two bullets into Michael’s chest. He dropped to the ground with the gun in his hand. Howard fired twice, and Mario emptied his clip into Michael’s motionless body.
Police backup arrived. Car brakes squealed. Cops swarmed the area with guns all pointed at a dead man in the street.
“You okay?” one cop asked.
“Fool went for his gun.” Mario showed a slight grin. “He kept coming, had to unload my clip to stop him.”
“I would have done the same,” the officer said.
Chapter 17
Mario and Howard were separated immediately and driven to police headquarters. Standard procedure when police officers discharged their weapons, especially with two men dead.
The two seasoned detectives were no strangers to the process and took the time to mull over details during the drive. Two members of the police Ethics Squad were already positioned in each of the interrogation rooms when Mario and Howard arrived.
The Ethics Squad was trained to believe cops involved made a mistake in shooting, and it was their job to get the details before the news hit the streets.
Both detectives gave up their guns to ballistics at the scene. Olivia Johansson, the top forensic specialist, was ordered by Chief Gretchen Parks to oversee the incident.
The Ethics Squad personnel dressed in dark color, three-piece suits; white, heavy-starch shirts; blue ties; and red, white, and blue lapel pins. They were known to working cops as the Fashion Police.
The first process was for the detectives to turn over their police badges, which both detectives had in their hands ready. It wasn’t their first rodeo.
The usual process continued, as they asked both detectives to describe the incident in their own words, before they asked questions. A tape recorder on the table was rolling.
The detectives told the story from the time they were at Mario’s condo. In their own words, the story came out the same. Questions were asked for hours, many the detectives were prepared for and the questions were asked several times with different approaches. Howard and Mario all but giggled at the interrogation, they had used the same strategies for years.
The cop who was taken hostage was also interviewed, and he praised Mario and Howard on the rescue. He said emphatically he didn’t see the shooting. He was on the floorboard, crawling to get out of the rear passenger door of the van. They weren’t satisfied and asked the question several more times, only to get the same answer. He was released and told to check in with the police psychiatrist for at least three sessions.
Mario and Howard were told to take a week off with pay while the case was investigated. The Fashion Police recommended they might want to check in with the police psychiatrist. They knew that this experience often had delayed reactions on people, and they might need to talk about it with a professional. They both declined, saying the shooting was justified and they wou
ld sleep fine.
With no police revolver, no badge, and no vehicle, the two detectives hitched a ride with a patrol car to the limousine barn.
Howard led the way to Ben Stein’s office and unlocked a door that hadn’t been opened since Ben’s death. He motioned for Mario to follow him into a storage room packed with office supplies. Howard ran his hand over the top of a bookcase built into the wall. A beep sounded twice, and it clicked opened, large enough for them to walk through. A sensor-activated light illuminated stairs to a basement. At the bottom was a sizeable room with a bed, a full kitchen, a conference table, and a wall of guns.
Getting a closer view, Mario stepped forward. “Was Ben planning a war?”
“Ben was a businessman,” Howard said. “Remember, one of his clients was Julie Wong.”
“Shit, you’ll need more firepower than this to take her down.” Mario chuckled but wasn’t joking; she’s a tough woman.
A green canvas bag, placed at the bottom of each row of guns, made it easy to pack whatever was needed. Howard picked a few handguns, several clips of bullets, and broke down a high-powered rifle and scope to fit in the bag.
Back upstairs, Howard waved to employees working the call center for the limousine service, as the two men headed to the garage. The canvas bag went in the trunk of a clean town car.
A man touching up the windshield with spray mist flipped Howard the car keys. “Bring it back in one piece—please.”
Howard smiled. “Can’t guarantee.”
Chapter 18
The first day of the detectives’ unplanned paid vacation, they compared notes of their testimonies given to the Fashion Police the day before. There was nothing contradictory said and both felt sure they would be back on the job by the weekend.
A call from Ralph earlier made Mario anxious. His first thought was to head over to Logan’s work and beat him until he gave up Olivia’s money. There was no doubt this kid was a mastermind with computer hacking, and no telling how many people he’d ripped off.
Olivia’s money was found in an offshore account. Ralph traced the funds, but there was no way for Ralph to backdoor the program and gain access. It either couldn’t be done or was way above Ralph’s talent. He came up with an idea, and Mario was sure he could put it together. They just needed Logan to bite.
Street Justice Page 6
