Lieutenant Kane: Dedicated to Death 01-The First Shot

by EH Reinhard

  Chris started the truck. “Well, what did you see?”

  “There was people everywhere walking around in this neighborhood. I wanted to try to stay off the radio. The driveway of the house kind of loops into a courtyard by the garages. I only got a visual on a four-door red Maserati—couldn’t read the tags, though. I looped around the block, seeing if I could get a view from the backside, but nothing.”

  “Cameras?” Chris asked.

  Brad lifted his palms in the air. “I don’t know. The place was hard to get a good look at over the fence without being really obvious. Let’s run it past David and see what he thinks.”

  “Call him,” Chris said.

  Brad pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed. He clicked the phone on speaker.

  “What’s up?” David answered.

  “Hey, Chris and I are driving out of this guy’s neighborhood now. We got you on speaker.”

  “Sure,” David said. “The house, how was it?”

  “It’s going to be hard to do anything there,” Brad said.

  “Chris, what do you think?” David asked.

  “I agree. There’s just no damn chance we do anything in this neighborhood and get away with it,” Chris said. He made a U-turn in the street, wound his way through the high-dollar neighborhood, and pointed the truck back toward the main entrance. He waited as the black iron gates spread and allowed them to exit.

  “Okay. So the club it is. Are we thinking tonight?” David asked.

  “I’m fine with that,” Brad said.

  “Tonight works,” Chris said. “We need to take care of Solomon and be on our way. Sooner or later, the heat is going to catch up with us.”

  “Okay. We can talk about where we’re going next after we get this wrapped up,” David said. “Are you guys just heading back to the house?”

  “Yeah, we’ll be there in a half hour or so,” Brad said. “Are you there now?”

  “Yeah, I’m here,” David said.

  “Tim?” Brad asked.

  “He must be at his house or something,” David said. “He isn’t here.”

  “I’ll try his phone and see when he’ll be back,” Brad said.

  “What did you get for the stuff?” Chris asked.

  “Thirty one fifty,” David said. “Anyway, about Tim, what’s the deal with this guy? We were partying, having a good time, and he just didn’t want any of it. He just sat by himself and then took off.”

  “His girl works some weird overnight hours at a hospital. I guess he went home to meet her on her break or something. I don’t know,” Brad said.

  “Well, him getting in my face about my methods with the women isn’t sitting right with me.”

  “We need four,” Chris said.

  “So you aren’t sold on him, either?” David asked.

  “But we need four,” Chris said.

  “You’re sure this guy is legit, Brad?” David asked.

  “He ran a crew that I did some work for. He got jammed up and was the only person out of our crew of four that got pinched. They offered him everything under the sun, and he didn’t say a word. He did his time. You got nothing to worry about there,” Brad said. “We talked about that.”

  “I’m not so much concerned with that,” David said. “I can’t have this guy questioning me at every turn. Plus, I need to know that if we get caught in the middle of some shit, that I can depend on the guy. I don’t want to worry about who’s watching my back. This guy was timid on the Guerro thing too,” David said.

  “He’s fine, David,” Brad said.

  “So you’re saying, one hundred percent, that we can trust this guy? In every way?”

  “I trust him with my life,” Brad said. “Otherwise I wouldn’t work with him.”

  “Have a talk with him,” David said. “He needs to get on the same page or be on his way. One way or another.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ll say a few things to him,” Brad said.

  “One way or another,” David repeated.

  “I got it,” Brad said.

  “We’ll meet you back at the house,” Chris said.

  “Yup,” David said and clicked off.

  Brad looked at the screen of his phone and jammed it back into his pocket. “This should be an interesting conversation.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Getting Tim to fall in line. Right when he got there this morning, before you woke up, he was going on about David again.”

  “Make sure he knows how dangerous getting on the wrong side of him is. Get that to sink into his head. We need him right now.”

  “I will,” Brad said.

  “You and I are still good with what we talked about, though?” Chris asked.

  “A hundred percent,” Brad said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I left Rick in the forensics office and took the elevator back up to the third floor. I walked into my office, sat down at my desk, and scooped up the phone. I dialed the Hillsborough County Medical Examiner’s Office. The receptionist picked up within a few rings and put me through to Ed Dockett’s office.

  “Medical Examiner,” Ed’s familiar voice said.

  “Ed, it’s Kane.”

  “Hey, what’s up?” Ed asked. “If you’re calling about the autopsy reports, it won’t be until tomorrow. Been a little hectic around here today.”

  “Just whenever they’re ready. Not the reason for the call, though.”

  “Okay. What do you need?”

  “Well, I guess first, who have you had come in to make positives on the remains?”

  “Nobody. I have a Randy Ramey coming in to identify Gretchen Ramey and Michael Woodward. I spoke with the mother of LaMarcus Taylor. She basically broke down on the phone, and then the line went dead. As far as Charles Treadwell, it looks like we’re going to need to have your patrol guys visit his last known address. I don’t have any next of kin listed on the guy. I was going to give you a call about it after I finished up with this Randy Ramey. He’s supposed to be here any second. Um, I actually think that may be him walking in now.”

  “I’ll let you get back to it, Ed. Make sure that Ramey guy has my information and let him know that I’ll be in touch.”

  “Sure thing, Kane.”

  I clicked off from the phone call, plugged Treadwell’s name into the system, and brought up his rap sheet, looking for his last known address. I cross-referenced the address with his driver’s license and confirmed they were the same. The address was in Hyde Park. I pulled up the address on a map on my computer. The house was only a mile from my condo. I brought up the street view of the home—an exceptionally nice house in an upscale neighborhood. Our drug-dealing deceased criminal had been doing well for himself prior to meeting his demise. I went back to my computer monitor and looked for any kind of phone number—there was none. I printed a copy of his sheet with the address and left my office in search of Hank.

  In the bull pen, Hank’s desk sat empty. I continued on and walked to the interview rooms. The door on box one was closed, so I entered the observation room next door.

  Captain Bostok and a uniformed officer sat inside. Bostok rested his elbows on the table that held all of our recording equipment, near the observation window. He stared into the room. Officer Sanchez, a dark-haired thirty-some-year-old officer from patrol, sat at Bostok’s shoulder, chomping away at a granola bar.

  “Kane,” Bostok said. “Anything from downstairs?”

  “Not really.”

  “What are you up to now?” the captain asked.

  “I’m working on hunting down Treadwell’s mother. Ed spoke with LaMarcus Taylor’s mother and informed her of her son’s passing. He couldn’t find anything on Treadwell’s mother or any next of kin.” I stepped farther into the room and looked left at Hank’s back as he sat next to another man. The guy faced Hank, sitting at ninety degrees to our observation window. He looked as though he was nearing forty by the amount of gray in his short black hair. A pair of baggy black shorts covered h
is knees. I spotted an ankle monitor wrapped around his leg and covered with a tall sock. He wore a red T-shirt and matching red baseball cap. “Is this guy doing any talking?” I asked.

  “He’s talking, but none of what he’s saying matters,” Sanchez said. He glanced from looking into the room back to me standing at his left shoulder. Sanchez took another bite of his granola bar and used the back of his hand to wipe some crumbs from his black goatee. “He basically says they haven’t been in contact in a few years.”

  “And that you wouldn’t find LaMarcus and Treadwell in the same place at the same time unless it was something important,” the captain added. “Especially Treadwell, he said. I guess he let LaMarcus handle most of the business dealings.” Bostok made air quotes as he said the word “business.”

  “You picked him up, Sanchez?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I called his parole officer prior to making the trip to his house. Got the okay to bring him in.”

  “He came willingly?” I asked.

  “He didn’t put up much of a fuss. I showed at his house, said I spoke with his parole officer, and we’d like him to come and answer some questions regarding Charles Treadwell. He said that they hadn’t been in contact since he’d been out but would answer whatever he could. Which isn’t much.”

  “Got it,” I said. “With the ankle monitor, I doubt he was doing much on the streets since his release. How long has he been out?”

  “His PO said about a month,” Sanchez said.

  I saw movement inside of the interview room and looked over. Hank rose from his chair and walked from the room. He entered the observation room a second later.

  “This guy doesn’t know anything,” Hank said. He leaned against the door sill and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

  “Kick him loose,” Bostok said. “From what I watched, I’d agree.”

  “Nothing, huh?” I asked.

  “From what he says, there hasn’t been any contact since he’s been out.”

  “How close were he and Treadwell?” I asked.

  “He said he knew him since they were kids,” Hank said. “I guess this guy is now trying to clean up his act and avoiding contact since his release, though.”

  “He doesn’t know why Treadwell was where he was or what deals he was currently working?” I asked.

  “Who knows. He says no, and I guess I didn’t really pick up any hints that he isn’t being truthful.”

  “Let me ask him a question before we send him off,” I said.

  “What are you thinking?” Bostok asked.

  “See what he knows of Treadwell’s mother. If he knew Charles since they were kids, it would stand to reason that he’d at least know her name. Maybe where she lived, something.”

  “Give it a shot,” Bostok said.

  “What was his name again?” I asked.

  “Antonio House,” Hank said.

  I walked next door and entered the interview room. The man stared at me as I walked in but said nothing.

  “Mr. House, I’m Lieutenant Carl Kane. Just a couple quick questions and we’ll let you get on with your day.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” he said. “I can’t say that I’m the biggest fan of sitting in police stations.”

  “Right,” I said. “You’ve known Treadwell since you were kids, is that correct?”

  He sniffed and rubbed his thin black mustache. “Yeah. I’m not involved with him anymore. I left that life and everything that goes with it behind.”

  “That’s a good decision,” I said. “Do you know his mother?”

  “Mama B,” he said. “Yeah, I know her.”

  “Do you know what her first name is? Is Treadwell her last?”

  “Mama,” he said. “Or Missus would be the first. I guess B is short for something on the last. It was always either Mama B or Missus B. All anyone ever called her.”

  “Sure. Any idea where she lives or how we can get a hold of her?” I asked.

  “She doesn’t know about Charles yet?” he asked.

  “I don’t believe so. We’ll have to inform her.”

  “Um, she lived over in the nice part of town last I knew. Big blue house that Charles bought her. Probably only a couple miles from here.”

  The house that I’d looked at during my search of Charles’s address was blue and close by. I figured it to be the one. “Was the home on West Majory?” I asked.

  “I couldn’t tell you the street name,” he said.

  “Did Charles live in the same house?”

  “Off and on, when he wasn’t shacking up with a female.”

  “That should be all I need. I’ll send the other detective back in.”

  I walked out and back into the observation room next door. “Do you want to go wrap up with him, Hank?”

  “Sure,” Hank said. He walked from the room.

  “Looks like he and his mother lived at the same address,” I said.

  “Do you want to take it over to patrol and see if Timmons can send someone out to deliver the news?” Bostok asked.

  Our department didn’t have any hard-and-fast rules for delivering the news to families when there had been a death of a loved one. Breaking the news of a death—or in that case, homicide—to families was one of the worst parts of the job but one that I’d take on myself and not deal out to someone from patrol. Plus, we needed to make sure that the woman was alive and well, and that she was not our mystery female from the alley.

  “I’m going to head over there and try delivering the news. It’s just a couple miles away.”

  “Are you sure?” Bostok asked.

  “Yeah, I don’t have a ton on my plate at the moment, and I also want to make sure that she’s there, and not our female from the alley.”

  “Wait a second and take Rawlings with you. It looks like he’s done.” Bostok pointed through the observation mirror at Hank, who was walking Antonio House from the room.

  “Let me go and drop this guy off where I found him,” Sanchez said. “I’ll send Sergeant Rawlings back in.” Sanchez left the observation room and closed the door at his back.

  A moment later Hank walked in, closed the door, and leaned against it.

  “Ready to take a ride?” I asked.

  “Sure. Where are we headed?”

  “We need to go over to this address in Hyde Park and deliver the news to Treadwell’s mother.”

  “Ugh,” Hank grumbled.

  “Part of the job,” I said. I stood from my chair and pointed at the door he leaned against. “Let’s go.”

  Hank followed me out, and we grabbed the keys for an unmarked cruiser in the lot. I drove down Bayshore Boulevard toward the address, watching my condo pass by out of the passenger side window. The two-mile drive took a full ten minutes down the city streets. While car rides for Hank and me were normally filled with back and forth bantering—me busting his chops about his overpowering wife and him tossing whatever one-liner he could think of in return—that ride was quiet. The weight of the news we were about to deliver no doubt loomed in both our minds.

  I turned off Bayshore Boulevard, and after a couple of lefts and rights through the historic neighborhood of Hyde Park, we found our address. I pulled from the brick-paved street into the home’s empty driveway. I looked out the windshield at the shed at the driveway’s end—the door was closed, no cars parked in the widened driveway before it. I clicked off the car’s ignition, and Hank and I stepped out. I looked over at the blue bungalow with red shutters and a matching front door. A large oak stood in the front yard. A horizontal branch held a swing next to a flower garden. We walked up the sidewalk that ran along some small ground-covering bushes, and I took the four stairs up the covered front porch in two steps. A pair of ceiling fans stood still over our heads. I stared down at the toes of my shoes and moved them to the sides. The doormat beneath my feet read Bishop. I reached for the doorbell, pressed it, and heard it chime inside.

  Hank and I waited. Thirty seconds passed, then a minute. I reached o
ut, pressed the bell again, and gave the front door a couple of hard knocks.

  “No one home,” Hank said.

  I looked at the front doorknob and jamb—neither appeared to have been tampered with.

  “Let’s take a quick look back by the garage,” I said.

  Hank and I stepped from the front porch and walked the driveway along the side of the house. We neared the home’s edge and saw the enclosed pool and lanai off to our left. No one sat inside—it was empty. My eyes went to the rear door, directly off my left shoulder. One of the rectangular pieces of glass nearest the deadbolt was missing and replaced with a piece of plywood. I continued to a window with no blinds or curtains. I looked through it into the home’s kitchen and dining area. There was no one inside, and no lights were on.

  “Let’s go back to the car,” I said.

  Hank and I walked back down the driveway and got into the cruiser. I woke the car’s computer and pulled up a search.

  “What are you looking for?” Hank asked.

  “One second.”

  I punched in the home’s address and the last name Bishop. A moment later my search was returned. Ida Bishop. Her driver’s license photo scrolled down the screen as it loaded.

  “Shit,” I said.

  “What?” Hank asked.

  I turned the computer so it faced Hank. On the screen was the face of our other woman from the alley. She was Treadwell’s mother. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and called Bostok.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Hank and I stayed at the house, waiting on someone from patrol to bring us a search warrant. Considering the condition in which we’d found Ida Bishop, along with the broken and repaired window in the back of her house, we now had reason to believe a crime had been committed on the property. That, along with the fact that two now dead bodies had once resided at the house, was enough to get us the paperwork required to go in and have a look. The captain had also said he was sending Rick out to join our search.

  “So we have to assume that someone abducted both of these two mothers, and there was some kind of ransom attempt,” Hank said.

  “Signs are pointing that way,” I said. I scrolled down the computer screen in the car, looking to see if Ida Bishop had any kind of criminal priors. The system showed nothing.