by Rick Reed
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on? And why are we going to see the reverend?” Susan asked.
“I’m taking your advice. We’re going to church,” Jack said. They were soon in an area of Evansville known as Rosedale—the second oldest section of town—the oldest being the riverfront along Riverside Drive. It was named Rosedale because in the forties and fifties, yards were filled with rosebushes of every variety. It was a beautiful and a prosperous residential area then, but by the late fifties with the end of the war and the overflow of returning, unemployed soldiers, the area became one of the city’s poorest and least-maintained communities.
The houses in Rosedale were built in a hurry and set on tiny lots with just enough room for a gangway between them. The rosebushes were gone. The front yards now collected detritus and discarded syringes. Because of the widening of the streets, the sidewalks were gone and the homes were only separated from the curb by a narrow dirt walk. The affluent had moved west, outside of the city limits, not wanting to be reminded of what the war had cost them.
These days, you could measure wealth in Rosedale by the surveillance cameras, chain-link fences, heavy metal bars instead of screen doors, and pit bulls. Of course that money came from dope dealers and pimps, but they were still the most respected people in the neighborhood. Respectability depends on your point of view.
Most corners were gathering places for business. Drugs were sold in the open to pedestrian and vehicle traffic. Drive-by shootings were commonplace; robberies were a natural by-product. Any time you put poor people, guns, and quick money in the same equation, you are asking for problems. A punk here could make more money taking down a drug dealer than robbing a bank and know that the FBI wouldn’t hunt him down. The police figured death was the cost of doing business.
Most of Jack’s informants lived here. Driving down most other city streets wouldn’t have generated much attention. But in Rosedale, they were getting the treatment. You could feel the hatred and fear. But he didn’t hate them back. He knew that under other circumstances, given different parents, he might be one of them.
“Turn here,” he said. She turned onto Line Street. In the middle of the block was a converted, three-story home that now housed the “Church of the Disciples with an Evangelical Witness in Christ.” The sign out in front was hand painted, black letters on a white four-by-four sheet of plywood. The “church” housed dopers and convicts and didn’t discriminate on the basis of sex, religion, or crime.
He didn’t really like bringing her to Payne’s because she coddled the old man. And the house was full of degenerates who would lust after her.
He said, “Maybe this was the ‘church’ Killian was talking about when he told his wife he was ‘going to church.’”
“You’re not as dumb as you act,” Susan said and parked in front. They walked onto the rickety wooden porch. Jack knocked on the door, and it was opened almost at once by the man they’d come to see.
Reverend Payne was hunched over a cane and skinny as a rail. His white hair was picked into an Afro that stood out in stark contrast to his ebony skin. The knuckles of both hands were twisted with arthritis.
“Detective Murphy,” Payne said, paused only a second, and added, “and Susan. So nice of you to visit.” His voice was deep and confident, belying his seventy-seven years on earth. “Come inside.” He turned and shuffled into the foyer. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He directed them to a sitting room that reminded Jack of a lobby of a small hotel, a decrepit one, but a hotel nonetheless. Velvet upholstered divans and massive couches and chairs of all sizes spotted the room in no particular plan. Old men and some women occupied most of them. Some read papers or books, and some simply sat and stared at nothing.
“I’m blind, but I can smell your perfume,” he said. “Not your perfume, Detective Murphy.” He laughed at his little joke.
“Now that you’re in a good mood maybe you can answer a few simple questions for me. For us,” Jack said. It was stiflingly hot inside the “church,” and Jack saw a window open in the large front room. A floor fan ran full blast in front of it. Payne wore sandals on feet whose toes were as twisted as his knuckles. Susan helped Payne sit down, and he let out a hiss as his legs buckled and he dropped the last foot or so onto a cushion.
“Thank you,” he said and put his hands on his knees, where they visibly shook. To Jack he said, “You’re here because Killian George was shot. And you think I know—what exactly, Detective Murphy?”
Payne had been in and out of prison—mostly in—for a multitude of financial crimes, including counterfeiting payroll checks. Jack made it a habit of never sharing case information with a convict, but there didn’t seem to be any choice in this case. He needed Payne’s help.
“The investigation is stalled. I need to know about one of your ‘flock’ that Agent Killian was talking to,” Jack said.
Payne shifted uneasily. “You put me in a difficult position, Detective Murphy. My flock relies on my discretion. But my heart tells me you are doing God’s work.” Sightless eyes stared straight ahead, and he said, “I’ll put you in touch with the man that talked to the ATF agent. He can tell you what you need to hear. I’ll do what I can to help.”
Jack said, “I’ve already talked to him, Payne. I just need to know if you yourself talked to Killian. Or if you talked to Coin.”
“It would mean a lot to us,” Susan said.
Chapter Seventeen
As they walked back to Susan’s car, Jack went over everything Coin had said and the evidence Sergeant Walker had found in the warehouse and guard shack. They also went over Payne’s information. Bouncing ideas off Susan seemed to help him think.
“So Coin lied to Killian. And he lied to you and Liddell,” Susan pointed out.
“Yes. But do I believe that two cops have turned terrorist? No. Do I believe some crooked cops are buying explosives? It’s possible. Do I believe a cop shot Killian?” He hesitated.
“You think it was a cop that shot Killian?” she asked.
“Let’s just say, I’ll keep an open mind.”
“That’s a scary thought,” she said as they got in the car.
“I’m glad you came with me,” he said.
“You see how I got him to tell us everything. Nonthreatening questions. No rough stuff. You ought to try it sometime.”
Jack grunted and leaned back as Susan steered onto Riverside Drive toward downtown.
“What do you make of the names Coin and Payne gave us? Modock?”
“Coin told Payne that one cop called the other Moon Pie,” Jack said.
“I used to eat Moon Pies when I was a kid,” Susan said. “They were like s’mores.”
Jack said, “So we have a cop that’s addicted to s’mores or Moon Pies.”
They reached police headquarters and Susan stopped in the street near where Jack’s Jeep should have been parked. It was gone. “Thanks for the help. I’ll let you know what happens,” Jack said.
“This is just getting interesting. You aren’t getting rid of me yet.”
“Susan, I don’t want you to get in trouble. How about this? You go through your files again and look for any of the names Payne supplied. Then give me a call.”
“That’s a man for you. Take, take, take. Not even the offer of a meal.”
“Are you asking me out, Miss Summers?”
“Not on your life, bud. But I think I deserve to be kept in the loop. After what you did to my parolee and . . .”
“Okay. I get it. Susan, I would like it if you met me at Two Jakes for a late lunch.” He didn’t want to get all this started again. Re-girlfriending never ended well. It would be the same old story. Boy meets girl. Boy can’t commit. Girl doesn’t like that the boy shoots people for a living. Boy loses girl, and she moves to Indianapolis and dates a dentist.
“Do you want to pick me up at my office? Or does Miz Heddings scare you too badly?”
“I’ll meet you at Two Jakes. My bulle
tproof vest is in the cleaners, and I didn’t get my Miz Heddings vaccination this year.”
Susan glanced at him. “She grows on you, Jack.”
“I’m sure she does.” Like a fungus.
She left and Jack walked across the street to headquarters. Liddell was standing outside by the detectives’ entrance, grinning.
Jack told him, “Payne was the one who called Killian a couple of days ago. That’s how Killian got on to Coin. Payne said Coin had come to see him and was scared out of his wits after overhearing some policemen talking about explosives. He even said something about an Arab gentlemen being mentioned.”
“Could be the Khaled guy,” Liddell said.
“We’ve got names, maybe, but no way to connect the dots.”
Liddell raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’ve got some good news for you.”
“I’m fired? And Double Dick was so happy he had a heart attack?”
“Just the opposite,” Liddell said. “Captain Franklin said to tell you to get back to work. The IA complaint was dropped, and the prosecutor is filing seven additional counts of rape and aggravated assault against Cartwright. The defense attorney is removing himself as the attorney of record. As of now you’re unsuspended, pod’na.”
“You don’t say?”
Liddell grinned. “I do say. And when Double Dick heard your good news he looked like he had swallowed a porcupine. Someone told him your Jeep was parked in a police spot, and he had it impounded. He’s trying to get the FBI to charge you with impersonating a federal agent. He went back to the chief and filed another complaint.”
“The FBI placard,” Jack said.
“Yeah. Your buddy, FBI Agent Page, told the chief that he had given you the placard and told you to use it. Chief Pope dismissed Double Dick’s complaint.”
Jack would have to remember to buy Page a fifth of Glenlivet.
Liddell said, “The bad news is that your Jeep was already towed away, but I called Mike’s Towing and they’re taking it to Two Jakes for you. No charge.”
“Sorry for causing a problem, Bigfoot. I should have known better right now.”
“Well, you can make it up to me by feeding me.”
“I guess I owe you a late lunch. I’m going to get my badge and gun back from the captain and check a few things here. Meet me at Two Jakes in a half hour, and I’ll buy.”
“Good. I’m hungry,” Liddell said and patted his ample belly. “No point in both of us driving. I’ll wait for you. I suppose your girlfriend, Susan, will be joining us.”
“Susan’s not my girlfriend,” Jack said. “It’s over. She’s seeing some dentist in Indianapolis.”
“Man oh man! You home wrecker you. You can invite Susan to dinner at my place tonight if you want. I’ll talk to Marcie. But it might be kind of crowded with Katie coming and all.”
“Oh Christ! I forgot about dinner.”
“Its okay, pod’na. When I tell Marcie that you and Susan are back together again she’ll understand.”
“We are not back together. She’s just helping us with the case. I know what I’m doing,” Jack said.
“I hope so, pod’na.”
Chapter Eighteen
Khaled circumnavigated Evansville by driving the nondescript white rental van north on Highway 69 to Interstate 64 then east to Interstate 164, where he turned south toward the Ohio River. He had decided to stay well outside of Evansville city limits on the way to his destination. The Lloyd Expressway had a reputation for ticket-writing motorcycle cops. It wouldn’t do to get stopped.
His pride wouldn’t allow him to admit it to himself out loud but he was still shaken by the day’s events. First Mr. Smith asking, “Does anyone know of our deal?” and then the whisper of bullets passing beside his ear, and the emptiness behind the man’s eyes. His hand unconsciously went to his ear, and his fingers came away sticky. It was bleeding again.
The memory of those eyes would not go away. Khaled had known many types of killers in Afghanistan and Oman and Iraq and Syria. He had worked with jihadists, sold weapons to rebels, explosives for suicide bombers, but this one—this one carried death in his eyes and only darkness was within.
“Relax, Khaled. If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead,” Smith had said. Khaled knew the only reason he was still alive was because of the cargo. He was paid handsomely for the handguns and silencers and Semtex, but this last delivery would bring many times that amount. He only had to stay alive long enough to enjoy it.
He patted the handle of the handgun that was half-hidden under his leg and thought about what was in the back of the van. The crates contained items that belonged only in a war zone. What is Smith up to? Is he going to start a war? But the answer to those questions didn’t really concern Khaled unless it somehow meant more money or the loss of it. He was involved in gunrunning, money laundering, even a little white slavery, and the people he dealt with were always dangerous. Some were lunatics, religious fanatics, mercenaries, or all three.
He would gladly have missed the chance to meet this psycho. As lucrative as the deal was, something about Smith stank of evil. Yes, this one had the stench of death upon him. He found himself saying a prayer from the Koran that his mother had taught him when he was young. She would pull on his ear until he thought it would fly from his head and make him say a prayer of penance every time he committed some act she viewed as unacceptable. Strange that he would be thinking of that now.
As he exited toward the river camps, he thought about the money he had made and how he would have to stop now that the woman parole officer had found his office. He would have to get another computer and take his to his uncle’s office. Then there was the storage room. Thankfully he had cleaned it out to make this delivery. He would have to get rid of the doorway to the basement. He would get that done right away. Some drywall and paint would do the trick.
It was inconvenient, but the house was only temporary. He would complete his parole and move to Florida, where he had family who had assured him that the parole officers and police were more pliable. Anything could be had in America for the right price.
Looking in the rearview mirror, he ran his fingers through his curly black hair and smiled at his image. After the delivery, he would stop by the riverboat casino and flirt with the cocktail waitress who thought he was so handsome. He would have some fun gambling and then later she would favor him with her body. American women were so . . . uninhibited. And when you had a lot of money they were even more so. He felt himself becoming aroused. Tonight he was going to become a very rich man.
Khaled made a sharp right turn onto a narrow tree-lined gravel road, more of a path really. Above the trees he could see the twin bridges that connected Indiana and Kentucky. The gravel ended and the path turned into a rutted trail that wound through towering scrub and rangy trees.
After a half-mile of jouncing, kidney-numbing jolts, Khaled spotted a red flag tied to a branch. He stopped and stepped down from the van. On closer inspection he saw the flag was tied to a freshly cut sapling that was placed across a narrow side trail. He thought it a very clever job of hiding the trail from the curious.
Back in the van, he’d felt anxiety, a chill, what his family would call an omen, but he was not superstitious. He sat up straight and muttered, “To hell with the American!” He spat out the window, drove over the flag and the cut tree. He wouldn’t be here long enough to be discovered.
Reverting to his native tongue, he cursed under his breath as he again jarred along the rutted path toward the river. He would meet Smith, unload the cargo, get his money, and get out of here, Allah be willing.
Khaled didn’t notice the opening to the trail was being covered with more branches behind him.
Khaled rounded a corner and jammed the brakes hard. His seat belt stretched tight across his chest. He was thrown forward and his gun went flying under his feet. Directly in his path was a black Suburban with the Department of Natural Resources shield on the door. He caught movement in the side mirror. A ma
n had appeared behind the van. He was wearing the dark green jumpsuit that DNR officers wore. His green ball cap partially hid his face as he approached Khaled’s door.
Khaled couldn’t believe his bad luck. He apparently had stumbled into one of the checkpoints the DNR used for poachers.
“Shit,” he hissed, thinking that now he and his van would be searched. He could see the handle of his Beretta 9mm handgun near his feet and tried to kick it under his seat. What would the wildlife officer think when he came across the cargo in the back of the van? It would be a bad thing to shoot this officer, but he couldn’t allow the van to be searched.
Khaled leaned as far forward as he could, fingers scrabbling on the carpeting, but he couldn’t quite reach the gun before the officer’s shape appeared at his door. Khaled tried to look calm as he said, “Have I done something wrong, Officer?” and found himself staring into the silenced barrel of a gun. Then a blinding light.
Quinn picked up a checkered bandana from the seat beside the body and wiped the bloody tissue and detritus from the silencer of his pistol. “And now no one knows,” he said.
* * *
Jack got his gun, credentials, and a short lecture from Captain Franklin before Liddell drove them to Two Jakes.
Jack went to his Jeep and searched under the front seat. He found what he wanted and put it in his back pocket.
“Let’s eat,” Liddell said as they walked toward the building, but when they neared the entrance Jack continued down to the boat dock where the MISS FIT was still tied up.
“I thought we were eating here,” Liddell said.
“We will. Hurry up.”
“Oh boy. I love pic-a-nics.”
They saw Susan’s little car pull into the parking lot and park beside Jack’s Jeep. Jack waved and got her attention.
She walked over and asked, “Are we going somewhere?”
Jack helped her climb onboard. She was wearing cut-off jean shorts, a shirt that tied at the tummy, and cork sandals.
“I thought we were going to eat,” she said.