Marsh himself thought that Mason in some ways reminded him of his older brother, Patrick. Alvin had always looked up to him. Of course he was long dead, having been murdered by rival gang members. But not before he’d helped Alvin into the brotherhood. After all, it was Chicago and being in a gang back then was required, at least it was if you were black and poor and wanted to live without getting jumped and beaten and stolen from every day of your life. Patrick was wicked smart and fast and tough. And once he made a plan he followed it to completion. Alvin idolized his older sibling and tried to follow his every move. But it wasn’t until he reached the age of twenty that he came into his inheritance of the patient planning gene that Patrick had exhibited at a much younger age. Alvin often wondered what his brother might have become if he hadn’t been taken. He thought now that maybe he might have been something like this private investigator. There was something in the man’s eyes. Something that made Alvin think that he was much more than he let on to others. That the gears were working at a faster speed than a normal human’s. Fast enough for him to allow others to see him as less and to use that to his advantage. Clyde didn’t see it, but then Clyde didn’t see a lot of things.
“I think you are wrong this time, Clyde. I think Mr. Mason is the real deal and that he will deliver just as promised.”
The SUV continued down the winding road with its lead car’s brake lights never showing once. Behind them, the last car maintained a perfect one car spacing.
At the bottom of the hill, maybe thirty seconds later, Clyde finally responded as if Marsh had just finished speaking.
“If he finds her, he won’t get her away from Larkin. Larkin will kill him, just like I said.”
Marsh gave that some thought.
“Maybe,” he said. “But so long as we get the girl, what happens to Mason is irrelevant.”
Clyde continued to scan the environment, but for the first time since he got into the car he smiled.
6
I stopped going through the files long enough to make a call to Sarah Gallagher, a friend of mine who works at CBI (The Colorado Bureau of Investigation). She’s the most beautiful woman on the planet and smarter than Einstein, Newton, Plato and Vizzini (the little guy in Princess Bride) combined. I know, inconceivable, but it’s true.
“Gil Mason,” she purred into the phone. “The man, the myth, the legend.”
“Hi, Sarah.”
“Yes,” she said, “I’m free tonight. What time will you pick me up?”
“Stop playing hard to get,” I said.
“How are the wounds?” she asked, real concern tinging her voice.
“All better. Thanks for asking.” Sarah had visited me every day during my recent stay in the hospital.
“Liar,” she countered. “How’s Pilgrim?”
“He’s doing better, but it’s rough at his age. Taking a lot longer for him to bounce back.”
“If you aren’t calling for a date, then I assume you want to know about the DNA you sent me. Well tracking through several data bases, including regional and ancestry sites, it turns out your man Martin is not Lorraine’s father after all. They aren’t even related. However, checking through local police agencies I did find that he is an exact match in a burglary from back in two thousand and nine in Colorado Springs. From there I…”
“Sorry, Sarah,” I broke in, stopping her, “but that’s not why I called.”
“Really? Then who are you saving now and what do you need?”
“Always to the point,” I said. “I love that about you.”
“Well, at least there is something about me you love,” she teased.
“Stop teasing,” I said.
“I’m not teasing,” she said.
What a joker.
“I need some information on a Senator from Chicago.”
“Senator?”
“Yes.”
“As in, United States Senator?”
“That’s the kind,” I said.
“United States of America Senator?”
“Yeeeees.”
There was a pause, then a sigh. “You’re scaring me, Gil. What kind of information do you need on a United States Senator?”
“Everything you can find,” I said.
Another pause and this time I could hear one of her perfectly manicured fingernails tapping against her teeth, a cute habit of hers that drives all men crazy with desire.
“Gil, you do know that United States Senators are protected by a little agency called the Secret Service, don’t you?”
I laughed. “Well, I’m not going to kill the guy. I just want some information about him.”
“Are you sure?” she asked and this time there was a little tremor of something that sounded almost like fear in her voice.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m sure. He’s a nice guy working for a good cause, it’s just that I want to make sure he’s what he really portends to be. That’s all.”
Another dramatic pause. I was about to say something about all the pausing when she spoke.
“Well, even so, it’s not easy to get inside info on guys that high ranking. The Secret Service have them bugged ten ways to Sunday and any type of checking up on them is flagged and cataloged instantly for threat assessment and action needed to be taken. I mean it, Gil, I’m talking social media, phone calls, even campaign contributors. They check out everything.”
“I’m sure they do,” I said. “But then they have never run up against the likes of Sarah Gallagher.”
She sighed. “Okay. Knowing how things turn out with you I’ll probably get tagged as an international spy and locked away in an underground gulag for the rest of my life, but for you, okay.”
“If you do,” I said, “I’ll break you out.”
“You would, wouldn’t you.”
“You better believe it.”
“I do,” she said, and there was no teasing in her voice this time. “Send me whatever you have and I’ll see what I can dig up.”
“Thanks, Sarah.”
“I really am free tonight,” she said.
“No you’re not,” I said, “you have research to do.”
We said our goodbyes and I clicked off.
I plugged the flash drive into my laptop and searched through the files till I found the surveillance video from Walmart. The feed streamed and I saw a giant of a man walking next to a little girl. Keisha wore a pretty dress with ruffles around the hem. A faux emerald neckless circa the Disney movie Moana dangled against her throat held by a leather thong with sea shells. Pink jelly shoes and matching pink socks completed the outfit.
Jerome was dressed in more traditional Walmart attire, gray sweat pants and a plain white t-shirt with a breast pocket. The sleeves of the tee were hard pressed to contain the massive shoulders and biceps. The man was huge. Maybe not as giant as the Mountain, but so close it might take a photo finish to decide.
The camera feed caught them in several sections of the store. They bought toilet paper, a can of Fix-A-Flat, lunch meat, bread, noodles and jars of spaghetti sauce, along with a Frozen coloring book and a box of 64 Crayola Crayons, the one with the sharpener at the bottom of the box.
I paid special attention at the checkout, but Jerome paid in cash, so no luck on a possible credit card check. I suppose if it were going to be that easy, the Senator wouldn’t have had to hire me.
Keisha seemed happy and perfectly healthy. No sign of abuse, outwardly or inwardly. Of course kids are resilient and you can never be sure they aren’t being harmed just by viewing a few seconds of random video.
The last shot of the duo caught them leaving the parking lot on foot and heading north along Chambers Road.
Hmm. Because they didn’t have a car? Or is Jerome one smart cookie who knows better than to let his license plate get caught on camera?
A man that big stands out. It wouldn’t be easy to stay on the lam for as long as he has, especially with a child in tow. My bet landed on him being smart. Too bad. We have a saying
in law enforcement; we only catch the stupid ones. It’s not true of course, just an exaggeration, but that’s kind of the point. Catching the stupid ones is the norm. The really smart or crafty ones are a lot harder. Oh well, that’s why they pay me the big bucks.
I went back over the video five more times.
My watch read thirteen-thirty, that’s one-thirty pm for non-military types. I called a friend of mine who’s a homicide sergeant with Aurora Police. He picked up on the first ring.
“Gil Mason,” he said cheerily.
“I know I am,” I said, “but who are you?”
“Get your white butt over here, gyrene. We’re having a barbecue and there’s enough food to feed a platoon.”
Jared Darling used to be a K9 handler back in the day and we worked in congruent jurisdictions for a lot of years. He looks like Eddie Murphy as the Nutty Professor, only bigger. He’s pushing close to four hundred pounds. His dog Aspen was a star. He’s the shepherd that tracked down The Longmont Ripper and did some serious ripping of his own. Aspen took a bullet, saving Jared one dark night, and a few hours later died in surgery. Jared’s never really gotten over it.
Can’t say I blame him.
“I wish I could,” I said, “but a case just came in and I need some help.”
“What you got?”
“Kidnapping case out of Chicago. A little girl. She and her abductor were spotted at the Chambers Walmart a few days ago.”
“The Chambers Walmart in my city?”
“Is there another?”
“Tell me everything.”
“I wish I could. The feds are involved and most of what I have is on a need to know basis, so I can’t give you much.”
“What do you need and how can I help?” he asked. Jared and Lori have a passel of kids. I could tell from his voice the thought of a kidnapped little girl got his blood boiling.
“I need a listing for every car stopped, cited, or checked in your city over a three day period of time.”
He paused before answering. “That’s a lot of cars. Are you talking just traffic violations?”
“No,” I said, “everything. Suspicious, welfare checks, citizen assists, traffic, anything and everything.”
“Alright, I’ll have my boys run the data, but you are going to have a lot of sifting to do. If you could give me an idea of what you’re checking for, maybe I could have them narrow it down.”
That’s exactly what I didn’t want. You never know what someone else will think is irrelevant in a case. I would do the eliminating myself. “No, that’s okay. Just the raw info.” I gave him the dates. We talked for a few more minutes and then we hung up.
I looked at the computer screen where I had paused the surveillance video with Jerome and Keisha on the automotive aisle.
He needed the Fix-A-Flat for a reason.
7
The three of them sat in the stolen car up the road from the private driveway that led up the hogback. The air conditioner ran full on and they had the windows open while they smoked marijuana blunts. The temp butted ninety today, but it really was a dry heat that was nothing compared to the muggy Chicago summer they had just escaped. The Green Monster led the group. His real name was Drake Jefferson, but since getting jumped into the Bloods at ten he’d been known as The Green Monster or Monster for short. Not because of his stature, he was skinny and normal height, but because he loved money more than just about anything or anyone. At twenty-one he was the oldest of the trio, the other two, Mad-Cat and Shine were both nineteen.
“You sure he comin’?” asked Shine from the back seat.
“The man says he’ll come… he’ll come. Man ain’t never wrong, Shine. Never.”
“How long?”
Monster took another hit of the thin pot filled cigar, the heavy smoke drifting into and past his eyes, making him squint like a young Clint Eastwood ready for a gunfight.
“Don’t know that,” said Monster. “Maybe an hour, maybe longer. Maybe not till tomorrow. Don’t matter. He’ll come when he comes.” He took another drag, let the smoke dribble past his lips and up his nostrils where he sucked it in again and held it for nearly a minute before blowing out an almost invisible stream. A little smile twitched his lips. “And when he do, we will follow.”
Shine and Mad-Cat looked at each other and laughed.
“Man,” said Shine, “you sure do got it out for this Jerome dude.”
Monster looked at both of them, sucked in some smoke, held it, let it out. “You boys never knew Lil’ Grill. He before your time. He was a brother to me. Saved my butt more than once. Even took a bullet for me. Jerome done betrayed the Bloods when he killed Lil’ Grill. Worse, he betrayed me. He gonna pay for Grill.” He took another long drag then flicked the ash out the window. “And he gonna pay for what he done to me.”
8
Jared is good. He had the list to me in less than an hour. He even threw in the Cherokee County patrol stops in the general area as well as CSPs (Colorado State Patrol). I sifted through the material as fast as I could, but even so, it took me about three hours, by which time I thought my eyes were going to start pouring blood.
I made sure Pilgrim was comfortable and tossed Max in the back of my own black Escalade before hopping on highway 285 toward Aurora. I figured if they shopped there, they probably lived there, although that theory certainly wasn’t a sure bet. They could have just been in town when their tire went out. I had addresses to check from Evergreen to Pueblo; eleven in all, not as bad as I thought for a three day period. The first place was an apartment off Parker Road. The car listed to a twenty year old Hispanic woman named Maria Lopez. I found the car a few spots down from her building and sat on it for about fifteen minutes before she and a white guy strolled out of their building, got into it and drove away.
Today wasn’t about tailing. I just wanted a quick check to see how many I could rule out. I wasn’t going to check them off my list yet, but on first glance they didn’t look likely.
The second plate listed to an address just off of Colfax and Potomac. The house looked empty and there were no cars in the driveway or out front. I’m not above a little B&E if the situation warrants it, but like I said, today wasn’t about the deep stuff.
The next two were more of the same. One probable elimination, one no show. But the fifth looked at least marginally promising. Its location placed it about a mile from the store. The car, a brown, late-model four-door Chevy, with a little rust and in need of a paint job, sat in the street in front of a modest tract-house built in the sixties. It was small, with no garage or driveway, but it had a battered, six-foot wood-slat privacy fence that blocked out what looked to be a sizable back yard. I sauntered up to the car and saw a little of the dried white gunk around the air nozzle on the passenger side front tire, no cap on the stem. Hmm. Even more promising. And better yet, a child’s car seat was strapped in the back seat. I considered giving Jared a call to have a car back me up, but figured I would be jumping the gun. Besides, I was just going to have a look around.
The front windows were draped shut and the door had a locked screen door. I didn’t see any security cameras and nothing at all to suggest a kidnapping, gang-banger killer was holding up here. No toys lying around the front yard.
A gate with an ancient-looking latch sat back about five feet from the north edge of the front of the house where the fence protected the back yard from intrusion. I decided to intrude anyway. No lock; that made it easier. I thumbed the latch and very gently lifted on the fence as I pulled it toward me. I saw four of the old-fashioned metal trash cans still with their lids. They were beat up and rusted, but looked like they might last longer than a generation of the fancy plastic ones.
Clearing the cans, I turned the corner just as all two-hundred and thirty or so pounds of Jerome Larkin walked into my chest. I bounced back. He stood solid as the earth. He looked at me, his eyebrows drawing down. I looked back, just as surprised. He went for a gun just as I went for mine. His came out first
and with my left hand I slapped it away. My gun was just clearing my waistband when he slapped it away. It felt like getting hit by a bulldozer blade. I punched him in the jaw with a left hook. I put my whole body into it, swinging from the hips and caught him perfectly with a meaty smack, solid and hard and it rocked his head to the side. I let my momentum carry me full circle and took his legs out from under him with a leg sweep, my shin striking him just under the calves. Jerome fell, grabbing my shoulder as he went, and I smashed down into the trash cans, scattering them. Metal lids went flying and the left side of my face crashed into the wood fence. Jerome grabbed hold of my waist and dragged me down…not good, he outweighed me by seventy pounds of pure muscle. I had to keep my distance, but it was too late for that. I let myself fall into him and punched him in the throat as I did. I tried to smash my knee into his groin, but he blocked it with his thigh and grabbed my face with one giant hand. He smashed my head into the side of a trash can and rolled on top of me, cans and trash falling onto us. He caught me in the ribs with his free hand and my bones nearly caved. He hit me again, this time in the head, and sparks exploded inside my brain. I gripped my buckle knife between the fingers of my right hand and pulled it free before plunging it into his thigh. I jerked it out and jabbed it in twice more before he swung again, missing and hitting the ground. I hooked one of his legs with mine and secured his wrist with both hands before thrusting with my hips rolling him up and over my shoulder and onto his back. Now I was on top of him again.
I punched him three fast times in the chest with the two-inch buckle knife, blood seeping through his shirt and sprinkling up at me. He tried to knock me off with knee strikes to my back, but from our relative positions he couldn’t get the leverage to put any strength into them. I hit him in the nose with my empty right fist and that seemed to make him really mad because he grabbed me by the throat with both hands, his arms were that long, and crushed in on my Adam’s apple with his thumbs. His nails sliced into my flesh and blood trickled. I sliced the outside of his right forearm and he dropped his grip with that hand, but with the other he grabbed my hair and wrenched my head to the side. I found a trash can lid and rolled to my feet, just in time to almost have my head crushed with an entire can. I ducked and blocked with the make-shift shield knocking it aside. Jerome found his own trash can lid, the thing looked like a Frisbee in his giant hand. And the two of us charged like dueling Captain Americas, only I stacked up as more of a ninety-eight pound Steve Rogers. I feinted high and went low, but he didn’t fall for it and our shields rammed with a terrific clang. The impact shook us both, but he just staggered back while I went spinning into the brick side of the house, bounced off and crashed back into the cans and trash. One of the metal cans raked up my shin, hurting like crazy and then Jerome kicked my left shoulder, numbing my whole arm and making me drop the buckle knife. Lucky for me, he wore athletic shoes. If it had been pointed boots he would have shattered my bones. I grabbed for his legs, missed, took a kick to the stomach, rolled into him and he fell down onto and over me. I twisted under him as he punched down into my knee. I reached over his bald head and hooked his nostrils with two fingers. I tore back as hard as I could, his neck craning to relieve pressure, and felt flesh tear. He elbowed back, catching me in the solar plexus, knocking all my wind out and making the world whirl as nausea rippled through me. He went for my eyes, and again his nail tore into soft skin right next to my nose, hurting like blazes. I managed to grab up my trashcan lid and smacked him in the face with it. I tried to scramble on top of him again, but he got both feet into my chest and catapulted me up and back. I landed on my shoulders and let the kinetic energy follow through so that I ended up on my knees. Jerome was already up and charging and he had his shield. I threw my lid from where I knelt, and even though it wasn’t as aerodynamic as Cap’s, it flew straight and true and hit him just above the eyes. Only it didn’t bounce back to me like in the movies. I tried the leg sweep again, but Jerome jumped over it and struck down with his lid, catching me in the juncture between my neck and shoulder. The pain and shock rocked me and everything started to go black. I crumpled, barely managing to catch myself with one hand. Jerome kicked me in the ribs and this one hit square. My throw had cut him good over the eyes and blood poured down his face, making him look like some kind of nightmarish monster. He stomped down at me, but I rolled and he slipped and almost fell. I made it back to my feet, feeling wobbly and sick and weak. My whole face felt swollen and thick, and my right eye swelled nearly shut. We circled each other there in the back yard, him with his shield and me flexing my fists, trying to keep the blood flowing. We both sucked air like we were fish out of water, and my recent injuries were screaming for attention I didn’t have time to give. My stamina was nil and the wound in my chest, where I’d been shot not long ago, ached down to the core, making me feel weak and limp.
Hair of the Dog Page 3
