Berlin kept moving. His feet felt like ten-pound weights. Mitchell sat at his desk, his head buried in paperwork.
“Hey Berlin!” Spitteri called.
Dammit. Not now. Not today.
If there was one cop that Berlin detested, it was Spitteri.
“Can you have a look at somethin’ for me?” Spitteri asked.
Berlin sighed. “I don’t have the time right now, Spitteri. Why don’t you ask someone else?”
Spitteri tugged at his tie, panting. He pulled on the tie as if it was strangling him. “I don’t need someone else, I need you. If I needed someone else, I woulda asked them.” He smacked his lips. “You’re messed up just like these sickos on the street. I just need a little insight, ya know? It’ll only take a minute.”
Spitteri was a short, pudgy Italian man with a dark mustache. His bald head glistened under the fluorescent lights in the room. Berlin patted him on the shoulder. “Why don’t you ask Black? I’ve heard that he’s as dark as they come. Maybe you’d have more luck with him?”
“Dammit, Berlin,” he said, breathing heavily. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?” He turned and stormed off into the hallway, muttering to himself. “Go see Black, he says. Cazzo.”
Berlin sidled up to Mitchell, gazing at the paperwork laying out in front of him. “What’re you up to?”
Mitchell gave him a quick once over. “I thought that I’d do some digging. I figured that one of us might as well detect somethin’.”
“Mitch—”
“Where you been? Why’d you bail from my place? I went to—”
“Yeah. Thanks for that, by the way.” Berlin surveyed the rest of the room, hoping their conversation wasn’t drawing extra attention. “I know you didn’t have to, but I really appreciate it.”
Mitchell leaned back in his chair, closing the binder and shuffling the paperwork. “I don’t really wanna talk about it, man.” But then he leaned over onto one elbow and pointed a finger at him. “All I’ll say is that you need to get your act together.”
Berlin held his hands up. “I know. Look, I realize that mere words are of little consolation, but I saw the Doc today. So, at least there’s that.”
Mitchell stared at him with a blank look. Did he not believe him?
“Mitch?”
“That’s good,” Mitchell finally said. “The faster you get fixed whatever’s goin’ on in that head of yours, the better.”
Progress.
Berlin pulled out his chair and sat. “So what’d I miss?”
Mitchell snagged one of printouts off his desk and slid it over to him. “Did you know that Scott had a younger brother?”
“Yeah, Lexi mentioned it. He passed away.”
Mitchell raised an eyebrow. “Lexi?”
“Sorry, Alexandra Scott—the widow.”
“Okay, but, there are some things not addin’ up here.”
“Such as?”
“Well, Bryan Scott was a straight-A student, man. Biochem, Biophysics, Neuroscience. Not your run of the mill courses. This kid…he was on his way.”
“So you’re wonderin’ what happened, is that it?”
“Basically,” Mitchell said.
Berlin’s phone sounded from the corner of his desk.
“You not gonna get that?”
Berlin reluctantly picked up the receiver. “This is Detective Berlin.”
“Afternoon, Detective,” the voice said on the other end. “I was wondering if you could spare a few minutes to discuss the case you’re working on.”
“Who’s this?”
“This is Jack Howell with the Garden Chronicle. I wanted to reach out and get a comment from you regarding the death of Tim Scott.”
What now?
“Mr. Howell, it’s an active investigation right now. I can’t comment on the particulars of the case.”
Mitchell was now studying Berlin at the mention of the case.
“My sources tell me that Tim Scott was murdered, execution style. Do you have any suspects?”
“Sir,” Berlin said firmly.
“Is it possible that there’s a gang connection?”
Berlin glanced at Mitchell, who was prompting him to end the call.
“Is Exodus Clay a suspect?”
Berlin pulled his eyes away from Mitchell and returned his focus back to the call. “Who?”
“Detective?” Jack said.
Berlin snapped his fingers at Mitchell. “What was that name?” Mitchell slid over one of the pages from his desk.
“Oh, Detective, don’t tell me you don’t know who Exodus Clay is?”
The name wasn’t ringing any bells. Berlin exhaled loudly. “Listen, Mr. Howell, I’m sorry, but I have no comment. I need to get back to work.”
“You do that, Detective,” Jack said. “You do that.”
Berlin could feel the reporter’s smile even through the receiver. He put the handset of the phone down and looked at the name that he had scribbled down.
“What was that all about?” Mitchell asked.
“Ever hear of a guy named Exodus Clay?”
***
“Ya know if you hadda come with me in the first place, instead of goin’ to Scott’s place, maybe we coulda found this out sooner.”
“Yeah, well, it’s getting done now,” Berlin said.
“Whatever.”
After asking everyone in the Squad Room, it was evident that they hadn’t heard of Exodus Clay, either. So their next best bet was the Narco group. They had tracked them down on a buy-bust to a derelict hotel out on North Service Road. The hotel was part of a long list of properties that the city had all but forgotten. It sat in front of an abandoned water park that saw its last heyday in the early 2000s.
“Jesus H, look at this place,” Mitchell said, as he surveyed the parking lot which was in a state of disrepair.
“Shoulda brought my sunglasses,” moaned Berlin, shielding his eyes from the harsh sunlight of the afternoon day. “Hey, I think this is them.”
Mitchell squinted and agreed. Richardson and his team made their way to them. They looked like a SWAT team, wearing bulletproof vests and black cargo pants.
Richardson frowned, recognizing Mitchell from afar. He then leaned over and whispered something to one of the other men, before reaching the detectives. “Fellas. What brings you out here? Drug busts aren’t really your thing so it must be pretty important to be droppin’ by, unannounced like this.”
“It is,” Berlin answered. “We’d like a word, if possible.”
“We were just about to head inside,” Richardson said. “We’ve got a surveillance room set up. We can go in there. Can’t be out in the open like this, you’ll blow the whole operation.”
Berlin shrugged. “Fine.”
Later, Richardson gave the okay, to an officer guarding the door, for the detectives to be let through. They filtered into a large room that was once probably used as a dining hall, but had now been reconfigured into a makeshift command center. Several men sat at stations with headphones on, watching monitors and scribbling notes.
“This doesn’t look like a normal buy-bust,” Berlin said, looking around at all the activity.
“No, it isn’t,” Richardson said. “Lately we’ve been trying to go after some bigger fish.”
“Sokolov?” Berlin asked.
“Yeah. Him and a few others.”
“The Cook Brothers, Remy Marco, the whole lot,” the guy standing next to Richardson said. Berlin couldn’t help but to notice that he had a Band-Aid draped across his nose.
“What happened to you?” Berlin asked him.
“Huh? Oh, this?” the man said, touching his nose. “I ran into a door.”
Berlin tsk-tsk’ed him. “I didn’t catch your name?”
“It’s Simmons,” he said.
Berlin gave a nod and turned back to Richardson. “How long have you had the wiretap up?” He was trying to get a sense of how big the investigation was, even though he knew full well that they had thirty d
ays before a Judge would pull the plug.
“Not long,” Richardson said, looking at the monitors. “Anyway, what did you want to ask us about?”
“It’s about someone, actually,” Berlin said.
“Who’s the lucky guy?”
“Exodus Clay,” Mitchell offered.
Berlin caught a small look between Richardson and the other man. So far, the rest of the group had hung back and had not bothered themselves to participate in the discussion.
Richardson scratched at the stubble on his cheeks and mouth. “Sure, sure. We know him.”
“What can you tell us?” Berlin said.
Richardson gestured with his hands. “Look fellas, I have to be careful here. I can’t jeopardize my own investigation. If information were to somehow be disclosed...well, you know, the higher-ups wouldn’t be happy. What I can tell you is that word on the street is that he’s runnin’ Port.”
Port? Berlin was surprised that he hadn’t heard of him then. Typically Berlin knew all the big players. “Terry, can I call you Terry?”
Richardson kept quiet.
What was with this guy?
“You know, we’re on the same side, you and I. Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be, yeah?”
Richardson swallowed hard. “You’re new here, right? New to the Gardens?”
Berlin said nothing. In a small way, he half expected this. Cops were a fickle bunch. Sometimes the divisions didn’t play nice with one another. He’d hoped that it wouldn’t go down like this, though.
“I don’t know how things worked in Port, Detective, but up here priority one is always going after the big fish. This city…it’s changing. The last thing I need is for sensitive information to get out.”
Berlin gritted his teeth. “Oh, you mean like one of your own gettin’ a target put on his back? Is that what you mean?”
Richardson smiled. “I see what you’re doin’, Detective. But like I told your boy here, I don’t know anything ‘bout that and that’s the God’s honest truth. It’s a shame what happened to Scott. He was a good man.”
“We’re ready for you, sir,” one of the headphone-wearing men called from the nearby table.
“I think we’re about done here, Detective. I wish I could be of more help, I really do, but I got a job to do just like you. So if you’ll excuse me…”
CHAPTER 18
“So, that went well,” Mitchell said.
“Yeah.”
They stood alone, just outside the hotel in the barren lot. The afternoon sun was beating down on them, casting solid inky shadows on the pavement. They walked together to the car.
Berlin kicked stones and watched as they bounced across the pothole-ridden parking lot. “He’s got quite the hold on that group of his, eh? Not one of them would even look at us. Did you happen to notice the look between Richardson and Simmons when you mentioned Clay?”
Mitchell moved to the passenger’s side. “Yeah. I dunno, man. Those two give me the heebie-jeebies. There was definitely somethin’ go on there, though. Simmons is the guy I about ran into when I left their dorm room yesterday.”
Berlin opened his door and, with one leg inside, said, “Huh. You didn’t get to talk to him?”
“Nah.”
“He have the bandage then?”
“Yep. Think he’s tellin’ the truth about the door?”
Berlin didn’t hesitate for a second, saying, “Not a chance.” But why would he lie? And Richardson seemed to go along with it as well, meaning that he probably told them the same thing. “So, where do we go from here? Somebody’s gotta have something on this Clay guy.”
“It might be a long shot, but I think I know someone.”
“Yeah?”
“He did some CI work for me in the past. Wouldn’t hurt to ask.”
“At this point, I’m open to anything.”
Following a quick fifteen-minute car ride, they found themselves back in the city's downtown area. It was an area not unlike most downtowns in the country. Once home to the hustle and bustle of shops, restaurants, and hobby stores, it was now largely forgotten. When night fell, the crazies and the drunks would start to populate the streets and most common people assuredly stayed away. The City Council had a lot of work ahead of them if they wanted to change its character and attitude.
“This guy reliable?” Berlin asked, turning onto a side street.
“Yeah. Fell on some bad luck a while back is all. I pinched him for some nickel and dime stuff when I worked patrol a few years back. Last I heard, Ol’ Brown’s been hangin’ in The Jungle down here.”
Berlin shot him a curious glance.
“You don’t know The Jungle yet?” Mitchell said, taking notice.
Berlin shook his head, embarrassed.
Mitchell laughed. “Maybe I should drive some time. Take you out on a proper tour of the city. I don’t need no GPS like you.”
“Just tell me where we’re goin’.”
“Make a right here,” Mitchell said.
They turned onto Carlisle Street and Mitchell told him to then make another right onto Race Street.
“Where the hell are we, Mitch?”
“I know, right?”
The city streets had all but disappeared, asphalt turned to gravel, and before them stood a wall of dense and unkempt foliage on a valley slope. Burnt orange and rust-covered buildings from the backs of St. Paul Street storefronts stretched high into the horizon. They stood supported on only steel beams and wood, dangling precariously over the slope. Two driveways ran up, cutting through the foliage leading to nowhere. A lone streetlight stood tall, looking completely out of place.
“Funny story. A few months back, some TV show used this area for a scene that took place in Mumbai,” Mitchell said. “Can you believe that? It looks so gosh darn awful that it became a slum village in the show.”
“I can see why.”
“Park over here,” Mitchell said, pointing to his right.
Berlin parked the car, ignoring the No Parking sign. They got out and Berlin took in the area a little more closely, leaning on the hood of the car. “I wouldn’t want to be caught dead out here at night.”
“Yep, it attracts all the wrong kinds of people,” Mitchell said. “But, I hear change is afoot.”
Berlin looked over at him. “Yeah?”
“They’re gonna be building some big facilities. A performing arts center and a new arena for the hockey team.”
Berlin looked over the property again. “That’s good, I guess. Wish I could say the same about the development down in Port. Man, what a clusterfuck.”
Mitchell laughed. “Yeah, I heard about that. Sounds like a nightmare.”
Berlin closed the driver’s side door and started to make the trek uphill. “All that history, and they tore it all down. For what?”
“Condos. It’s all greed, man. Everyone wants to make a buck.”
“They shoulda built them damn things somewhere else.”
Mitchell laughed. “So you can make small talk. I just had to find the right topic.” He smiled.
“Shut up,” Berlin said, then lost his footing in the gravel and started to slide back down the hill. Mitchell gave him a push from behind.
They reached the top of the slope and Berlin cursed his body. He puffed and huffed, his lungs felt like they were about to burst. “So, where do we…find your guy?”
“Ol’ Brown? It won’t take long. You wanna wait here? Give you a chance to catch your breath?”
Berlin’s cheeks flushed while small beads of sweat formed on his forehead. “Fine,” he said.
Mitchell told him to wait. Berlin felt like he was going to throw up. The sweat ran down his face, his shirt starting to stick to him underneath his blazer. He started to laugh at how pitiful he had become, when he heard someone approach from behind. The gravel had given them away.
“You got a light?” a grubby man asked, his voice low, barely audible.
Berlin stared at him. The man wa
s covered in dirt and grease. Gray hairs poked out from underneath a dark green toque with several rips and tears on the outside. He wore clothes that didn’t fit and they hung off his body, which made it appear as though he was wasting away inside.
“Oh shit, you a cop?” he said, losing his balance for a second. A clear glass crack pipe swung in his hand. “Never mind.”
Berlin looked down at the pipe and said, “That’s right, keep walking, asshole.”
He watched the junkie as he made his way back down the slope and just waited for him to take a nosedive. Sadly, he didn’t. Berlin looked at his watch. He wished that he knew how long Mitchell would be, his stomach was growling. Shouldn’t have skipped breakfast, he thought. Not after last night. He wanted something greasy. Something to fill the void.
“Yo,” a voice said.
Berlin looked up the slope and saw Mitchell, approaching with another man.
“This your guy?” Berlin asked.
Mitchell nodded. “This is Downtown Brown.”
“That’s me, they call me Downtown, yessir.”
Downtown Brown was an older black gentleman. He was dressed in old rags, with holes in the knees, some sort of yellow/brown stain on his sweater. He looked thin for his age. The smell was uncomfortable, a mixture of moldy cheese and wet dog.
“I’m not sure how much Mitch has told you, Mr. Brown, but we’re lookin’ for a little information. Do you think you can help us out with that?”
Brown looked down, avoiding his eyes. He rocked back and forth on his heels. “I…I can certainly try. Ol’ Brown likes to help people, yessir.”
“We need help with a name, Mr. Brown,” Berlin said. “An Exodus Clay. Heard anyone speak that name around these parts?”
Brown went into deep thought. A finger went to his lips and he looked as though he was ready to speak, but decided not to at the last second. Finally, he said, “Yeah. He a bad man.”
Berlin looked at Mitchell.
“A bad man. What does that mean, Mr. Brown?”
Brown swayed from side to side. “He done bad things, yessir. Very bad things.”
Berlin signaled for Mitchell to take over.
Mitchell turned Brown so that he was looking at him. “Come on, Brown. You gotta give us more than that. What things has this Clay done?”
Eyes of the Dead: A Crime and Suspense Thriller (The Gardens Book 1) Page 9
