“Did you kill Monty?”
Betti’s eyes grew wide, and she began gasping for air. When she tried to talk, her mouth was dry with fear. She shook her head and gripped the arms of the chair.
“Did Gil Acosta kill him?”
Betti squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head again.
“MJ thinks you killed his father. You were seen leaving the apartment building after he was stabbed.”
At the sound of the word “stabbed” MJ began shaking. He clenched a fist, turned toward the chair, and punched Betti in the face. He was about to punch her again when Anderson interceded by standing.
“Stop, Junior. I need to know some things, and I think she’s going to cooperate now. Isn’t that right, Betti?”
Betti nodded frantically. Her lip was bleeding and her face red. She fought to remain conscious. She touched her hand to her mouth and began to cry hysterically.
“Now, I think you killed Monty, and I want you to tell me why,” Anderson said, returning to his chair. “We don’t want to hurt you anymore, but I want to know the truth.”
“I had to,” Betti said between tears and gasps. “He had that crazy look. I know him, and he was going to kill me.”
MJ moved toward Betti again with a raised fist. Betti cowered, pushing as deeply as she could into the chair and protecting her face with crossed arms.
“I said enough,” Anderson warned with a raised voice. “Go outside. I’ll call you when I need you.”
MJ turned a face filled with rage. Carlos acknowledged Anderson’s head nod and walked up to MJ. “C’mon, ese. Let’s shoot a game of pool.”
The two left, and Peña moved next to the chair. He took the handgun that had been in his waistband and pointed it at Betti. She fixed her eyes on the gun until Anderson spoke to her and then jerked her eyes to him.
“So now, Betti. Let’s have a conversation,” he said. “I don’t have a lot of time tonight, so I need you to be forthcoming.”
Chapter 16
Gil unzipped his jacket, lifted his sweater, ripped the line of tape holding the microphone to his chest, and unclipped the transmitter from his belt. He did this in full view of whoever was watching, and handed the wire to Detective Scott.
“I’m going to do as Anderson says.”
“Okay,” Scott said. “After you get the call, keep the line open for as long as you can. Maybe we can get a trace.”
“I’ll try.”
Gil retrieved his mobile phone from his inside jacket pocket and looked at it. He’d turned down the ringer when he set out with Reggie tonight, but hadn’t remembered until now that it had vibrated a few times. Betti had tried to call him several times. The last call had come only two hours ago.
“Damn,” Gil muttered.
“I’m walking with you, Acosta,” Don stated.
“No, you’re not. I’m following Anderson’s full instructions.”
Gil spoke to Don with steely determination. He had long ago learned to put his fear behind him by focusing like a laser on his objective. The technique had worked as an athlete, and in the dangerous locales of Somalia and Southern Iraq. He had come to the Corridor tonight to take down a bad cop.
“Man, I said I’m going with you.”
The two partners faced off. This case had strained their friendship.
“Here’s the deal,” Charlie said, walking up to Gil and staring him in the eye. “If Don doesn’t escort you, then I will.”
“Charlie, I don’t want you getting mixed up in this . . .”
“I got you involved. None of us knew this would become so messy and dangerous. But here we are. We’ve faced tough situations before, and you know it’s all-for-one. You’re not walking down that street alone.”
Maybe it was Charlie’s tone, or his respect for her, but Gil acquiesced. He looked over Charlie’s shoulder. “Okay, Don, you’re with me.”
Gil removed his gun from his ankle holster and secured it in his waistband. Don removed his rumpled raincoat and handed it to Charlie. He touched the revolver in his shoulder holster for comfort. He signaled to Gil that he was ready. Gil adjusted the volume on his phone and held it tightly in his left hand, leaving the right hand free for his gun, if needed. The two turned and walked toward Cass Avenue, while Charlie and Scott stood side by side watching their retreat.
A small group of onlookers, mostly from the tent city, were cordoned off by police tape on the south side of Stimson street. Don looked at the line of people. Only two patrol officers were managing the crowd. It would be easy for Anderson, or anyone else, to blend into the crowd and fire a shot at Gil. Don was so distracted by his supposition that he jumped with a start when Gil’s phone rang. Don pulled his handgun from his holster and held it by his side. Gil took a couple of steps away to answer the phone.
“Hello? Yes, it’s me.”
Gil listened for thirty seconds, then sharply closed the flip phone. He remained still for another ten seconds and turned toward Don. “Okay, put up your gun. We’re going back to the car.”
Don relaxed a bit, returning his gun to his holster. He was about to ask a question when Gil charged him, punching him hard in the solar plexus, and doubling him over. Gil snatched Don’s gun from the holster and threw it toward the street where it skidded noisily on the ground. Clenching his hands together, Gil brought them down hard on the back of Don’s neck, sending him flat on his stomach. A shout rang out from someone in the crowd who had witnessed the assault. Gil crouched for a second, blood pounding through his veins and his hair prickling with electricity. He looked in the direction of the patrol car behind him and saw Charlie and Scott running towards him. Gil lifted to his feet and, with arms pumping, ran toward the rear of a nearby house and disappeared into the shadows. Don was already coming to when Charlie arrived by his side.
“Are you all right?”
“That son of a bitch hit me. Where’d he go?” Don asked, trying to get to his feet, but falling back to the sidewalk.
Charlie looked toward the corner where Scott and a patrol officer were chasing after Gil. The crowd across the street was now whooping with the excitement of police chasing a man who looked like one of their own. Don was still trying to stand, but couldn’t get his balance.
“Mack, get my gun. He threw it into the street. See if you can find it.”
It took Charlie a minute to recover Don’s Ruger. Sweeping a penlight back and forth, she finally located it nestled against the tire of a parked car. Charlie hefted the two-pound gun and held it by her side. Don was now sitting on the curb, and she squatted, handing over the Ruger grip first. It was too dark to see any detail, but Don rubbed his hand over the barrel, frame, and cylinder feeling for damage.
“Is your gun intact?” Charlie asked.
“Yes, and Acosta is damned lucky it is. Mack, he’s lost his mind.”
Charlie couldn’t disagree. She stood and walked toward the corner as Scott and the patrol officer returned.
“Did you see him?”
Scott shook his head. “What the hell happened?”
“Don said Gil took the call, then sucker punched him. We’ve got to find him, detective, before he gets himself killed.”
# # #
Gil sprinted across Cass Avenue and down the next side street. He ran between two houses, crouching behind a hedge and listening for the sound of an awakened homeowner, a barking dog, a startled cat, or the footsteps of a pursuer. When he heard only the normal night sounds of late spring, he hunkered in place. To control the panic building in his chest he focused on the next task—traveling at least six blocks on foot without being spotted. Within five minutes, a police cruiser moved slowly down the street with floodlights sweeping the road, houses, porches, and bushes. Gil pulled himself tighter into the base of the hedge, his dark clothes affording him invisibility. He waited another five minutes, then lifted himself to a crouch.
He had to go south and then back to Second Avenue. It would be a difficult trek with cops swarming around, but
perhaps easier if he doubled back to where the police had begun their search. He stayed away from the streetlights and slinked through empty lots in a wide circle that brought him back to the tent city. A half block away, a police cruiser still blocked half of Stimson Street. Gil avoided those at the fire, and skirted his way around sleeping people until he was back at the fence where he’d thrown the paint can. Looking back at the embers floating over the barrels, he lifted himself over the fence. He moved to the rear of the shed that earlier had been his hiding place, and followed a narrow alley that dumped out onto Woodward Avenue.
It was now 3 a.m. Gil moved steadily up the street, passing street people on benches and staying away from the lights from the road and buildings. He waited until Woodward was empty of vehicles, then darted across Detroit’s main east-west border. Now on the darker east side of the street and two blocks away from the police cars, Gil quickly headed to the location Anderson had given him. He moved with dread pounding at his temples. He might already be too late to save Betti. His distress must have dulled his instincts, because he was unaware of the person who had been trailing him since he left the tent city.
# # #
Reggie wasn’t sure why he’d followed, but he copied Gil’s circuitous path, staying at a safe distance. Gil was running now, and Reggie was winded and holding his side. Gil crossed back to Second Avenue, and pressed against the check cashing building. Wishing he’d brought his backpack, Reggie took up position behind a dumpster and watched Gil creep to the front window of the business, look in, move to the door, and open it.
Reggie stumbled across the street and to the front window. The interior of the store was dimly lit, but bright enough to see two men take Gil’s gun and push him down a hallway. Reggie, adrenaline pumping, ran as quickly as he could to where he’d last seen Charlene Mack.
# # #
Don sat in the back of the squad car. His insides were still sore, and he was fighting nausea. In front of the car, Charlie conferred with Detective Scott. Scott had called in a police helicopter to help with the search for Gil, and they were awaiting its arrival.
“We’ve blocked off Cass Avenue, Second Avenue, and Third Street from Warren on the north to the Fisher freeway on the south. That’ll force any vehicular traffic to detour to Woodward, where we’ve just placed squad cars on each corner. That’s in case someone’s coming into the Corridor to pick up Gil.”
“He’s going to be hard to find,” Charlie said. “He’s been trained in how not to be seen.”
“There are a lot of places to hide, but this time of night a man on foot will be easier to spot with a copter.”
Behind them, at the corner, there was a commotion. Charlie and Scott turned to see the officer at the blockade talking to someone. Don heard the raised voices, and peeked out of the vehicle.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. Looks like they have a man in custody,” Charlie said. “Let’s see what’s happening.”
The man was agitated, struggling with the officer and arguing. The cop finally pushed him face down over the squad car. That’s when Charlie heard her name. “I tell you I need to talk to Ms. Mack. It’s an emergency,” the familiar voice said. Reggie was cuffed and red-faced when Charlie stepped into the squabble.
“Reggie,” Charlie shouted. “What is it?”
“It’s Gil Acosta. Monty’s guys have him at the check cash place on Prentis Street. I saw them through the window. He’s in big trouble.”
# # #
Reggie rode in the back of a patrol car that careened toward Second and Prentis. It followed the car carrying Scott, Charlie, and Don. He licked dry lips and held his fist tightly against his stomach to stop his guts from burning. It had been almost thirty minutes since he’d seen two of those gang members force Gil away at gunpoint. But, as Reggie had recounted to Ms. Mack, Gil had hurried to the check cashing store and voluntarily stepped in the door.
“Why would he put his life in danger with no chance to fight back?” Reggie asked.
“I don’t know, but there must be a good reason,” Charlie said.
“I only wanted to find the person who killed Eddie. I didn’t know I’d put so many other people in harm’s way.”
“You can’t blame yourself,” Charlie said with a hand on Reggie’s shoulder. “The important thing now is to help Gil.”
Reggie leaned back into the seat of the police car, wishing he had his backpack and the bottle inside.
# # #
“Maybe we should turn off the sirens,” Charlie said, leaning toward Scott in the front seat.
“Right. That’s right. Douse the lights and sirens,” Scott ordered into the microphone. He’d already put the helicopter on standby.
They really hadn’t had time to formulate a plan, but Charlie knew Gil was being held in a building owned by Anderson—which meant they couldn’t come in guns blazing without expecting a terrible gunfight.
“Maybe we need the SWAT team,” Scott said, reading her mind.
“I doubt we have enough time to get them deployed,” Don said. “Anderson wants Gil dead.”
“Besides, we have to keep our communications off the dispatch channels. Anderson is probably monitoring those channels. We’ll need the element of surprise,” Charlie said.
They parked the squad car on Prentis Street, a half block from the check cashing store. At 3:30 a.m. there were no pedestrians or vehicles. Scott viewed the building through binoculars, then handed them to Charlie. The neon sign glowed in green box letters, and a security light in the lobby illuminated the mail-box area and a portion of the customer desk. The two adjacent buildings, an auto parts store and a dry cleaner, were both dark except for the red lights of internal security systems.
“I don’t see any cameras in front,” Charlie said.
Don had the binoculars now and grunted his reply. “Right.”
“Anything that’s going on is happening in the rear,” Scott said. “That’s where your guy, Reggie, said they took Gil. Let’s circle around and approach from the back.”
Scott signaled the driver who executed a three-point turn, lights extinguished, until they reached Cass. The patrol car carrying Reggie followed suit. When they approached the back of the building, they extinguished their lights again. From a half block away, the group could see three cars and a van in the alley: the orange Camaro, the dark Ford they knew belonged to Anderson, and the blue Corvette. One light was affixed to the brick over a metal door with no window. Charlie spotted three security cameras, and on the roofline was a single roll of razor wire.
“Do you think they have a sentry?” Scott asked.
Charlie scanned the area with the binoculars. “I don’t see anyone on the streets, but someone could be monitoring the cameras.”
“We have to take a chance,” Don said, ready to make a move.
“Okay. But let’s get a quick plan,” Charlie said. “Detective, do you have a way to get into that door?”
“We use battering rams. There should be no problem opening that door with impact force on the handle.”
“Good, and we can do the same thing with the front door?”
“Yep. With no problem.”
“We can use a distraction to draw their attention to the front door, and then break through the back,” Don said.
“Exactly,” Charlie responded.
Scott used his cell phone to update the officers in the follow cars. Reggie listened intently and then spoke up.
“Let me go to the front door,” Reggie said. “They’ve seen me before. I have access to one of the mailboxes. I’ll bang on the door, make a commotion. They’ll think I’m drunk.”
There was silence on both ends of the call until Charlie said, “I think that could work, Reggie. Thank you for volunteering.”
Chapter 17
As soon as Gil entered the building he was restrained and patted down; his gun was confiscated. One of the three men was Carlos, who led Gil down a dark hallway, then tu
rned suddenly and punched him hard between the eyes.
“You shot me, asshole,” Carlos growled and hit Gil again.
Gil pushed backward against the men holding his arms and kicked out, knocking Carlos to the floor. A fistfight ensued. One of the guys was a teenager, the other stocky but short. Within seconds, Gil was getting the best of the three goons. Then a doorway opened, flooding light into the hallway. MJ stepped forward, pointing an assault weapon at Gil.
“Get him in here,” MJ said in a soft, menacing voice.
Gil was shoved into a storeroom that served as a makeshift office, and he fell to one knee. Against the far wall he saw Betti tied to a chair, and he stood on wobbly legs. She lifted her head, eyes sparking with recognition, when Gil called her name. Her face was puffy and badly bruised, and a gag held her lips open in a grotesque smile. She moaned, and her head dropped to her chest.
“You bastard,” Gil said to the man he assumed was Detective William Anderson, who leaned back in his chair, his hands crossed behind his neck.
“Hello to you too, Gil Acosta. You’ve made a lot of trouble for me and cost me money. I have no use for people who fuck with my business.”
“Fuck you,” Gil spat out.
Gil’s profanity was met with a sharp blow against his shoulder, and another on the back of his head. MJ had hit him with the butt of the rifle. Gil registered the pain with a grimace and a buckling of the knees, and a second later the loss of balance and consciousness.
“Why can’t you control yourself?” Anderson screamed at MJ. “You say you want to be in charge, but you don’t use your head.”
MJ retreated from the cop’s disapproving scowl. He was not a man you should anger. Anderson had made the gang watch as he personally strangled and then burned the seventeen-year-old courier who had lost L2D drugs to the man they now held captive. The only reason Carlos was still alive was because he’d taken a bullet to protect Anderson’s property. MJ leaned against the wall, watching Anderson prop five-hundred-dollar Ferragamo shoes on top of the desk. For two months, Anderson had systematically murdered street people—those he’d labeled “bums”—as a demonstration that he was not to be crossed. MJ admired Anderson even more than his father, and it was the reason he’d burned that crazy witch woman. Monty had looked away in embarrassment when he bragged to the gang about burning Carla while Anderson had smiled with approval.
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