White Heat

by Paul D. Marks

  “Truth is, I could probably use the company. But you might be wasting your time, so why don’t you give me a hint as to why you want this face-to-face with me.”

  “I shall provide you with far more than a hint, Charlie Floyd. You are going to help me capture Francis Hoyt with enough evidence to put him back where he belongs.”

  Manny Perez

  I love America. It is the land of the free and the home of the brave. America has been very good to me and when people are not good to it I become a very angry man and this is not a very pretty picture. Ask my wife, Esther, and she will tell you this is true. This is why I decided to join the Miami Police Department when I arrived here from Cuba almost twenty years ago. It was an opportunity for me to give back to a country that took me in and hugged me to its breast.

  I like order. If I see a thread dangling from a sweater or other item of clothing I need to pull on it. My wife, who is a born and bred American, originally from Chicago, calls me a “neat freak.” She says I am very close to having obsessive compulsive disorder. I do not believe that is true. I just like to see things in their proper place and I like to see people behave in a proper manner. That, I am sure, explains why I do what I do and why I love what I do. It is not the job I dreamed of having when I grew up as a child in Havana, but now it is my dream job.

  The idea to call Charlie Floyd, a man whom I came to admire because once he starts a job he does not stop until it comes to a proper end, came to me in a dream. Yes, a dream. I had not thought of Charlie Floyd in years but when I went to bed thinking about Francis Hoyt and how I was going to apprehend him and bring him to justice, I woke up thinking about Charlie Floyd. I do not believe in coincidences and I do not believe in visions. But yes, I suppose you could say that Charlie Floyd came to me in a vision.

  We are two very different people, Charlie Floyd and me. But I think that if Charlie Floyd saw a dangling thread he would also pull on it. Francis Hoyt is a dangling thread and that dangling thread must be pulled. But I needed help to pull it and that is why I called upon Charlie Floyd.

  There is no doubt in my mind that Charlie Floyd and I can bring this situation to a satisfying conclusion. That explains why I already had my airline ticket in my hand when I called my old friend. I knew that once I met with him and I told him the story of Francis Hoyt and what he has done and what he will do if not apprehended, how he insults every person who believes in law and order, how he laughs in our faces because we cannot catch him, he could not refuse to help me find him, capture him, and bring him before the bar of justice.

  When I disembarked from the airplane at Kennedy Airport Charlie Floyd was waiting for me at the baggage claim area. I had not seen him in almost five years but I recognized him immediately. He was wearing the very same cowboy hat and cowboy boots he was wearing when I met him in Miami five years ago. He claims he does not look like John Wayne and perhaps he is right when it comes to his facial features, but as far as I am concerned he is John Wayne, and that is probably something I would think even if he were not wearing a cowboy hat and cowboy boots.

  We greeted each other with a hug. We must have made a strange pair, since I am five-foot-seven in my stocking feet and Charlie Floyd is at least six-foot-two. When I informed my wife I was going to see him she smiled and said, “Mutt and Jeff.” I was not familiar with what she meant but when she explained the reference I had to smile, too.

  “Good to see you again, Manny,” he said.

  “The feeling is very mutual, Charlie Floyd. And I am very sorry I got you up so early.”

  “That’s okay. I’m an early riser. It’s a habit I can’t seem to break. Car’s parked in the lot, not far from here. But I should warn you it’s a bit of a drive back up to Connecticut. This time of day we shouldn’t hit much traffic. Still, you can count on about an hour and a half. I guess that’ll give you plenty of time to fill me in on why you’re here and how you think I can help you. But maybe you ought to visit the head first.”

  “That sounds A-okay to me,” I said, making a circle with my thumb and forefinger, something I learned from my son, Javier, when he was only three years old. “And not to worry, I have already visited, as you call it, ‘the head.’”

  “You drive a very nice car, Charlie Floyd,” I said, as we buckled up and pulled out of the parking area.

  “I like to make a good impression, Manny. No point driving around in a piece of shit when you can afford a nice ride. You been up here before?”

  “Once. I came with my wife, Esther. We stayed for a long weekend. We went to the top of the Empire State Building, to the Statue of Liberty, down to Ground Zero, to Radio City Music Hall, into Central Park. We even saw a Broadway show. Cabaret. It was very entertaining.”

  “Sounds like you just about covered everything.”

  “It is a wonderful city though a little too noisy and messy for my taste. But my wife, who comes from a big city herself, Chicago—” he winked, “—that toddling town, found it quite enjoyable. I promised her I would bring her back some day. But today is not that day. Today I come alone to see you.”

  As we pulled onto the highway Charlie Floyd turned to me and said, “Okay, Manny, now’s as good a time as any to tell me exactly why you’re here. Tell me more about this Francis Hoyt guy, why you’re looking for him and where I fit in?”

  “Francis Hoyt is nothing less than a master thief, Charlie Floyd. He has been taking things that don’t belong to him since he was a child. Candy from candy stores, bicycles from neighborhood children, wallets from pocketbooks of unsuspecting ladies. If there was something of value, something he wanted, he did not purchase it like the rest of us, he stole it. Over the years, he worked his way up from candy and bicycles to jewelry and now to antique silver. After years of practicing his trade he became so proficient that he was stealing hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of jewelry a night. His modus operandi was one of genius. He would break into the homes of the wealthy at the perfect time. Dinnertime. When the wealthy homeowners were home, downstairs, enjoying their meal.”

  “Sounds a little crazy to me. Why the hell didn’t he wait till after they went to sleep or better yet, when the house was empty? Less chance of being caught in the act, no?”

  “When it comes to stealing, he is smarter than we are, Charlie Floyd. If the house was empty then perhaps all the jewelry would not be there, especially the most desired pieces. Instead, they would most likely be worn by the owners on their night out, or packed away in suitcases with them if they were on vacation. But if they were home, ah, then he knew exactly where the jewelry would be. Upstairs, in the bedroom, of course. In the early evening the family would be downstairs having dinner, watching television, playing board games, whatever families do at that time of night. The upstairs would be empty. And at dinnertime, it was far less likely that the alarm system would be activated.”

  “I see what you mean, Manny. This guy is obviously a thinking man’s thief.”

  “Precisely, Charlie Floyd. And that is what makes him so successful, so dangerous, and so difficult to apprehend.”

  “How does he gain entry?”

  “In addition to being brilliant in the art of crime, Francis Hoyt is an extremely athletic man. He climbs like a monkey, runs like a jaguar, and he is strong like a lion. To get into the houses he would climb a drainpipe, a column or a trellis. And if there were no drainpipe or trellis he would use his skills as a free climber, using mountain climbing apparatus. He is not a big man. He is only five feet four inches tall, and he weighs no more than one hundred and thirty pounds and most of that weight is comprised of muscle.

  “Once inside the house, on the second floor, he knows exactly where to go and exactly what to take. He does not bother with jewelry that is fake or of dubious value. He only takes what he knows he can sell. And since most thieves are fortunate if they get ten or twenty cents on the dollar, he is very discerning as to the quality of the jewelry he steals.”

  “I’m impressed,” said Charli
e Floyd, and I could tell that he was. But there was so much more to tell him.

  “He leaves absolutely no forensic evidence, Charlie Floyd. Not a fingerprint, not a hair, not a thread. He appears dressed like a ninja, all in black, with a black mask covering his entire face, except for slits for his eyes and holes just largest enough for him to breathe where his nose and mouth would be. He never comes armed. All he carries is a diamond tester to check the jewels, a long screwdriver to pop out windowpanes, and a small pen-size flashlight. He slips through second-story windows, almost always in the master bedroom and after he is done, he sometimes run for miles to get to where he parked his getaway car. Sometimes, he has been known to even take public transportation.”

  “If he’s never been caught in the act, how do you know how he dresses, what he brings with him, how he gets away?”

  “No plan is perfect, Charlie Floyd. On occasion, he has encountered his victims and they have given what description they could. And when he has encountered his victims he has always been the gentleman. When a woman once complained that he had tied her hands too tight with her husband’s neckties, he loosened them. When another woman began to suffer an asthma attack, he gallantly handed over her inhalator.”

  “A gentleman bandit, huh?”

  “Make no mistake, Francis Hoyt is no gentleman. Under the right circumstances, he is capable of violence. He has been brought in for questioning on suspicion several times. He has even spent a night or two in jail. But there has never been enough evidence to hold him for long. It is possible he never would have spent time in prison at all if he had not made one crucial mistake.”

  “Which was?”

  “He stopped working alone.”

  Click here to learn more about Second Story Man by Charles Salzberg.

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  Here is a preview from Exacting Justice, the first book in the De La Cruz Case Files by TG Wolff…

  October 31

  How do I feel?

  The lady on the phone thinks I’m depressed. She’s wrong. This is normal. When you lose the one you love most, you’re not supposed to smile. This journal was her idea. She said to ask myself daily “how do I feel” as a way to get in touch with myself.

  I tried to explain but she didn’t get it. I don’t feel. Haven’t since the day you died.

  I do think. Lying in bed this morning, I figured out five ways to kill myself. I can take pain, I just want it fast. I don’t have a gun but it’s easy enough to get. Point, click, done.

  A knife is just as good if you know the right place to put it. Adrenaline makes the heart pump harder, draining you until it’s time to sleep.

  Pills. I have bottles in the bathroom. Sleeping. Pain. Heavy duty pain. Just float higher and higher until I drift away.

  Poison. Got gallons of cleaner in the shop. Wonder how that one that smells like oranges tastes.

  A bridge column at eighty miles an hour would do it. Just drift to the right. WHAM. Done.

  Chapter One

  Tuesday, November 1

  Detective Jesus De La Cruz parked his police issue behind a black-and-white. He drained his go cup, bolstering the four measly hours of sleep he’d gotten with some high-test Colombian before he stepped into the ugly day. Mother Nature blanketed Cleveland with thick, ominous clouds. Welcome to winter in Northeast Ohio. The gloomy day matched his mood, and it fit the neighborhood. Urban blight had struck hard at the corner of southeast Cleveland called Slavic Village, leaving it pock-marked with ignored, abused, and run-down homes. For every spot of blight though, there was a meticulously-cared-for house loved down to the last nail, a ray of sunshine fighting through the clouds.

  The dirty white house in front of him was not the latter. It needed a fresh coat of paint, and the big front window was nothing but plywood. The gate was missing from the fence, and concrete sections of the sidewalk and driveway were crooked, cracked, and crumbled. Grass grew in cracks, but the lawn was bare.

  The house wasn’t all grim. A bright orange pumpkin, hand-drawn, with crooked teeth, grinned from the yellow front door.

  “What good are you?” The high-pitched cry escaped the house with the small boy who slipped out the door.

  Cruz walked between the bumper of his car and one with the driver’s side window shattered. The caller reported a drive-by shooting the night before. The car needed to be swept for evidence. Across the dirt passing for a tree lawn, over the broken sidewalk, he reached the small walk to the house. From behind the thick porch post, the boy watched him approach. Cruz winked, trying to ease the worry in those young eyes—or was it suspicion?

  Inside the house, a woman pitched forward at the waist, radiating hostility as she glared silently at the uniformed officer. The frenzied laughter of the Saturday morning cartoons filled the space between the two.

  Cruz stepped into the small living room and took control. “Why did you wait until this morning to call?”

  She jumped, her eyes wide at finding a second man in her house. Tall and scrawny, she wore pink sweatpants and a yellow T-shirt with a faded rainbow. Her dishwater-blonde hair poked out in tufts from a hastily tied tail. With a few more pounds, she could have been an attractive. “Who are you?”

  “Detective Jesus De La Cruz. Could you turn the TV off?” The anorexic figures in primary colors disappeared, taking the noise with them. “Thank you. Officer, run the plates on the car in front of the house and get crime scene to sweep it.”

  “Yes, sir,” the uniform said and set to his duties.

  An impatient foot tapped. “You need to arrest the asshole who shot up my house.”

  He nodded as though there were all the time in the world. “I need some information to get started. You’re Mrs. Parker, correct?”

  The woman wrapped her arms across her stomach, her stance changing in a blink from aggressive to uncertain. “Hayley Parker.” Her gaze fell to the floor and stayed there.

  He had the distinct impression of a dog kicked too many times. “Why don’t we sit, and you tell me what happened. I like the pumpkin on the door.” He paid the compliment to put her at ease, to show he was on her side, and because he liked the pumpkin.

  “Jace likes to draw and stuff.”

  “He’s talented.” With a sweep of his arm, he invited her to sit on her couch. He took the matching armchair. “Tell me what happened.”

  “Someone shot at my house.” She sat ramrod straight and repeatedly looked to the place where the picture window should have been. “Is this going to take long?”

  “No,” he said, because it’s the answer she wanted. “This was yesterday, Halloween. What time?”

  Her head shook back-and-forth, back-and-forth. “I don’t know. I wasn’t looking at a clock.”

  “Tell me what you were doing.”

  “Jace and I were in the kitchen. I was making him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to eat before trick-or-treating. He had his Halloween costume on—he was Spiderman—and climbing on the chair. I told him to get down before he fell. That’s when I heard a pop and glass broke. I pulled Jace to the floor.”

  “Trick-or-treating began at six. Was it five? Five-thirty?

  “Five-thirty, I guess. Closer to it anyways.”

  “How many shots were fired?”

  “I don’t know. Four. Maybe five. I wasn’t counting. Can’t you—”

  Shouting from the front porch cut her short. Low, bass notes filled with male bravado. Small words. Harsh tones.

  The woman looked to the front door, covering her mouth with trembling fingers. “Christopher’s home.”

  The front door burst open, and a lanky, white man stormed in. “Hayley. What the fuck did you do?” Christopher Parker stood a shade under six-foot, probably went all of a buck-sixty, but walked with the swagger of a stud.

  Cruz stood between the wife and the cause of her anxiety. “Mr. Parker?” He asked the question, matching last names were not a given.

  Blocked from his wife, Parker’s gaze snapped to Cruz’s
face. Then his eyes narrowed. “Do I know you?”

  “Detective De La Cruz. Your wife reported shots fired at your home yesterday. Were you here when it happened?” Cruz dismissed the scrutinizing gaze and repeated the question. “Sir, were you here at the time of the shooting?”

  Parker pressed his lips together like a four-year-old determined not to eat peas.

  “Just tell him, Christopher. Let him get the bastard for what he did.” Her voice quivered but had the boldness she used on the uniform.

  Parker side-stepped and loomed over his wife. “I told you I would handle it. Don’t involve the cops in my business.”

  “He shot at me, Christopher.” She stood now, shouting back at her husband. “Me and Jace. I want him to pay.”

  Cruz raised his hand to stop Parker from silencing his wife. “Mrs. Parker, did you see who shot at the house?”

  The show of strength didn’t last long. Suddenly reticent, Hayley picked at the hem of her T-shirt. “I didn’t, like, see him, but I know it was him. I know.”

  And that was the end. Hayley Parker shut down under her husband’s reprimanding glare. She retreated into a shell where she couldn’t remember the last twenty-four hours and wouldn’t sign anything. Cruz left reluctantly not because he enjoyed their company, but because he was certain there was about to be an incident of domestic violence. He had done his best to warn off Parker but doubted it was good enough.

  Jace Parker sat on the porch with his chin resting on his knees. He watched Cruz come out of his house with eyes too old.

  “You’re Jace, right? I’m Detective De La Cruz.” He walked down the steps, intentionally standing on the walk so the boy wouldn’t have to look up. “You can call me Cruz.”

  Jace had his mother’s coloring and spectacularly large, blue eyes.

  He kept it casual, using the boy as an excuse to stay close to the house. Just in case. “Did you have a good Halloween?”