by Lee Lamothe
This square tiled room, right now, was perfect in the moment.
They lazed in the tub. He told her about his run-up with Willy Wong, how he thought Willy had called the Jank and set him up to work the Chinatown homicides. “Don’t know why. I mean, like he gives a shit about Chinatown. Probably he wants to show some people that he’s got some control over the investigation.”
“Yes, I met Willy today, too. Him and some thugs were standing around, intimidating witnesses me and Brian were trying to talk to. We braced them. I had to take some of his face, a little.” She laughed. “Literally, in the case of one of his goons.”
“Good.”
“Brian did good. He’s the one took out the henchman.”
“What? He run over him?”
“Nope. Scalp-and-smear. Old Brian can sure get into it when he wants to. What did you and Marty get up to?”
“Not much. She solved the Chinatown murders. Like, eighteen of them. Got some of the guys anyway. They’re going.” He told her about the interviews, short and funny. “But she’s a little unhappy. She’s no further ahead on the dead ladies case, unless one of them cracks.”
“Are we going to break it, Ray?”
“Well,” he said, shifting her around a little, “not in the next ten minutes.”
Martinique Frost called as Djuna Brown was in the bathroom re-spiking her hair.
Ray Tate picked up the phone.
“It’s Marty, Ray. I guess you had the same idea, huh? Drop by, see if Djuna need a ride to the briefing?”
“Yeah, it was on my way from home to downtown.”
“Not if you had to go through the Eight at Harrison, it wasn’t, buddy. Truck on truck fatality. Nice try, though.”
“No, I saw the slowdown and ramped off early at Erie.”
She laughed and said, away from the phone, “Told you.”
“Jesus, Marty, there’s no wreck on the Eight, is there?”
“I’ve locked up guys went for that one, Ray. Heavy, heavy guys, so don’t feel bad. Me and Traffic man, here, are heading in. We’re going to pick up sandwiches and stuff, get some beer on the way.”
“You guys are, ah, together?”
“Sure, Ray. That’s what adults do. When you shy kids graduate high school, you’ll see it’s a whole different scene.” She hung up, laughing, sounding young and carefree.
Naked, Djuna Brown came out of the washroom with her holster in her hand and pawed through the closet. Ray Tate, in his undershorts, watched her. He hadn’t called in sick in ages, hadn’t missed time at work except for when he’d been gunned the previous year. He felt like maybe a cold was coming on. Maybe a toothache.
“Marty and Brian are jammin’.” He felt a little smug. “No question.”
She gave him a secret smile. “Yeah, so?”
“Well,” he said, “that was quick.” He wandered toward her as she picked up his sweatshirt, smelling it. “They just met. Not like us.” He reached out for her.
“Cool it, beatnik. I can get to my gun before you get to me.” She looked at his rumpled clothes. “Those things smell like today. Smoke. What are you, Ray? Large, extra-large?” She picked up the telephone and pressed a button.
“Yes, Inspector.”
“Yes, I need some things from the gift shop.”
“I’ll put you through, Inspector.”
When a polite woman answered, Djuna Brown asked if they had any sweats, large. “Grey, if you got ’em. To bring out his eyes.” She listened. “How about a light jacket? Sure, the hotel crest is okay, proud to show it off … Great, send them up and you can charge them to the State room account.”
They cruised the long way to the Jank. There were no Volunteers on the streets. At the gates of Chinatown a memorial was being created. Incense, candles, photographs, flowers. Buddhist monks in saffron robes waved incense in the air. A young man with a shaven head slowly tapped at a drum. The flowers were huge and colourful: traditional yellow chrysanthemums and pink lilies. Off to side was a group of a dozen masked young Chinese youths in kung-fu school T-shirts being harangued by a man in a black leather jacket. There were fists in the air. A black family of six in dark Sunday suits and church-going dresses kneeled on the edge of the memorial, bibles in hand.
“I can’t believe what happened here, Ray. In this day and age. It’s the equivalent of lynching.” Djuna Brown leaned past him to look at the growing memorial in awe.
“They’re down, the fuckers who did this. Marty got ’em. They’re fucked.”
“That won’t make this right, though.”
“Nothing will make this right, except time.” He shrugged. “We have to concentrate on the poor dead ladies. Marty needs it. She has to close it.” He’d told Djuna Brown about Marty Frost wearing the hat for the fuck-up on the serial rape case back when she worked Tin Town. “I think she thinks if she gets justice for the dead ladies she’ll undo what she didn’t do, but should have done, with the serial rapist.”
“Do you think the doer for the dead ladies is one of the Volunteers? One of the ones you guys got today?”
“Maybe, but maybe they’re too stupid, the two guys that talked to us. They had no idea what we were talking about. But if it was a Volunteer, they probably know who did it, even if they don’t know they know.”
Chapter 15
The chief’s task force showed up dressed for night work. Men in dark grey windbreakers over T-shirts, baggy jeans or khakis, running shoes, and women in track clothing and flat shoes straggled across the parking lot behind Jank. Most were carrying plastic or paper bags. Some furtively carried bright red-and-white styro coolers and stashed them behind the front seats. Everyone had a mask around their throats.
Marty Frost and Brian Comartin were leaning on the trunk of one of the ghosters. She wore a fresh beige pantsuit, but Comartin was in the same baggy stuff he’d worn all day. That told Ray Tate the story.
Marty Frost had a small smile for them as they climbed out of the Taurus. She ran her eyes up and down Ray Tate in his promotional Whistler Hotel garb, and her little smile turned into a smirk. Djuna Brown was in a sleeveless dark blue sweatshirt, blue jeans, and her slippers.
“What’s that?” Comartin pointed to a convoy of heavy black four-by-fours creeping into the lot, followed by five black crash cars, each with four chargers aboard. The vehicles stopped beside the fire doors and men and a few women in black head-to-toe fatigues disembarked. Most carried automatic rifles and duffle bags. Gas masks, helmets with visors, cord-cuffs, and other doo dads of police work hung from their utility belts. Their sidearms were strapped to their thighs. A few carried spare keys: long stainless steel battering rams with two handles on each.
“Suppression teams,” Ray Tate said. “I think maybe those fools we took out of Chinatown gave up some intell.” He looked at Comartin cheerfully. “Hope everybody got a lot of rest. It’s gonna be a long night of knocks and locks.”
In the briefing room, the chief of detectives and Hambone Hogarth were at the podium comparing notes. Five floor plans of residences were on the easels; the photographs of the dead ladies were gone. Nine photographs, most of them mugshots with numbers under the chins, of men with shaven heads and one woman were tacked to a corkboard, stacked like a pyramid.
Protocol dictated that the Chief of Ds had to speak first. He didn’t have much that anybody with a radio or TV or Internet didn’t already know. “There have been a lot of developments today, not least is the arson murders in Chinatown. We’ve managed to turn two of the suspected participants. Both have given up intell. Tonight we’re going to act on it. The chief and the mayor are having a press conference at nine in the morning. They’ve got a lot to talk about. Three in custody charged with hate-murder by arson, times eighteen and more charges to come. We’re shorthanded, we’re all tired, but we have to close this tonight.” He stepped back. “Inspector.”
Hambone Hogarth had changed his suit into something just as wrinkled. His tie flapped from his pocket. He’d sha
ved, but with patches. His hair was a mess and his voice was hoarse. “We’re breaking off the surveillance op. We know who we’re after. We’ll hold back on the decoys on the dead women … the dead ladies case. Tonight we’re hitting the homes of the main players in the Volunteers. We’ve got search warrants on their residences. This stuff is time-sensitive. We have to go, all at once.”
Beside Ray Tate, Marty Frost stood up so quickly her folding chair flipped over. “What about the dead women, Inspector? What does this do for them? We got to put out a notification. What if the raids don’t get the guy that did them? What if he’s already out there and not at the addresses we’re hitting? What if he’s not a Volunteer? Who wears it, then, this time?” She pointed at the podium. “I want someone up there, right now, right here, to officially decline to notify.”
The red-headed gunslinger from the holdup squad, with three notches on his grip, stood up two rows ahead. “Yeah, I’m with Marty on this one, Hambone. What’s it hurt? We put out a public alert, we go out and do the job, and if we get him, great. If not, you don’t have a bunch of citizens walking around like sheep and maybe he at least takes a break.”
One of the Chief of Ds’ sycophants stood up at the back of the room. “Downside is, he leaves town, takes his act on the road. What if he pops up in Chicago?”
The gunslinger barely turned his head. “Fuck Chicago. Chicago can kiss my red-headed ass. How about it, Ham, we going with an alert or what?”
Hambone Hogarth knew he was being fitted for a hat in front of four dozen witnesses. He was respected, but with four dozen pairs of ears hearing him decline to notify the public, there was absolutely no hope for secrecy. Someone would rat. Someone owed a newspaper reporter some favour, somewhere. Someone was banging a television producer. And if there was another negligence enquiry you couldn’t expect dozens of people to put their hands on the black book and lie and risk their rank and job and pension. He stepped aside and turned to the Chief of Ds. “I’m operational, that’s policy. Chief?”
The Chief of Ds gave him a simmering look but made a wide smile at the rows of faces. “Okay, we’re a little ahead of you on this one, Marty. Public affairs is working on the alert. It’ll be ready by tomorrow morning. If we get the guy tonight, it’ll be moot. If we don’t, then we’ll be ready to go, we’ll alert-out and go to decoys, show that we’re on top of it. Personally, I think it’s one of the dummies taken in this morning in Chinatown. If not them, then someone in the intell they provided.” He gave Martinique Frost a friendly smile. “Nice work on that one, by the way, Marty.”
“If he goes again, Chief, you’re going to wear it. I’m gonna fuck you up.”
“Okay, I know, Marty.” He was patronizing. “We’re all tired.”
“Fuck you.” She picked up her chair and sat down, ignoring him.
Hambone Hogarth stepped back to the podium. “Okay, we’re taking doors tonight. We have five target premises and we’re hitting them all at once. We have a warrant for each residence. Warrants include garages, sheds, doghouses, birdcages, everything. You’ll each have to read the warrant so you’ll know what you can and can’t do, what to take and what to leave. But you won’t be leaving much. Photograph everything before you take a room apart, then photograph it afterwards. Photograph every person in the residence. Everybody gets read their rights. We’re going hard on this, but we’re doing it right. Each raiding party will have a suppression team, with one officer designated as a bomb officer. The STs will breach, secure, capture, and remove occupants. They’ll be turned over to uniformed transport. Children’s welfare will have a male and female at each site in case there are minors on scene. Animal care services will have a team at each site. After the individuals are removed and sent to Sector Four, the STs will secure the perimeter and you guys go to work. Essentially,” he said, picking up a copy of a warrant and reading from it, “we’re looking for firearms and paraphernalia, explosive devices and materials, documentation of conspiracy, and this includes address books, computers and paraphernalia, manuals, right down to post-it notes on refrigerators. If it’s on paper and someone’s written something on it, we take it. Scorched earth. If you aren’t sure, the leader of your team will have a direct line to a State’s attorney. Don’t just think of things related to the firebombings in Chinatown and the murders of the women. Think what might be. What might be planned. We’re stepping into homegrown terrorism territory, so think dirty. When the federales get word of this they’re going to want in. We want it wrapped up and publicly announced, then they can come in.”
Someone called, “What about vehicles?”
“Vehicles are named in the warrants. We want any GPS or documentation regarding purchase of gasoline or on-road service. There’ll be a fleet of wreckers ready to hook them up and drag them away. If a vehicle listed is on the property, it goes. If it isn’t named in the warrant, it gets seized anyway as an attached or extended. If there’s a vehicle not listed or described in the warrant, say, parked on public roadway but possibly connected to the residence, not registered to a neighbour, the vehicle will be secured and the evidence officer will call the State’s attorney to amend the warrant. Questions, obs? Yeah, Ray?”
Ray Tate stood up. “We don’t want to forget our dead ladies in this. I know this is a big deal, but the Volunteers are coming apart, no matter what. Nothing to do with the murders of the women goes into after-matter, the oh-yeah file, an afterthought.”
“Noted, Ray. You guys, everybody, flag anything you find that Ray’s team can use. We’re doing the Chinatown fires and the women murders as a hate crime, one big conspiracy. If you’re talking to anyone stupid enough to talk without a lawyer, drop in a question about the women. Can’t hurt. Okay, Ray, does that do it?”
Ray Tate sat down. Martinique Frost patted his leg. “Thanks, man.”
“We dragged this whole thing in, we gotta get some slack. They’ll go, Marty.”
The Chief of Ds stepped forward. “Just two notes. We wouldn’t have any of this without Marty Frost. She sweated and moved two of the Chinatown arsonists in record time today.” He raised his fist in the air and made a short punch toward her. “Kudos and daps, Marty. And, you guys, when you’re bringing your bodies into Sector Four and if you see some media there, don’t think you have to hurry them inside.” He looked smug. “I know on good authority the sally-port door is malfunctioning and won’t open, so the arrested individuals will have to be walked across the parking lot. So that means, cuff ’em in the back. Nobody gets to play shy.”
The plan was to set up an hour before the coordinated raids. Ray Tate and Djuna Brown were in the Taurus, and Martinique Frost and Brian Comartin rode in a black Chrysler. They were parked dog-end, driver’s door to driver’s door two blocks away from their target. A pair of Intelligence guys in a gas-company van, with a rotating light on the top, were down the block with an eye on a brick bungalow with an old red immaculate Reliant in the driveway. The Reliant was in the warrants. One of the Intell guys broadcast, “Site three set up lights in house and individuals in motion inside, note doghouse visible at east side rear of building.”
“I got it.” Martinique Frost called animal control on her cellphone and gave the address to a dispatcher. After a few seconds, she disconnected and went on the air. “Okay, all, pit bulls, two of them, noise and run-free complaints. The house is flagged as a hazard visit.”
“Okay, thanks. First man in? Take a scattergun. Grind me up a couple of pounds, extra lean.”
“Ten-four. No free bites.”
“No free bites.”
Marty Frost behind the wheel of the Chrysler reached behind the passenger seat and pulled up a shopping bag. “Mafia sandwiches. Sang-weed-ges, from The Boot. I got veal and peps, I got meat-a-balls, all on crusty, and I got, oh, I got a salad, no dressing. I guess that’s for my poetry man.” She gave Ray Tate, behind the wheel of the Taurus, a smirk and handed the salad and a plastic fork to Brian Comartin. “Next, the gold chains and the puffy Conver
ses.”
Djuna Brown said, “I dunno. You shoulda seen him take down one of Willy Wong’s boys today. He spackled that wall with Chinaman cheek. All cop. If I wasn’t stuck with the beatnik here, I’d give you a run.”
“Keep your hands off my man, Statie.”
Brian Comartin beamed.
They sat comfortable, eating.
Ray Tate said, “Brian, when you were in Europe, you dug it, right?”
“Barcelona’s my place, but for you art types, Paris. City of Lights. You haven’t lived, Ray, until you’ve sat on the Boulevard St. Michel at dusk, drinking champagne like water and eating oysters like peanuts. We get justice for the ladies, I’m booking all my sick days and vacations and I’m, we’re, I think, over to Spain for two months.”
“Think you can live on half a twenty-five pension? Not like a king, but maybe like an artist?”
“No question. A bun and coffee for breakfast, a sandwich for lunch, and at night you go for broke. Beef stew, cassoulet, some duck confit. Lots of wine. You get the prix fixe. Then you sit at a café and watch the parade.” He looked at Ray Tate. “Ray, I’m not kidding. If you’ve got an artistic bone in your body, that place will spark it up. You thinking of going?”
“Yeah, I think, after this. Another twenty-one months, I go three-quarters pension. Hopefully my ex will be remarried by then, stop claiming the alimony. How about women? Will I have trouble getting hooked up in Paris? I hate being, you know, lonely.”
Djuna Brown said, “Asshole.”
“Hustlers,” Martinique Frost laughed, “the both of them.”
A few minutes before the appointed hour, they watched a taxi go past the front of the house and stop up the block. The brake lights flared three times and two men in raid jackets with shotguns exited the back seat. The gas-company van slid away and the taxi continued on. Immediately, a heavy-duty four-by-four pulled across the driveway, blocking in the Reliant, and four black-clad figures bailed out the four doors and raced up the steps, one of them with the spare key on his shoulder. From a block away Ray Tate, Djuna Brown, Martinique Frost, and Brian Comartin heard a voice scream, “Police warrant open up now.” And then immediately the door went in under the key and without pause there were two shotgun blasts, boom boom.
