Atom Ant scurried in, under the throw, and landed a decent punch to my ribs. I staggered back, vision blurring red with pain, and then blindly swung a roundhouse that connected and sent him sprawling over the desk top.
The other hulk stampeded toward me, I got a shot into his massive chin, but it had zero effect. And then I was being thrown through the air, thrown over Shorty, arcing a ridiculous distance before I landed, head-first, into the monitor I’d tossed seconds before.
For an instant I thought about putting my hands down to break the fall, only to realize a second later that I was already sprawled out on the cold floor, my head feeling light and heavy all at the same time.
Then I wasn’t anywhere anymore.
When I regained my senses, ten minutes, an hour, a day later, I realized I was being pinned to the floor by the two behemoths. One held my arms. The other leaned on my legs, like he was spotting me for sit-ups. I pushed against them, pushed until my aching head felt ready to burst.
No good. I wasn’t going to break free.
“You stepped in some serious shit, Mr. Chapa.” The tiny warrior had my wallet in one hand, my press card in the other.
“People know I’m here,” I lied.
Pipsqueak grunted, which might have been his way of laughing.
“Get him in the chair.”
I never felt myself being lifted off the floor, it was painless and far too easy. The rapid descent into the office chair was another matter.
“Get some duct tape and bind him.”
“Can’t do that,” the younger looking giant said. “We used it all on the guy in the closet.”
“Oh, you’re fucking kidding me! Then just hold him down.”
A pair of paws like industrial presses pushed down against my shoulders.
“Seriously, it’s procedure when I’m reporting a story, like a chain of command. My editor, my assistant, other reporters, they all know I’m here. You kill me, the police will trace it to you.”
“They won’t trace nothing to me. In fact, we got a witness, says he saw you kill Preston. Ain’t that right, Angel?”
The muscle-head who wasn’t busy fusing my shoulders to my hips nodded. “This is the guy I saw at Preston’s store.”
I squinted, picturing him in a Cardinals cap. He was the guy leafing through the comics.
“You’re Angel Batara,” I said.
“How does he know me, Marty?”
I stared at the short guy, finally putting his face to his name.
“So you’re Marty Cleven. You don’t own this place, do you?”
“No, been abandoned for years. I used to work here.”
“Why did you kill Preston? He was the mastermind behind your credit card scheme, wasn’t he?”
“My idea, all of it,” Cleven said, jabbing himself in the chest with his thumb. “I’m the one who taught him how to spot the marks with money, to get their card numbers without putting them through the system.”
I recalled the old fashioned carbon gadget Preston had used on my Visa when I bought the doll. If he never called it in the transaction would be totally off the grid, no electronic trail.
“He steals the numbers, and Batara supplies the blanks,” I said. “Let me guess, Angel, you own that plastics shop.”
Batara nodded. “Dad did. It got shut down.”
“And how are you involved?” I asked the other steroid junkie, mostly to keep them talking.
“I’m his brother,” the guy pressing me into the chair said.
I kicked into interview mode.
“What’s your name?”
“Mario, Mario Batara.”
“I’m sensing you two are close, closer than most brothers.”
They looked at each other, then nodded in agreement.
“So why did you guys start killing people?”
“Stealing cards isn’t enough,” Cleven was back in charge. “The card companies can track them. Any unusual activity gets reported.”
“And the accounts would eventually be suspended.”
“After a few grand, yes, Mr. Chapa, But then I got an idea. If we had the card, and the card holder, they could be persuaded to call the company, make sure the card wasn’t deactivated. They could even get the limit raised.”
“Enough to buy almost anything,” I said. “Like a shiny new Corvette.”
“After the money and the goods got moved around some, sure. The only problem was, once we reached the limit, the card holders were, let’s say, a liability.”
“And Preston didn’t want to be involved, so you killed him.”
Cleven laughed. “Preston was in it all the way. But he started running a little side game, so he had to go.”
“How did Emil figure into it?”
“That dumb ass Preston thought the guy would go for it, he was wrong. It’s all good, though. We figured we’d frame the old guy for Preston’s murder, that’s why we stuck the pog in his mouth. The old man was known for dealing in that shit.”
“Help me,” Emil moaned. The sound of his wounded voice made me want to rip these bastards’ hearts out.
“Shut that door,” Cleven said.
Angel complied.
Cleven continued as though the old man in the closet never existed. “But now we don’t need to do that. Now we can frame you for all the murders.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Sure it does. Angel saw you kill Preston. You broke in here, where we were playing some cards with our good buddy Emil, and you killed him too. Then, in a fit of despair, you killed yourself by swallowing a pog.”
That was Angel’s cue to pull a round piece of metal out of his pocket.
“But you guys also broke into this place.”
“Your point?”
“To play cards with Emil?”
“That’s it, I’ve had enough of your bullshit chatter,” Cleven turned to Angel. “Let’s do this.”
How could these guys even think this could work? Then again, if I’ve learned one thing in my professional life it’s that criminals aren’t the sharpest fellows on the block. That’s why they’re criminals.
“Marty, I’ve got another idea.” Angel was still holding the slammer.
“Really?” Cleven didn’t seem like the sort of guy who appreciated other views.
“We were going to pin Preston’s murder on the old man anyway.”
“Right.”
“Let’s kill this reporter guy, do the pog thing, and suicide the old man.”
I could see that Cleven wanted to disagree with his cohort, but it wasn’t coming together in his tiny muscle-cramped mind.
“Fine. How would an old man kill this son-of-a-bitch?”
“He’d club him,” Mario said.
Now Angel, “Yeah, clubbing is definitely the way to go.”
Cleven dispatched Angel to the factory floor in search of a handy murder weapon.
“Marty, you’re obviously an intelligent man,” I lied. “As a reporter, I could tell your story, your way, and naturally I’d protect my sources.”
He leaned in close, and when I looked into his eyes all I saw was death.
“It’s over, Alex. If you have a god this might be a good time to reconnect.”
I weighed my options. What options? I considered playing the common ancestry card with the Batara brothers. But those thoughts ended when Angel returned holding a two-foot length of pipe, and said, “Let me have the first swing at this piece of shit.”
Cleven nodded, then stepped back.
Angel took a batting stance reminiscent of Mark McGwire in his prime. Then he let rip.
4 | DANIELS
Homicide Lieutenant Jack Daniels had spotted Alex Chapa coming out of Strange Brew Coffee, adjacent to Sam Preston’s collectible shop.
“He looks pleased with himself,” Herb said.
Jack couldn’t help but grudgingly give the reporter credit. He managed to talk his way out of a trip to the Precinct house, get to the victim’s place o
f business, and find some sort of lead if the spring in his step was any indication. Not bad for less than an hour’s work.
“Want to pick him up?” Herb asked.
“Let’s see where he goes. Mankowski can handle the scene here.”
Jack waited until Chapa pulled away before directing her Chevy Nova after him. She kept back, keeping the tail loose, sometimes letting him get a block ahead. Eventually she lost him at a red light.
“Smooth,” Herb said. “You ought to be a cop.”
“You got any of those pepperoni snacks left?”
“One.”
“Want me to tell you where you can stick it?”
“Way ahead of you,” Herb said, biting off the wrapper and shoving it into his mouth.
Jack frowned, squinted ahead. She could put the cherry on the roof, run the siren, skip through the light, but that might alert Chapa that they were following him. But if she did nothing, he could get so far ahead she wouldn’t be able to catch up. She made an executive decision, sticking the light to the roof of the Nova, giving the siren a short blast and then switching it off.
When the intersection was cleared she roared through, swerving to miss a CTA bus, and caught site of Chapa turning east onto Division.
“You got anything to eat?” Herb was fishing through the glove compartment.
“Grab those binoculars,” Jack said, glancing at him.
“I don’t think those would digest well.”
“Give them here. I think I’ve got something in my purse. It’s in the back.”
Herb handed over the binoculars, then the car bounced on its shocks as he adjusted his weight to hunt for the purse. Jack made the left, took a moment to focus the binocs, and spotted Chapa two blocks ahead.
“All you’ve got is a mint covered in fuzz,” Herb said. Jack’s purse was open and he was squinting at something between his fingers.
“It’s yours if you want it.”
Herb frowned, then began brushing off the mint. Jack peeked through the lenses. Chapa was turning again. She noted the street.
“This is awful,” Herb said, the mint clacking against his teeth. “You got any more?”
Jack turned where Chapa had. Not a good part of town. Industrial mostly, a few overgrown, fenced in lots, some abandoned factories.
“He’s stopping,” she said, hitting the brakes on her own car two blocks behind him. She watched Chapa park, lock his car, then look around. He seemed to stare right into her binoculars, which amused Jack. Then he began checking the windows of a warehouse building.
“What’s he doing?” Herb asked.
Jack watched Chapa approach one of the windows then begin to climb the side of the brick wall.
“Son of a gun,” she said under her breath. “He’s breaking in.”
“Guys got balls,” Herb said.
“He went in through the window,” Jack said. “Now we have a choice. We can wait for him to come out, then bust him, or surprise him inside and bust him.”
“I vote for waiting,” Herb said. “Less work. And if he’s looking for something, maybe he’ll come out with it.”
They waited.
“Think he knows about the vics’ credit cards?” Jack asked. The previous three floaters all had suspicious credit card activity after their disappearances.
“We kept it out of the news, but he’s a reporter. It’s his job to find things out. Besides, you remember how he explained that he’s omnivorous.”
“He said omniscient. You’re the omnivorous one.”
“I’ve never eaten an omni in my life. Is that one of those Greek things, comes in a pita?”
A Corvette, out of place in this part of the neighborhood, cruised past. It was followed by some other sports car.
“Damn, check that out,” Herb said. “Dodge Viper, cherry too. I bet it could take out the Vette. Maybe they’ll race.”
They didn’t race. They passed the warehouse, and turned left behind it.
“I think we should go in,” Jack said.
“I thought waiting for him is easier. Then we could get whatever he found.”
“But if we get him now, then we can look for it ourselves. Just cause, no warrant needed.”
“Do we even know what it is?”
“No. But I bet Chapa does. And I bet he’ll be extremely helpful once we slap the cuffs on.”
Jack took another look through the binocs, then made the executive decision. “We’re going in.”
Jack started the car, threw it into gear. She drove slowly, carefully, eyeing her target and eventually parking behind it. She reflexively checked her gun, in the shoulder harness under her blazer, and then got out of the car.
Jack and Herb walked up to the window Chapa had climbed into.
“Boost me up,” Herb said.
Jack stared at him. Herb locked his fingers together, and she stepped into his hands, careful not to break the heel off her shoes. She got a knee up onto the sill, silently cursed the filth rubbing against her clothing, and slipped inside and onto some sort of bench.
“Give me your hand,” Herb called.
“Find another way in.”
“Just hold it out, I’ll haul myself up.”
Jack rolled her eyes and climbed off the table. She thought she heard human sounds, coming from deeper in the warehouse, but Herb was grousing on about how he couldn’t be blamed for having big bones and a slow metabolism so she had to walk away from the window before she could locate the noise.
Voices, for sure. Two, maybe three men. A tall, well-built man walked in through a door at the far end of the factory floor. Jack ducked behind a massive piece of machinery and watched as he appeared to be looking around for something. An adrenaline spike hit her, and without thinking she unholstered her Colt. Then the man was leaving, even more quickly than he had appeared. He was carrying what looked like a long metal pipe.
Jack waited a moment, then moving quick but cautious, she bypassed the rows of machinery and headed for that same doorway. She walked through it, saw no sign of the guy, then proceeded down a hallway and to the left. Jack heard what sounded like a piece of furniture crashing to the floor somewhere not too far ahead. The voices were becoming more distinct as she approached what appeared to be a lunchroom.
The voices were coming from another room just beyond. She wished she hadn’t worn heels that day, as she continued to advance on the small room. The men inside, who appeared to be arguing over which of them would get to hold the large steel pipe, were too focused on each other to notice her. Jack gradually arced around to get the best angle, braced her shoulder against the door jamb, and pointed her Colt into the room.
“Freeze! Police!”
Three people turned and looked at her. Two were big muscle guys. One was a little muscle guy.
“Hands on your heads! Now!”
They were slow to respond, and Jack noticed a man sprawled on the floor, next to a chair.
Chapa, half there, half not.
“Chapa, you okay?”
In her peripheral she saw the reporter slowly sit up, then work himself into a squat.
“More or less. Angel over there only got one swing, then they started arguing about who would get to go next.”
“Too bad,” she said, without taking her eyes off the men. “You three, on your knees, hands on your heads, face the fucking wall!” She fired above their heads both to scare them and to alert Herb. “Do it!”
She started to walk over and check on Chapa when a closet door burst open and a small man, wrapped in duct tape darted out like he had somewhere he needed to be.
“What the—?” Jack instinctively turned in his direction. The guy looked like a silver mummy with a coat hanger attached to the back of his head.
He was yelling something.
“HELP ME!”
He ran past Jack.
“HELP ME!”
Through the doorway.
“HELP ME!”
And straight into a wall.
<
br /> “HELP—”
Then quietly tumbled to the floor in a sticky heap.
Floaters - A Jack Daniels/Alex Chapa Mystery Page 4
