Vengeance Is Personal (A Colton James Novel, Book 2)

by Thomas DePrima

  "You could have saved me the cab fare. Would you like to come in?"

  "I was hoping you would ask. I thought you might slam the door in my face."

  "Only if you agree with your captain," I said as I unlocked the door, pushed it open and stepped inside.

  "I can never say I disagree with him," Detective Hooper said as he followed me in. "He's my captain. I still have two years before I can retire. I want those two years."

  I picked up the phone and ordered a pot of coffee, a half dozen doughnuts, and service for two.

  "I trust you like coffee and doughnuts?"

  "What cop doesn't? You get used to it in the early years, and it becomes a lifelong habit. Of course, after work, I like to toss down a few beers."

  "Do you want a beer now?"

  "No, never while I'm on duty. Clear head, steady hand, and all that."

  "Yeah." Gesturing towards the sofa and chairs, I said, "Have a seat."

  "So why won't you tell the captain where you got your information?"

  "My sources must remain my sources. I gave your department everything on a silver platter. I gave you the perps and the evidence. All your captain had to do was follow through. Well, it's his problem now. I'm sure the insurance company execs aren't going to be pleased. Did you get the information about the phony cargo container?"

  "The one reportedly at the recycling center in Union City?"

  "That's the one."

  "I made a call. It's still there. I told the person I spoke to that if that container disappears before we can retrieve it, he better book some time aboard the space station because there's no place here on Earth where I won't find him."

  I chuckled. "You didn't really say that, did you?"

  "Hell yes. I wanted to impress upon him how important that container is. You have to be firm at times. How did you locate that by the way?"

  "My sources must remain…"

  "My sources. Yeah, I gotcha."

  "I'm sure you don't share the identity of your snitches with all of your fellow detectives."

  "No way."

  "Exactly. Your sources must remain your sources."

  A knock at the door drew my attention. "That was much, much faster than usual." As I approached the door, I pulled my Glock out and held it by my side.

  "Who is it?"

  "Uh— Room Service."

  "Just a second."

  The door was the two-inch-thick solid wood variety always found in quality modern hotels. It probably wouldn't stop a bullet, but it could slow one and ruin the trajectory. There was no peep-hole in the door, which was good and bad. I couldn't see out, but whoever was outside couldn't tell where I was in relation to the door. I wished I had a monitor that surveyed the hallway with cameras like I had at home.

  I gestured to Hooper using a downward motion of my open hand, palm down, to indicate he should get down, or at least make himself a smaller target. He took me seriously, pulled his gun from his holster, and assumed a kneeling position on the carpet where he would be mostly hidden by one of the overstuffed chairs. When he was set, I unlocked the door and started to open it.

  Suddenly, someone on the other side kicked it, putting everything they had behind it. I had planted my foot so it couldn't be pushed open, but the tremendous force took me by surprise and my foot was swept aside. As I started to fall backwards, I disregarded everything except bringing my Glock to bear on the large, heavy-set man standing in the hallway with an automatic in his right hand.

  The attacker got a quick shot off as I was falling but the slug went over my head because I was halfway to the floor. My falling backward threw him for an instant. He probably expected I would simply be knocked backward, off balance, and struggling to remain standing.

  His second shot went just slightly wide. I thought I heard the whine of the bullet as it passed my ear, but the sounds from my own weapon as pulled the trigger had already begun to drown out all other noises.

  I managed to fire a total of three times before I hit the floor, and all three slugs caught the attacker center chest. From just seven feet away it's kind of hard to miss a target as large as the one he presented, even when falling. My three forty-caliber slugs completely halted his forward momentum just one foot into the suite, but he didn't fall down immediately. The expression on his face seemed to show surprise that he had been shot.

  The sound of my gunfire hadn't even ended before I heard more gunfire. At first I thought there might be a second attacker in the hallway, but then I realized it was coming from behind me. The sound was from Hooper's gun firing.

  It the attacker hadn't been dead when he fell backward into the hallway and started bleeding all over the carpet, he died within minutes. There were five large holes in his chest.

  I immediately rolled one full revolution to my left just in case there was another attacker in the hallway, but no one else appeared in the open doorway, and I heard no other sounds coming from there until I heard a woman start to scream.

  I looked over in Hooper's direction and asked, "You okay?"

  He nodded, so I got up and moved to the doorway. I quickly peered out to the left and pulled back. I hadn't seen anything. Then I did the same to the right. Again I saw nothing.

  "Seems clear," I said.

  Hooper joined me over by the door and looked down at the attacker.

  "Look familiar?" I asked.

  "No. I've never seen him before. I better call this in. Ya know, we're going to need a lot more coffee and doughnuts. Those homicide detectives live on the stuff."

  ~

  "I've been told this isn't exactly unusual for you," Hooper said as the morgue folks were rolling the body out on a gurney. "One of the homicide guys filled me in with what happened at your apartment in New York. I understand now why you greet people at the door with your gun drawn. And your reaction time shows why you're still breathing."

  "Yeah, I'm five-and-oh now. I'm glad you were here. Glad for the assist and glad I had a witness to what happened. I'd hate to spend the next two weeks in Fasko's interrogation room while he tried to pin a murder rap on me."

  "If Fasko had his way, he'd lock you up and lose the key."

  "He's not number one on my list of favorite people either. I thought I'd be heading out of town in the next couple of days. I'd concluded my investigation and wrapped up everything into a nice little package, but Fasko wouldn't accept it. I can imagine what the directors at the insurance company are saying right now. They'll have to pay three hundred million if Fasko blows this investigation. They won't look too favorably on him. He could wind up walking the two a.m. beat on Alcatraz Island."

  "Nah. That's a federal property. The National Park Service patrols that. Well, I guess I'd better be going. I have to get back to the office and write up a report on this. So you have no idea who this guy was or what he was after?"

  "When you enter a room firing a handgun, you aren't leaving much doubt about your intentions. I have no idea who he was or who he was working for. But I'll find out. I take attacks on my life and those of my friends personally."

  "He had no ID on him, but they've already printed him, and we should know who he is pretty quick unless he's never been arrested."

  "I wouldn't lay any bets on that being the case. He didn't just get up this morning and decide he was going to assassinate an FBI Special Agent and an SFPD Detective Lieutenant."

  "I think he was just after you."

  "I can't argue that point, Hooper. I guess somebody's pissed because I rained on their art-theft parade by solving the case. Maybe they figured that by terminating me, they'd halt the investigation before it reached them and took them down."

  "Maybe. Well, gotta go."

  "Come back any time, Hooper."

  "It's Ron to my buds."

  "I'm Colt."

  "So long, Colt."

  "So long, Ron."

  It was another hour before everyone investigating the shooting had left the room. They had dug one of the perp's slugs out of t
he wall where it hit and another out of the floor, then photographed every square inch of the room. Then it was another half hour before the hotel staff completed their best efforts to remove the blood splatter in the suite entranceway and the heavy stains in the hallway from where the blood had pooled. They actually did a great job. The area looked wet, but it didn't look discolored with red. The final verdict would be how it looked after it dried. The manager offered to move me to another room, but I chose to remain in this one. I thought there might be some luck in this one since both Hooper and I had survived unscathed.

  Once I was alone I got out my cleaning kit, cleaned the Glock, and reloaded the magazine. I was about to get out the gizmo and begin an effort to find out who had sent the gunman when my cell rang. I looked at the display and saw it was Saul, so I completed the connection.

  "Hi, Saul."

  "Colt, what the hell's going on out there?"

  "There's a lot of— stuff— coming down, Saul."

  "I just heard someone tried to kill you in your hotel."

  "Yeah, he tried. He's at the morgue now. I wasn't hit."

  "I'm glad for that."

  "I feel the same way."

  "So have the police recovered the artwork and the suspects?"

  "No idea, Saul. The top cop out here isn't sharing any information with me. All I know so far is that one of the detectives has confirmed the location of the phony cargo container in Union City."

  "That's all?"

  "That's all I know so far. Fasko sent a detective to pick me up this morning and bring me to his office. According to his statements at that time, he hadn't dispatched anyone to pick up the suspects because he doesn't arrest San Francisco citizens without probable cause."

  "Probable cause? Doesn't the recovery of the eleven paintings provide enough probable cause for questioning them?"

  "At the time I was at his office they apparently hadn't moved to execute the search warrant at the garage in the Fillmore district, so he doesn't have the paintings."

  "What?"

  "My reaction exactly. Saul, I'm sorry, but I'm not empowered to invade private property and confiscate anything I find there, even if it is stolen artwork. Perhaps you can get further than I have with Captain Fasko."

  "Dammit. It sounds like we have a cop with a bug up his ass because his people didn't solve the case."

  "Seems that way."

  "Okay, Colt. It's time to play hardball. I'll take it from here."

  "Saul, I'm pretty sure there's someone inside the loop feeding information to the people who pulled off the theft. If the SFPD hasn't moved yet, the suspects may be long gone and the paintings in the garage may be gone as well."

  "I'll find out, Colt. I'll talk to you later."

  "Okay, Saul."

  As soon as I finished talking with Saul, I put the gizmo up on the wall over the desk and went to the garage to check on the paintings. They were gone. I went back and tagged one of them, then jumped ahead to the present. The eleven cases were in the back of an SUV. I checked the GPS information and discovered they were on Route I-505 just north of Vacaville. If they continued on their route, they would be in Oregon in another four hours.

  Then I went back and tagged the two thieves. Jumping ahead to the present, I saw they were together in a car headed east on Route 80. Presently they were near Davis, so in less than two hours they could cross into Nevada.

  If Fasko executed the search warrant now he would find nothing. With the suspects and the evidence gone, he could claim they were never there and that the 'great' Colton James had concocted the entire story. His failure to act when he received the information put everything back to square one. I wondered how anyone in such a position of responsibility could be so dumb.

  Then I realized that perhaps he wasn't just being dumb. He might be one of the inside sources feeding information to the people who committed the crime. If they had been arrested, someone in the know might implicate him. It might be better for him that they all escape. If I hadn't had the gizmo, I might have been unable to pick up the trail again. Of course, if I hadn't had the gizmo, I would never have solved the crime in the first place.

  I put the gizmo away and moved to the sofa to think about the situation. The only plus side was that wherever the artwork wound up, there would be a different police captain in charge. Explaining how I tracked it was my biggest problem. I would just have to wait and see where it wound up.

  I would have liked to go out for a walk, but I knew the press would be waiting for me to appear in public so they could harass me for information about the shooting while I repeated "no comment" over and over.

  ~

  I was still sitting on the sofa an hour later as I thought about the situation here and where I wished I was instead when the hotel phone rang. I walked to the desk and picked up the receiver.

  "James," was all I said.

  "Colt, it's Ron. I'm down in Union City at the recycle center where the container was brought. It's gone."

  "Gone?"

  "Yeah. The manager here says two guys who said they were from SFPD came with a truck and picked it up about a half hour ago. He didn't get a license number and they didn't show any ID, but they paid him in cash, double what he had paid to the guy who dropped it off."

  "And he fell for that? Cops never pay cash. They give receipts for what they're taking and it's up to the person to file a claim to get paid."

  "Yeah. Well, this guy isn't the brightest bulb in the lamp. It was probably the cash that convinced him not to ask for ID. But— there's good news as well."

  "Give it to me. I could use some good news right now."

  "The guy here dragged the container out of the pile after I called and hosed it off. Then he took pictures of it from every angle with the top open and closed. He figured he might be able to sell the photos to the media if the container was part of a big case. I got his camera and removed the memory chip with the images and confirmed they were on it before giving him a receipt for the chip."

  "That's great, Ron. At least we'll be able to prove there was a container which might have been altered to commit the crime and which might have actually been used for that purpose."

  I heard him chuckle before saying, "Yeah, well, it's the best I could do. And we've got an ID on the guy we took down in your hotel. His name was Carlos Rodriquez. He's an illegal alien, oops, I mean undocumented immigrant, who's been deported back to Mexico four times after committing violent crimes here, but he kept showing up back in San Francisco a few weeks later. Until now he's been a leg-breaker for a small time loan shark."

  "I guess he was trying to move up in the world. Uh, I thought San Francisco was a Sanctuary City and you folks refuse to turn over illegal immigrants who have committed crimes to the immigration authorities for deportation."

  "Those deportations occurred back before our city fathers enacted that law. Since then the police department has been required to release him back onto the streets if he was ever arrested. America, the land of opportunity. Give me your tired, your poor, your violent criminals yearning to be free to do whatever they damn well please— with the blessings of our enlightened politicians."

  "How about the paintings and the perps? Did Fasko ever act on the search warrant?"

  "There were no paintings in the garage and the two suspects are gone. They cleaned out their apartment and left in a hurry. We put out an APB for them and their vehicle. Their car was found in a parking lot near the airport. We figure they grabbed the first flight out."

  "That'd be the logical thing to do for someone who wasn't a professional criminal. But these folks are pros. If you don't have much of a head start, being on a plane means you have no chance for escape if the police learn which flight you're on."

  "So where do you think they are?"

  "Probably headed for Nevada in a car. Possibly a car they borrowed. Do you happen to have any friends in the California Highway Patrol who might be patrolling I-80 East between Colfax and the Nevada border?"<
br />
  "I might. Why?"

  "Well, I thought perhaps you might ask them to watch out for a 2012 Ford passenger vehicle headed east."

  "And why would they be watching for that car?"

  "A little birdie whispered in my ear that the car might just contain a husband and wife robbery team suspected of committing a recent major crime involving priceless works of art."

  "A little birdie?"

  "Yeah. He also said the car might be a Ford Focus SEL in excellent condition, grey or silver in color, with California plates ending in 472."

  "That little birdie has a lot of specific information, doesn't he? I'd like to have a little birdie like that for a friend."

  "Perhaps having a friend of one is almost as good. And you know what they say?"

  "What do they say?"

  "Tweet tweet."

  "Did your little birdie happen to mention where the paintings are?"

  "He wasn't sure where they are— precisely, but if he had to guess, he'd say they were in a dark blue 2006 Ford E150 XL Passenger Van with California tags ending with 913."

  "And does he know where the van is headed?"

  "He believed it might be headed north on I-5 above Sacramento. It might even be somewhere between Redding and the Oregon border right now."

  "Does this little bird usually have reliable information?"

  "Always has until now."

  "Okay, Colt. Well, I've got to go. I've been meaning to call a buddy in the Highway Patrol."

  "Okay, Ron. Oh, by the way, while you're talking to your friend, if you happen to mention what the little birdie told me, you should tell him or her to consider these people armed and extremely dangerous."

  "Yeah, I kinda got that message this morning at your hotel."

  "Nice talking to you Ron. You be careful out there."

  "Yeah. You too, Colt."

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Although I'd known Fasko hadn't moved on the search warrant in time to stop the paintings from disappearing again, I appreciated that Hooper had filled me in on the situation at the garage and with the two perps. It was too bad the air cargo container had disappeared. I didn't know who had hired Rodriquez to hit me, but I was glad the former strong-arm had been such a rank amateur at assassination with a handgun.