by Scott Gamboe
"I have some GPS tracking devices. We could put one on Tony's car. If we find out where he goes and who he sees, we might turn up some new leads. I could even listen to his cell phone conversations."
"You can do all that? I never knew you had it in you. And here I thought you only fixed televisions and eight-track tape decks."
"I'm serious Jimbo. We could do this."
"What good would it do us? None of that could be used in court without a search warrant."
"Who said anything about court? We find out what he's up to, catch him in the act, and chalk it up to an anonymous informant."
"I don't know . . . I just don't think I can do that."
"Then you had better come up with another plan. And soon."
Jim closed his eyes. The headache had returned and showed no signs of letting up. "We'll see tomorrow. I've already cleared my next step through Lieutenant Johnson."
"What's that?"
"I have to bring Tony in. It didn't work here in town, so I'm taking the game onto his field. I'm going to Chicago."
CHAPTER 6
Even though Jim insisted he was ready to drive to Chicago, which was only a two-hour trip, his lieutenant insisted he fly to O'Hare. Jim privately suspected his administration was worried about another attempt on his life. Of course, once he landed in Chicago, he would be on his own. He presented the flight crew with a letter from his captain, explaining why he needed his weapon on his person. He hated flying, but as long as he could direct the overhead vents toward his face, he could endure the hellish confinement.
A sharp bump announced that the plane had touched down. It rolled gently along the tarmac to his gate. He only had his carry-on bag, so he did not need to wait in the baggage claim area. His first step would be to secure transportation. After that, he would meet with a couple of local detectives who had already been briefed on the situation. He stepped around the assemblage of passengers waiting to pick up their luggage and approached the rental car counters.
A man in a black tuxedo caught his attention when Jim noticed his own name on a placard the man was holding. Although his last name was not uncommon, there were not too many detectives named "James Hunter" who worked for the Bloomington Police Department.
He stopped for a moment. The man noticed his hesitation and approached him.
"Detective Hunter?"
"Yes." Jim brushed his elbow against the pistol beneath his shirt.
"Would you come with me, please? I have a limousine waiting for you. Mr. Marcel would like to speak with you."
Jim almost laughed. He thrust his hands onto his hips. "So now Tony wants to talk? Why?"
"No sir, not Tony. His father. Joseph Marcel."
He hesitated a moment longer, then nodded. He gestured for the driver to lead the way. A black limousine was waiting right outside the terminal. The driver held open the rear door for him, and he slipped into the spacious interior. The seats were leather, and carpeting covered the walls and floor. Along one side, there was a small bar, complete with a refrigerator.
The partition separating him from the driver's seat hummed as the driver rolled it down. "Sir, help yourself to any beverage you would like. Traffic is pretty heavy, so the drive will take some time."
Unfortunately, "some time" turned out to be an understatement. Jim restricted himself to ice water. Not only did he want to know where he was being taken, but he wanted to avoid being led blindly into an ambush. His instincts told him he was in no danger, but he would take nothing for granted. After an hour in the limo, it rolled to a stop outside a bar. He could not be certain, since he was only vaguely familiar with the streets of Chicago, but he believed they were near Wrigley Field.
He heard the driver's door open, and then his was next. He stepped to the sidewalk, shading his eyes from the suddenly bright light. The driver indicated the bar with a sweep of his hand. As Jim crossed the sidewalk, he wondered belatedly if he was supposed to tip the driver. He entered the bar.
His eyes, which moments earlier had struggled painfully to see in the outdoors, now did him little good. The glow of the many television screens scattered about the room provided most of the illumination for the bar’s shadowy interior. Most of them carried a live broadcast of the Cubs game. An older gentleman in a blue suit jacket with a white tie motioned to him. He was a heavyset man, balding, and what hair remained had faded to gray. His thick glasses perched gingerly on the tip of his nose. Jim moved across the room to the table. He decided Joseph Marcel more closely resembled a librarian than a mob boss or a cold blooded killer.
"Have a seat, Detective Hunter." Joseph had a gravelly voice, with the rough-and-tumble accent Jim expected to hear from Chicagoans. "Order whatever you want from the menu. Lunch is on me."
Jim had to admit, although he had not been hungry when he arrived in Chicago, the long drive across town changed that. He perused the menu and ordered his meal when the waiter returned.
"Thank you, Mr. Marcel."
He held up his hands. "Please, call me Joseph."
"Okay, Joseph. What's this all about?"
Joseph laughed as he wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Quick and to the point. I like that. I wish I had more people in my organization like you. Jim . . . may I call you Jim? I think we both know why you're here."
"You want me to back off my investigation."
"Actually, Jim, it's nothing of the sort. You are here because we're both having a problem with my son, Tony. He and I have never seen eye to eye on how to run the family business." He placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward. "I'm going to be frank with you, off the record. I've always told him, violence needs to be used in moderation. Usually, just the threat of violence will get the job done. You start dumping bodies in the Chicago River every night, and the police will take notice."
"We're like that."
Joseph smiled at Jim's attempt at humor. "So Tony left us to start his own organization in the downstate area."
"What kind of racket is he running?"
"Mainly, he has made a living by dealing drugs. He also handles contract killings. Some are done by his people, but some he handles himself. This was the case with Albert Perkins. Some foreign nationals wanted this man dead. They have since expanded their business relationship with my son, so apparently he must have impressed them. Tony took care of the Perkins hit himself. He tried to paint it as a suicide.
"That's where you came in. If you had allowed this to pass, there wouldn't have been a problem. Now, Tony is on the run, with nowhere to go."
Jim leaned back in his chair. "He hasn't returned to Chicago?"
"No. He knows better. If my people get their hands on him, he will have to answer to me. He has made a couple of attempts on your life. All he has succeeded in doing is bringing heat on my organization. The cops up here assume he's still with me, since he's a Marcel. My other son, Richard, is trying to keep an eye on him for me, but he hasn't done much good, either."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Tony has to be stopped. He is totally out of control. He can't be allowed to give those foreigners whatever is being shipped to him."
"I heard about that. We think it's a large shipment of heroin."
Joseph laughed and shook his head, his eyes on the table. "Do you think I would be this worried over some heroin?"
"What is it, then? What's he getting? Counterfeit money? Weapons?"
"We don't know. Richard overheard someone on the phone with Tony. He couldn't understand what they were saying, but he thought the language they were speaking sounded Slavic. Maybe Russian.
"I just want to warn you, Jim, that this goes much deeper than a simple contract killing. I also want to reassure you that no one in my organization is trying to kill you. In fact, as a gesture of goodwill, I would like to offer you some bodyguards until this matter is straightened out."
Jim smiled and shook his head. "I appreciate the offer, but I would have a hard time explaining why I had a couple of mob enforcers fo
llowing me around all day. I can take care of myself. But thank you for the information."
Joseph raised his glass in salute. "Be careful, my friend."
#
An unmarked Chicago Police car turned the corner. The two detectives in the front seat continued their narrative, giving Jim a crash course in Chicago gang hierarchy.
"The street gangs operate autonomously from what is more traditionally considered 'organized crime.' You're already aware of the larger gangs - the Gangster Disciples, the Latin Kings, and so on. Just as you see downstate, they fight each other brutally for control of a single street corner. Not so with these mobsters like the Marcels. They know fighting is bad for business. As long as you pay what you owe them, they'll leave you alone. And their territorial boundaries are strictly adhered to by the different families.
"But Tony changed all that. He tried to expand the organization, take over new frontiers. He ventured into the inner city ghettos, which was where the trouble began. He took out the leaders of some of these street gangs, and of course there were reprisals. Things were getting out of hand, until Joseph yanked him up short. They had a falling out, and Tony formed his own crime family. He took them south to get out from under Daddy's shadow."
"Pull over, Dave," the other officer said. "There's El Gato."
The car coasted to the curb, and all three officers got out. There was a young Hispanic man leaning against a streetlight. He pretended to ignore the officers bearing down on him. When it became apparent they were there for him, he held his hands out in front of him.
"Man, I didn't do nothing. What's this about?"
"You didn't do nothing?" asked one of the detectives. He spun the young man about and shoved him hard against the brick wall of the building several steps behind him. With his forearm across the back of Gato's neck, he held him in place while his partner searched him. He pulled several small plastic baggies of white powder from the young man's sock.
"What's this, Gato? Powdered sugar?"
"You're lucky," said the other. "Officer Jenkins and I are in a good mood today, and our friend here needs some information. You help us out, and I think these bags can go away."
"Okay, man, what you want?"
"Tony Marcel. Where is he?"
"I don't know no Tony Marcel."
The officer slammed his forearm into the back of Gato's head. "Want to think again?"
"Okay, man, just stop that, all right?" The pressure eased off. "I haven't seen Tony for several days. He used to come up here and rip off our product, man. I think he was moving it down south somewhere. But I heard he got something big comin'."
"When? Where?"
"I don't know." He flinched, waiting for the blow that never came. "Really, man, I don't know. I just heard it will arrive soon. I don't even know what it is, just something called 'Holy Inferno.' Or 'Holy Fire.' I don't know. Whoever he is selling it to should be here within a couple of weeks."
Holy Fire? Martyr's Inferno? What in the hell is going on?
"What else? You're holding back, I can see it in your eyes."
"Nothing!" This time, he cast a fearful glance at Jim. The street thug was actually trembling.
"Oh, I get it," Jenkins said with a smile. "Who is it? Who does Tony have on the inside? Is it a cop? A prosecutor? Is it a Fed? Who is it?"
"I . . . I don't know. I heard he might even have two now. If that dude is one of them," he paused, indicating Jim with a nod of his head, "I'm dead."
Jim folded his arms across his chest. He did not like where the whole conversation had turned. "He has someone on his payroll?"
"Bought and paid for, man. Someone connected. I don't know."
"But you don't have a name?"
"That's all I know, man! I swear!"
The two Chicago cops grinned at each other behind their informant's back. "You'd better not be lying to me, Gato."
"I ain't, man, I promise!"
"If we find out you lied . . ." After a few moments, the officer released him. El Gato took a startled look at the three police officers, then dashed off down the street.
#
When his plane landed in Bloomington, Jim turned on his phone to find a voice message waiting from Matt. Some friends of his family had an old farm house a few miles outside of town that was vacant. They had agreed to let the two officers use it while they found another place to live. Matt had moved all of their possessions that had survived the fire into their new lodgings while Jim was in Chicago.
Jim drove out of town, followed the directions Matt had left him, and located the house. It was much larger than he had expected, with two floors above ground and what looked to be a full basement. The walls were sheathed in brick. Ivy clung tenaciously to the sides. He pulled into the driveway, surprised to find that, despite the late hour, the lights were still on. Matt must have waited up to hear the results of the trip.
As he expected, Matt was in the living room. He tossed Jim him a beer as soon as he entered. Jim dropped exhausted to the couch. He took a long drink of his beer before speaking.
"That was interesting, to say the least."
"What did you find?" Matt asked.
"For one, Tony is acting on his own. His father is pretty steamed. Tony's private crusade down here has the cops turning up the heat on Joseph's organization. Trust me, he's not happy. He also assured me he isn't responsible for the attempts on my life."
"You took the word of a mob boss? You're nuts."
"Come on, Matt. You know me better than that. I didn't just believe him because I wanted to. I can read people, better than most. He was sincere with me. We backed it up with information from a street thug."
"Oh, so you really found a reliable source."
"Seriously, this is big. Tony has a shipment coming in sometime during the next few days. That's why he's been trying to get rid of me. He's afraid I'll come around at the wrong time and catch him with the goods. Right now, all we have is weak circumstantial evidence linking him to the Perkins case and the attempts against me. It's enough for an arrest, but we don't have anything we could successfully prosecute yet. If we catch him with his shipment, he's in trouble. And since he's on the run from his father, I think he'll stay here in town. It's his power base."
Matt rose from his chair and paced back and forth as he downed the rest of his beer. "I don't know about this. I hear a lot of supposition, but nothing concrete to go on. If you arrest him, he'll beat the charges fairly easily, and then he'll be back on the street with an even bigger grudge against you."
"Bigger? What in the hell are you talking about? He's been trying to kill me! How much bigger can it get?"
Matt jabbed a finger at him. "There's always your family. And your friends. He could go after them first, and then take you out." He stomped past where Jim was slouching down into the couch. "Damn it, Jim!" He threw his empty beer can into the corner. Jim heard the refrigerator open and slam shut.
"Well, then what do you think I should do?" he shouted to the kitchen. "Just give up? I don't think he'll leave me alone, regardless."
But he never heard Matt's answer. He heard Matt grunt sharply and fall to the floor. Jim rose from his seat, but a heavy blow struck him on the back of the head, and all went black.
#
When he opened his eyes, his vision faded in and out of focus. Nausea assailed him. By the throbbing in his head, he feared he might have a concussion. His hands were bound tightly behind his back, and a heavy gag had been forced into his mouth. After taking several deep breaths through his nose, he assessed his situation.
He was in the cargo area of a large vehicle, probably a van. Judging by the sound of the engine and the lack of speed changes he assumed they were either on the interstate or in the middle of the countryside. The combination of the closed-in space and the gag brought a wave of panic washing over him. His lungs pumped like a bellows. He nearly hyperventilated before he brought himself under control.
He rolled over to a seated position, but th
e dizziness swept over him. Laying back on his side, he tried to peer around the compartment. He looked for anything he could use to try to sever his bonds. To his dismay, the interior of the van seemed to have been designed specifically to prevent that sort of action. There was no one else in the compartment with him, which meant Matt was either being taken in a separate car, or worse.
Oh, God, don't let him be dead.
Matt's last warning echoed back to him. He had mentioned the possibility of Tony going after friends and family. It might have already happened. Matt, his best friend of seven years, might be dead, and it would be Jim's fault. Why couldn't he have left the whole matter alone, as Matt suggested? What if Tony hurt someone in Jim's family?
No, he had to shake his line of thought. Nothing Tony Marcel did was Jim's fault. And if Tony had done anything to Matt, or anyone else, Jim would bring swift and certain justice upon him. His first order of business was to free himself. Since there was nothing in sight he could use to sever his bonds, he decided to check where he couldn't see. There was a tarp in the corner, so he crawled over to it. He lay with his back to the tarp, reached underneath, and felt around for anything he could use. All he found was a pile of clothing. He even tried to slip his hands beneath his feet, but his wrists were bound too tightly.
The van rumbled to a sharp stop, which threw Jim forward into the wall of the cab. He regained his knees just as the door opened. Someone pointed a bright flashlight directly into his eyes, blinding him. He squinted painfully into the open doorway.
"Get out." He did not recognize the man's voice.
Jim hesitated for a few moments, then sat down and turned his back. The van shook. The man climbed in with him, grabbed him by the wrists, and pulled sharply. Jim grunted in pain as he was dragged forcefully out the back of the van. Another of his captors slammed a hood over his head. He found it difficult to breathe, and the panic rose once more. The first man, who had not released his grip, led Jim by the arm for a short distance. Soon, he heard the sound of wooden planks beneath his feet. A sharp blow to his back dropped him to his knees. A firm hand on his shoulder held him there.
