COPS SPIES & PI'S: The Four Novel Box Set

by David Wind

  When I hit a spot on Ninety-Five where the traffic opened up and the insanity slowed, I pulled out my cell phone and called Femalé. She answered on the third ring. “Jacobson is here. He set up a blanketing device so we can talk while he works.”

  I spent the first few minutes detailing out what happened to Streeter. When I finished, Femalé said. “Why take him out?”

  “Because they knew he would talk. But they weren’t just after him, this time. They wanted me as well and they were willing to take out two FBI agents.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “If they’d wanted just Streeter, they would have popped him and been done. But the shooter used a machine pistol and he swept it, he didn’t just aim it at Streeter. He knew what he was doing.”

  “They’re getting scared of you.” her words were slow and thoughtful.

  “Because I’m starting to get close.”

  “You need to be careful. You need someone at your back.”

  “I have someone, you. And the best way you can watch my back, is to find the politician in Pennsylvania Streeter tied in.”

  “Who?” The single word was filled with eagerness.

  “That’s what we have to find out. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s at state level: a senator or a congressman, someone important. He may even be the one who grabbed Scotty’s sister.”

  “You’re sure?” The shock in her voice carried through the phone.

  “As sure as I can be. Start looking at whose dirty—rumors, sex scandals, bribery –find out whose squeaky clean too—next to impossible clean. You know what I mean?”

  “I understand, Boss.”

  “Call Chris and give him this number. Ask him to find out what he can.” I rattled off the phone number Streeter had given me. “Call me when you find something. I’m on my way to see Fuhrman. But for right now, I need you to call Fuhrman and find out if he’s home or someplace else.”

  I shut off the phone and just after I did, one of the twenty-something morons, doing a hundred, sliced between my car and the car in the next lane. He missed me by a few inches and I fantasized how nice it would be to pull the Glock and shoot out one of his tires.

  I opted against it, not knowing the local cops. Although, on second thought, I bet the cops would thank me.

  The exit sign for Lake Worth was coming up. I was getting close.

  <><><>

  The Palm Beach Resort Estates and Community complex was two point six miles from the exit of Ninety-Five. At the main entrance, my cell phone went off. I flipped it open and put my foot on the brakes as the security guard stepped out of her cute little guard shack and waved me to a stop.

  “Yes?”

  “He’s at the golf course, taking a lesson from the pro,” Femalé informed me.

  “Thanks, got to go.” I rolled down my window to speak to the guard, who stood maybe five-three and weighed no more than a hundred and ten, including the grey uniform, heavy security belt and black military boots. I wondered how seriously the owners of this luxury community took their security.

  I changed my mind when I saw the second guard standing inside the shack. “Afternoon, Sir, who are you visiting?”

  “Tom Fuhrman. He’s expecting me. I’m meeting him at the golf course. He’s already there, taking a lesson with the pro.”

  “Your name, sir?”

  “Gabriel Storm.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet.

  “That won’t be necessary. We just need to check the list.”

  I flipped open the wallet, exposing the shield. “I’m not on the list. He called me a half hour ago and asked me to come over.”

  She looked at the badge and then over her shoulder to her backup, who now held a clipboard. The second guard took a step out. He was five-eleven and close to sixty, in good shape too and unlike his female counterpart, he carried a nine millimeter in his belt. I made him as an ex-cop. He bent to peer at my badge. “New York City?”

  I caught the familiar accent and when I nodded, he said, “Let me check with the pro shop.”

  He stepped back into the shack and called. A half-minute later, he popped his head out. “He’s taking a lesson so I can’t disturb them.” He looked at me for a moment, and then turned to the other guard. “Let him through.”

  The woman smiled at me. “Just follow this street to the end, make a left, the first right and you’ll find the clubhouse two blocks after that.”

  “Thank you.” I rolled up the window and took off, glad Femalé had gotten back to me in time and I would get to Fuhrman with no warnings.

  After passing a couple of dozen million dollar plus homes, I reached the curved driveway of the clubhouse and parked.

  A young guy in shorts and a Palm Beach Resort Estates monogrammed t-shirt raced up to me, but I waved him aside. “I won’t be long. Can we leave it here?”

  “Sure, but I’ll need your keys in case.”

  I flipped him the keys. “I’m looking for Tom Fuhrman. He’s taking a lesson.”

  “Walk around the club house and out to the driving range. They’re off to the left side.”

  I followed his directions to the driving range, which was deserted in the midday heat, except for two men standing in a sand trap. One was thirty, the other in his early sixties and who, I was certain, was Fuhrman and in the process of slapping balls from the sand to a small green a dozen feet away.

  I leaned against a post and sized up the man. He was sixty-one, according to Femalés’ report. He had a grey-white mustache, jowly cheeks and tanned skin. His eyes were hidden behind wrap around designer sunglasses; a ridge of salt and pepper hair from beneath the baseball cap framed his neck. He appeared to be in decent shape, hardly sweating in the heat as he swung at the balls, but his belly extended just far enough over his belt to show he was enjoying his retirement.

  The lesson ended six minutes later. The two men shook hands and when the pro left, Fuhrman took his club and slid it into the bag. He shouldered the bag and started in my direction.

  As he walked by me, I said, “Tom Fuhrman?”

  The retired PI stopped and turned to look at me. With a free hand, he pulled off his glasses to stare at me. His eyes were brown. “Do I know you?”

  “Gabriel Storm.”

  “Who?” he asked after a heartbeat of hesitation.

  His voice sounded puzzled, but his eyes weren’t. He knew me.

  “I’d like a couple of minutes of your time.”

  Fuhrman slid the glasses back on and shook his head. “Call me for an appointment.” He started to walk.

  I let him take three steps before I pulled the Glock from its belt clip and said, “I just had a man die in my hands. If you take another step, you’ll be using those clubs for canes.”

  I pulled the slide back on the Glock. The unmistakable sound of a round being chambered was all it took. He turned and I knew his eyes, behind the dark shades, were fixed on the automatic.

  Chapter 50

  Fuhrman set the golf bag down. “I’ve no idea what want from me.”

  “A pimp by the name of Sammy Warez was shot two hours ago in Miami. You may know him as Streeter. He turned out underage girls to work the streets.”

  “I think you’ve confused me with someone else.” He took off his glasses again; his nervous eyes darted about, checking to see if anyone was watching. No one was.

  “I don’t think so.” I holstered the Glock. “You are Thomas Fuhrman, ex-Rochester policeman, ex-Private Investigator, and the former owner of National Security Consultants, a company you started two months after dumping a case involving the abduction of an eight year old girl by the name of Elizabeth Granger. You are that Thomas Fuhrman, aren’t you?”

  His face had tightened during my monologue, his lips narrowing into a thin slash. “What do you want?”

  “Information. Look,” I said, watching a large rivulet of sweat roll down his cheek, “we can talk and you can give me answers to my questions, or I can make a phone call and you can gi
ve those answers to the Feds. If you talk to me, and you give me what I need, I walk away and leave you to your own thing.”

  “You have no idea what you’ve gotten into.” He wasn’t threatening me, he was telling things as he saw it.

  “Maybe, but that’s the deal.”

  He shook his head. “We can’t talk here.”

  I glanced around. The midday heat had kept everyone away. We were as alone now as he and the pro had been when I’d first arrived. “This is as good a place as any.”

  “I can’t.”

  I drew my cell phone, flipped it open and dialed Mancuso’s number. “That’s your choice.”

  I hit the speaker button and held the phone up as a voice said, “FBI. How may I direct your call?”

  The instant the voice sounded, he held up his hand. “Wait.”

  I folded the phone closed. “I’m listening.”

  “Let’s go into the shade and sit.”

  We went to one of the open-front rain hutches lining the driving range. Once seated, I looked at him with raised brows.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “You took a payoff from someone and closed the Granger case, didn’t you?”

  He looked down at his hands. “It wasn’t like that. I…I walked into something I couldn’t handle.”

  “Something or someone?”

  “It’s the same thing.” His eyes begged for the understanding I wasn’t going to offer. “There was no way I could bring out what happened. I was caught between a rock and a hard place.”

  “Stop talking around it.”

  “I’m not. I picked up some information and followed the trail. It took almost two months, but I was getting close. Just before I had what I needed, I was contacted and offered a lot of money to drop the case. If I refused, proof of something that happened while I was on the job would be leaked to the papers.”

  His words reminded me of what Femalé had dug up on Fuhrman’s past. “The bribery charges you skated away from when you resigned from the force.”

  He did a double take. “I didn’t have much choice. I made a stupid mistake—one lousy mistake they held over my head. It was either take their money or go to jail.”

  “So you let an eight year old girl die.”

  He stared outward. “They don’t always die.”

  “Right… sometimes they’re just used and sold and then used and sold again or, if they’re lucky, they end up on the street as mindless hookers, at least those who aren’t shipped out of the country and turned into slaves.”

  “I was just trying to survive.”

  I let my gaze slide over the driving range and then to the luxury homes surrounding the golf course. “You survived pretty well, didn’t you?”

  “I did what I had to.”

  “Bullshit. You did what was easy. Who was he?”

  “Who was who?”

  “The one who made you the offer you couldn’t turn down.”

  He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “His name is Rice. He gave me the money to start the agency.”

  “And it was a lot of money. And then he disappeared to leave you on your own?” I didn’t bother to mask the sarcasm. There was no way this ex-cop could have built the level of agency he’d headed—no way at all.

  “No, he referred clients to me.”

  “That’s interesting. How did it work?”

  “He brought in clients. Politicians and corporations and I gave him a percentage.”

  “And you got rich because an eight year old girl was abducted? There’s more.”

  “I gave you what you asked for. I’m done.” Standing, he started off, but I grabbed his arm and jerked him back.

  “Not a chance. Who is the one who takes these girls…and yes, I know there were more—one every three years. I guess when they reached eleven they were too old for him.”

  “I don’t know! Rice got to me before I found out.”

  He was lying, and he was scared. “That’s bullshit, even for a bad cop.”

  “It’s the way it is,” he said, his voice changing, going hard.

  “There’s a man by the name of Charles,” I said, changing direction in an effort to throw him off. “Who is that?”

  “That’s Rice. Charles Edward Rice.”

  “Is he still involved with the agency? Does he refer clients to them?”

  Fuhrman shook his head. “That wasn’t the arrangement. I gave him a percentage of the sale.”

  I couldn’t shake the feeling that everything he’d said stunk of lies. “What was he when you came across him?”

  “He told me he was getting ready to retire from a government agency.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “I wasn’t going any deeper. But I’ll give you one more thing. Rice is the scariest person I’d ever met. He’s got dead cold killer eyes.” Fuhrman drew in a deep breath, which hissed out when he said, “Just to set the record straight, it didn’t matter if I believed him. He was…I had to protect my family and myself. He made the deal and I took it.”

  “And where will I find him?”

  “You can’t be that dumb. I tell you and he’ll know where it came from. We’re finished. Call the feds if you want. It won’t make any difference.”

  “Sure it will. Does your wife know? What about your kids…you have two children, right? One’s a lawyer?”

  “You bastard.”

  “Whatever. Who was the guy who took Elizabeth Granger?”

  His shoulders drew back, his features masked tight. “You said you already had one man die today. Are you trying to make it two?”

  “However many it takes until I find the son-of-a-bitch.”

  “You won’t find him from me. Shoot me if you want. Call the Feds, but I’m out of here.”

  He walked and I let him. I would call Mancuso and give him the info on Fuhrman. He might crack eventually, but for now he was more afraid of the man who had made him rich than he was of me.

  Watching Fuhrman’s back grow smaller, I called Femalé and asked her to get me a flight out of Miami and for her to research Charles Edward Rice. Then I went to the car. The information I’d gotten today would help. And while the man who’d started it all, still eluded me, I did have a name for the mysterious Charles, and that brought me one-step closer to the name of the man I wanted.

  <><><>

  The flight landed in New York at nine-forty and by ten-thirty, my cab was crossing the Triborough Bridge and entering the city. After driving back to Miami, I’d met Mancuso at the car rental’s airport location and returned his Glock. He’d taken me into the terminal and joined me for some coffee.

  We’d killed the half hour before my plane boarded by Mancuso giving me the rundown of events after I’d left. He turned Streeter’s body over to the Miami PD with an explanation about taking him in for questioning when the drive by occurred and left jurisdiction with the locals. We both knew it would be a cold case by the next morning.

  In turn, I’d retold my conversation with Fuhrman, leaving out Rice’s name, and promised, when I had something concrete, I would let him know so he could follow up. At the least, he could roust Fuhrman with what we had on Elizabeth Granger’s abduction.

  Then I’d said goodbye to Mancuso and Miami, not a minute too soon.

  “You want me to take the FDR or local streets?” the cabby said, interrupting my thoughts.

  “FDR to Thirty-fourth,” I told him. I’d spoken to Femalé before takeoff and learned she’d gotten several things done. I was anxious to see what they were.

  My cell phone rang as we passed Gracie Mansion. I wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, but when I saw Chris’s home number on the screen, I answered.

  “How was Miami?”

  “Hotter and stickier than here.”

  “I guess the heat isn’t bothering Warez any more. You get anything from him besides the phone number Femalé passed to me?” Chris asked.

  “Just a feeling. He was scared, but more scared of them than the
feds or me. I was glad to get the number. You find anything?”

  “It’s an answering machine. A Pennsylvania number that’s part of a phone service in Harrisburg renting out telephone numbers—I’d guess you’d call it a mail drop for telephones. I’m sure your boy Warez knew it wouldn’t lead anywhere.”

  “Can we get the name of the renter?”

  “In Pennsylvania? Not likely.”

  “Not NYPD legal you mean.”

  “That’s your call. What else did you find out?”

  “A little more. I’ll let you know if it pans out.” I paused as the cabby got off the FDR and headed toward the Empire State Building.

  “Amanda wants to talk to you, hold on.”

  “Gabe, I’ve gone over everything you sent. Is Lia Thornton a suspect?”

  “Not any more. What do you have?”

  “Good. You said she told you she didn’t remember much of her childhood, and Scotty wrote the same thing. From what I’ve been able to work out, I’m thinking abused child. The pattern fits. Hustling and dancing in clubs—someone who is abused doesn’t have much self-esteem so it would follow she’d end up like that.

  It’s logical she’s suppressed the memories of her childhood and has no idea of what compelled her to live the way she had. And yes, she did rise above it all, in part because she doesn’t remember the bad times.”

  “Which means what?” I asked as the cab pulled to the curb and the driver turned to me. “Hold on.” I fished out my money, handed him two twenties, and slid out of the cab.

  Standing on the curb, the bag at my feet, I repeated, “Which means what?”

  “Scotty was right. If someone just opens up her past, it could have devastating effects on her. It could shatter her beyond help, so it has to be done right.”

  “And?”

  “You asked me to give you a profile, I did. And if I know you as well as I believe I do, you asked me to do this because you want to help her knowing it’s what Scotty wanted.”