Felicia turned on him. “Cops are all over the place.”
Cocking his eyebrows, Michael looked from Felicia to Sandy. “They think we’re too stupid to realize it. How dumb do they think we are?”
“I don’t get it,” Michael admitted.
“They have a sting set up,” Felicia explained. Her cheeks and nose looked rosy and matched the shade of her lipstick. “I’m freezing.”
“Why are you back here?” Michael asked. He hoped he sounded concerned and civilized. “Why don’t you two at least go inside and stay warm?” He wanted to ask why Felicia was back at all. He did not expect to see her here. He did not expect to see her working. A knot formed in his belly as a mixture of emotions flooded through him. Jealousy and anger were in the forefront and remained the most prominent. He felt sad and cheated. He wanted answers, but did not want to ask her any of the questions spinning around in a whirlwind in his mind. Why are you here? How can you still want to do this? Why? How?
“Screw this, I’m just going home. There ain’t going to be any money made tonight,” Sandy said. “How about you Felicia?”
Felicia looked at Michael. “I might go in for some coffee first, warm up some.”
_____________________________
Fatso looked like a man watching a movie. He had positioned himself on the stool so he could face the front window. He waved to Michael and Felicia as they walked around the front of the building, before they entered the diner. Michael waved back, absently. His attention was immediately drawn to the prostitute standing at the corner.
“Who’s that?” He asked. He had never seen this working girl before. She had long blonde and curly hair. Michael felt certain the hair was a wig. She wore a thigh length fur coat. The woman’s legs were shielded from the elements in red nylon stockings and knee-high leather boats. She stood by the street sign with her hips cocked, all her weight on one leg.
“‘What’s that?’ might be a better question,” Felicia said loud enough to get the attention of the woman working the street traffic as she linked an arm around Michael’s. “She’s a cop, part of that sting. There are a few more inside posing as customers. There are cops in some parked cars along the street, too.”
Michael looked up and down the road. Traffic was thin. Cars whipped by coming from both directions. Michael noticed a man sitting in a black Lincoln a block away. He also noticed the cream colored van with tinted windows across the street, parked in front of a fire hydrant. “Cops, huh?”
He knew what was going on. The police wanted to catch Johnny Blade. It seemed a little risky, but valiant. It stood to reason the Blade might come back to Jack’s Joint. He had killed two women from here before. But his third victim, who was not a known prostitute, had been picked up on Lyell Avenue. Johnny Blade must realize establishing a pattern would only wind up getting him caught. Still, what else did the police have to go on? Jack’s Joint was a logical starting point. He would not doubt if the police had units staking out the bar on Lyell, too. “Let’s get inside. I’m frozen!”
Upon entering, Michael initially expected to see Detectives Cocuzzi and Cage. That would not make sense though, not if the police suspected a Jack’s Joint customer. Having shown their faces before, they would risk being identified. Michael thought he could pick out the undercover officers easily. Though he did not recognize everyone, picking out the police seemed a piece of cake. The man at the counter with sandy blonde hair, maybe in his mid-twenties, dressed in a long black trench coat, had to be a cop. The man in the trench coat sat sideways on the stool. He had a copy of the newspaper open, and though he appeared to be reading—Michael felt himself being sized-up and assessed.
The man sitting in the second booth closest to the front window was an undercover police officer. A plate with a half-eaten hamburger and a few fries sat on the tabletop. The man was maybe thirty-five, forty at the oldest. He had a horseshoe head of hair and a dry looking scalp. This man was heavy, out of shape. As he held a coffee cup to his lips, Michael noted the unusually thick fingers. The man’s wedding band was nearly swallowed by the swollen-looking flesh on either side of the ring.
Two cops for sure, and a third working the corner. It might prove to be an interesting night. Michael smiled at Felicia. “Coffee?”
She smiled back. “Please.”
Chapter 40
Detective Jason Cocuzzi sat in an old Subaru along the street, on the adjacent corner. He watched Michael Buzzelli skeptically. Though he did not believe Buzzelli to be the killer, he still had reserve feelings about the over ambitious young journalist. Though he often times did not agree with Detective Cage’s mannerisms and obnoxious outbursts, he did side with the Irondequoit cop when it came to comparing most journalists to attorneys.
The plan did not sound desperate at the design stages. However, it felt desperate now that it was actually being carried out. There were many factors calculated into the equation. The one obvious point made was the fact that the killer, Johnny Blade, was striking more frequently. Donna Pappalardo bothered Cocuzzi and the others assigned to the task force. She did not blend into the mix. Serial killers have been known to work consistently. They worked a pattern, used a plan. All three victims had been killed with the same kind, or the exact same knife. The first two victims were prostitutes. The first two victims worked the same street corner. These two facts showed a pattern. One of the prostitutes was white; one was black. This, in a way, deviated from the pattern. All of the bodies were dumped out in the open. Pattern. Pappalardo, however, was not a prostitute. She worked in a factory. She was picked up on Lyell Avenue, and not from outside of Jack’s Joint.
Cocuzzi and the newly assigned task force were scrambling. The FBI had contacted the chief of police. Two agents were being sent over. They planned to profile the serial killer and lead the task force. Cocuzzi resented this. He appreciated the FBI’s wanting to help. He could handle the case, though. When the chief explained the news to Cocuzzi, the homicide detective held his tongue. Foolish pride would be the only reason to complain. Foolish pride. If the FBI could help catch the killer, then he agreed to welcome the agents with—mostly—open arms.
Detective Cage, on the other hand, had flown off the handle. The chief quickly put Cage in his place. “Who in the hell are you to complain, detective? You aren’t even with this department. I’m letting you work the case with Detective Cocuzzi as a favor to your chief!”
Cocuzzi’s radio crackled with static and came to life. “See Buzzelli? Asshole.”
Cocuzzi closed his eyes. “I saw Buzzelli, Cage. Let’s keep comments like ‘asshole’ to ourselves so we don’t needlessly tie up the airwaves. Out.” Cage was in the van across the street from the diner. The truck, loaded with video and audio equipment, monitored Christine Wrzos. She looked like a stereotypical whore. Cage said she should be smoking, too. Smoking, Cage explained, was a sexual turn on. Men found women more attractive when they smoked. He told Cocuzzi and the others that a cigarette was a phallic symbol and represented a man’s penis.
Christine absolutely refused to smoke. “I quit five years ago. It was one of the toughest things I’ve ever had to do. If you think I’m going to risk getting hooked on that crap again—you’re out of your wacked-out mind, detective.”
Cocuzzi laughed at Christine’s brazen statements, and respected the young detective immediately and immensely. It amazed him that she’d be willing to risk her life posing as a prostitute to catch a knife wielding killer, but refused to risk getting re-addicted to nicotine.
The undercover cops inside Jack’s Joint had it made. They were in a building, drinking coffee and staying warm. Jason Cocuzzi had a thermos of coffee, but it was not the same thing. He kept the car running with the heat on high and still felt a chill in his bones. He had set the radio down on the seat beside him and intently concentrated on the surroundings.
One of the flaws in this sting set-up was painfully apparent. More than likely, unsuspecting johns would stop and solicit Christine for
sex, or sexual favors in exchange for money. The johns would have to be arrested. However, this process would require Christine to place herself in some dangerous situations, mainly because the task force did not want to make busts in front of the diner.
Christine readily agreed to the assignment, knowing the risks involved. The task force did not try to dissuade her decision. Still, if Christine climbed into a vehicle with a john, and the bust was made somewhere else—there stood a good chance that the actual killer might drive by Jack’s Joint and not see a working girl on the corner. Cage wanted to have two women undercover. He wanted the second woman to be African American. Cocuzzi agreed. The chief wanted to wait and see how the first few nights panned out. If Christine was spending a lot of time getting picked up, then a second plant might prove necessary.
The plan was simple; bust anyone caught soliciting Christine, get the john to the station and conduct an extensive background search. The police would have the john’s car in possession and the right to search it thoroughly.
Just as Jason Cocuzzi poured coffee into the thermos cap, a small blue, street-salt and grime covered car pulled up to the curb. Cocuzzi poured the coffee back into the thermos and picked up his radio. “Pete? Over.”
“We got him, Cocuzzi. We’re recording the conversation. The guy wants to know what a twenty will get him. Unit One, stand by. Over.”
“This is Unit One. We’re running the plates now. Over.”
Cocuzzi watched Christine’s performance. She resembled an officially trained thespian. She stood with one hand on her hip, kept tossing her hair back. She gave the apparent impression of boredom. This was another day in a working girl’s life. Cocuzzi wished he could hear the dialog to accompany the scene.
“Pete? What’s happening? Over.” Cocuzzi could not help feeling apprehensive. There would be no way to know for sure if this john was the Johnny Blade. The stakes in the game were high. Police work always involved high stakes. Routine traffic, done day in and day out, sometimes proves deadly. Many jobs cause stress. Being a police officer, the stress starts at the beginning of the shift, and often times lasts the full eight hours—and then some. Some police officers, like Cocuzzi, though, seemed to thrive on stress.
“It looks good. Looks like she’s going to get in. Over.” Peter Cage said as Cocuzzi watched Christine climb into the car. The driver of the dirty blue vehicle looked around, pulled into traffic and drove north down Lake Avenue.
Unit Two, an unmarked squad car pulled out of a spot along the road and followed the blue car. Cocuzzi talked into his radio. “And? Over.”
“And,” Cage said, “the guy wants her to relieve him while he’s driving. He’s already got it out.” Static and hissing noise is emitted from the radio. “I think she’s laughing at him. Over.”
Cocuzzi smiled. “They’re no where near our focal point. Pull them over. Over.”
“This is Unit One. We have a make on the vehicle and its owner. The car is registered to a Sonia Baker. We believe the driver might be her teenaged son. Over.”
Cocuzzi cursed under his breath. “I want him brought to the station regardless. Same rules. Complete background check, alibis, everything. Clear? Over.”
“Will do. Over.”
Chapter 41
“Cops all over the place,” Fatso said in a whisper as he turned the page of his newspaper.
“What was that?” Michael asked.
“More coffee, please,” Fatso said in a voice too loud not to seem suspicious.
As Michael poured fresh coffee into Fatso’s nearly full cup, Fatso leaned in closer. “I said, ‘cops are all over the place’.” Fatso sat up straight and cleared his throat. In a strong voice he said, “That’s perfect, thank you.”
Michael could not help but smile. Fatso had succeeded in doing the opposite of what he had attempted to do. Rather than casually warn Michael of the undercover police officers, he attracted everyone’s attention. Michael set the pot back on the warmer. “I caught sight of them,” Michael said, resting his elbows on the counter. “And right now, most of them are looking at you.”
Fatso gasped. “Get out. For real?”
Michael smiled. He could tell Fatso wanted to turn around and see who might be staring at him. It appeared to take every bit of reserve to keep from doing so. “Not anymore.”
Fatso let out a sigh of relief. “This doesn’t just seem like some bust going down. I get the feeling they’re after Johnny Blade.” Fatso added sugar and cream to his coffee. “This entire set up has major sting written all over it. In the summer, the cops like to bust the johns. They do these once a month—but never have I seen undercover inside Jack’s. No, this has something to do with Johnny Blade.”
Of course, this was obvious to Michael. “Could be,” he simply said, finding it difficult not to stare at the policemen in the diner. They seemed aware of him, as well. Michael wanted to find out more. He wondered what might be going on outside. He watched the policewoman dressed like a prostitute climb into a car and drive away. He then noted a car pull away from the curb a few moments later. Though unlikely, it seemed all too possible that the serial killer had just picked up a police officer without realizing it.
“Did you hear about Speed?” Fatso asked. He had folded his newspaper into quarters and set it down on the counter. He wanted to talk now. Michael noted how Fatso could use the newspaper to manipulate a situation. If the heavy man did not wish to be disturbed, he hid behind the creases of a fully unfolded paper. If he wanted to be in and out of a conversation, the paper was folded in half. This let Fatso insert his two cents, and if necessary hide behind the headlines. When Fatso folded the paper into quarters and set it down, then Fatso was ready to chew the fat, regardless of the consequences of the conversation.
“I haven’t heard a thing. No. What happened? He get arrested?” Michael thought it seemed like the most logical event to happen to a professional shoplifter. He wondered if Speed had any kind of record. If you stole things for a living, you had to get caught once in a while. Could someone get away with it every time? That did not seem likely.
Fatso pursed his lips together. “I just got this information from Jack, before he left. Seems Speed got busted, big time busted. He was at one of them stores at Midtown Plaza—I don’t know why that place is still opened.” Midtown Plaza was an infamous mall in the heart of the city of Rochester. At one point the place thrived. It boasted prominent department stores and a variety of chain shops. At Christmas time, the mall would be crowded with holiday shoppers. A trolley on tracks near the ceiling gave rides to children waiting to sit on Santa’s lap. In the late 1980’s and throughout the 1990’s the place went to Hell. The mall was full of dangerous vagrants. Armed security guards were added for protection. The large department stores pulled out. For decades, the mall seemed on the verge of closing down. Traffic was slim throughout the year, and even during the Christmas season. For one reason or another, the mall remains open. “I don’t go down there. I don’t feel safe,” Fatso said, and seemed to pause to reflect on this last statement.
“What happened to Speed?” Michael insisted, impatiently. Though curiosity was getting the better of him, Michael found it difficult to stay focused. He watched Felicia watching him. She had a smile on her face that could not be misinterpreted. She wanted him. He wanted her. He displayed a sheepish grin.
“You listening to me or what?” Fatso asked.
“I’m listening. I’m listening,” Michael said. “You’re just taking forever to get to the point.”
As if ignoring the insult, Fatso cleared his throat. “So Speed’s on the upper level in the mall, right? And he’s in a store filling his bag, or however he does it. When he comes out of the store—back into the mall—a guard yells for him to stop. See, they can’t do anything to you while you’re in the store. You can be in a store stuffing jewelry down your pants, but until you leave without paying for it—no one can do a thing to you. If they try to arrest you before you’ve left, all you
have to do is tell them you planned on paying for it. Since you hadn’t left the store, they can’t prove otherwise.”
“So Speed was stuffing jewelry down his pants?” Michael asked, teasing.
“No. I’m just illustrating a point.”
“Yeah, well now I have a vivid image of Speed’s privates decked out in diamonds and rubies.” Michael vigorously shook his head, as if trying to get the mental picture out of his head. Felicia laughed.
“This isn’t funny,” Fatso said. He sounded frustrated.
“It is so far. Fatso, you haven’t told me anything yet.”
“Speed didn’t stop when the guard called out to him.”
“Why would he?”
“Instead, he took off running, looking back all the time. What he didn’t see was the guard coming at him from the side. This guard—you’ve seen the guards there, they all look like pro wrestlers—well, this guard must have been a linebacker, or something. He crosses his arms over his chests and barrels into Speed like a fright train. The inertia doesn’t stop Speed, it propels him backwards—”
“Inertia?” Michael asked, smiling.
Continuing to ignore the interruptions, Fatso presses on. “Speed hits the railing and it gives.”
This statement wiped the smirks off the faces of Michael and Felicia’s. “Now I have your attention.”
“Is he all right?” Felicia asked. She looked worried. Concern was evident in her eyes. They were wide, her brow creased.
“He’s all right. He’s at Park Ridge Hospital. He’s got a severe concussion, a broken arm and broken ribs. He was lucky. He landed on his side. The police were saying, had he of landed on his back, the damage would have been worse—and he more than likely would have died. He’s under arrest, too. Police even have him cuffed to the bed. When the police got there, they found his pockets stuffed with stolen stuff. Jack said Speed was wearing five stolen shirts and six pairs of stolen pants. The police think all of this extra padding helped keep him from killing himself when he hit the ground. The clothing broke the fall.” Fatso was grinning.
Johnny Blade Page 18
