Dead Birmingham

by Timothy C. Phillips

  “Hold, please.”

  Mack bit his lip in irritation, but he almost instantly heard a ring.

  “Inspector Cohen.” A deep French accented voice greeted him, resonant and courteous.

  “Detective McMahon, Birmingham Police. Inspector, I’ve been referred to you by the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m investigating a series of homicides in our city, and we are looking for crimes of a similar nature that may have occurred in other cities. I’ve spoken with someone at VICAP who referred me to you, as this is your area of expertise.”

  “Homicides, eh?”

  “I’m afraid so. It seems the perpetrator might possibly have some sort of international rap sheet . . . his alias is ‘The Foreigner.’ We have no other name on him at this time. I hope your organization can give us some help.”

  “Certainly, Detective, I will do all that I can to assist you. Please send whatever particulars you have on your case to me via e-mail. My secretary, Suzanne, will send you any information we come up with overnight.”

  “Thanks. I’ll get right on that.”

  Inspector Cohen relayed an e-mail address, and McMahon turned to his computer and started typing. Between mulling over the printouts and typing e-mails, he was beginning to feel like Broom’s secretary. He didn’t think the French guy really gave a damn; he’d probably never hear from Interpol on the matter. What the heck was Interpol, anyway? Some kind of French outfit? McMahon bet himself the Irish Police were ten times more efficient. He hoped all of this paper shuffling would end up doing some real good.

  Chapter 27

  The Foreigner made his way through the darkness at the foot of the stairs, and felt cool air touch his face from the left. He had a pocket flashlight, but he did not dare use it, lest he alert his prey. Instead, he walked slowly, silently, with one hand out, fingertips extended. His fingers found the wall, and he let them trail along it until they found an open space. He cautiously edged into it. A tiny sliver of light showed in the distance, and he cautiously made his way toward it.

  It was a door, and stairs going back up. Where was the light originating, he wondered. He pushed gently against the door. It opened easily, and he stepped through. He was onstage. He smiled in the eerie blue light that lay on the other side. The light was dim, but enough to have shown him the outline of the door.

  Skylights let shafts of pale light filter into the vacant theater, showing its faded and dilapidated seats, its torn and molding curtains. The feeling was macabre, and he wondered for a second if he had killed enough people to fill those seats, and if there was a hell, how appropriate such a command performance might be. You should have studied the violin, he told himself. Then you could at least keep them amused.

  He walked across the creaking boards to the stairs off stage right. He walked up the isle and out into the foyer. There was a box office, and through the windows he could see the street. But the lobby also had stairs that led into the old hotel that was adjacent to the structure. He looked at the words that were painted on the outside of the building, reversed to him. The Cabana Hotel. Intelligent, these impetuous children. They had selected the most obvious place in the city in which to hide. He admired their bravado.

  He walked up the steps to the lobby level. In its day, this hotel must have been very swank, he mused. It reminded him of some of the old hotels of Europe, in which he had stayed. But enough, he chided himself. Listen. Stretch every nerve. This is a vast building, and they may be hiding anywhere. Where would I choose, were I young and bold? I would climb until I found the best suite. But not only that, I would roam this vast corpse until I had plumbed her every secret, learned every crevice, looted every treasure. So then, must I.

  I will climb to the top and start back down. And I will find them. He thought of the Asian girl. Such beauty. Yes, my little love, soon we shall have time. And we shall get to know each other so very, very well.

  * * *

  The shop was closed up when Broom got there. No sign of Malvagio or his nephew. He walked up to the window. A small sign with an adjustable clock face indicated that the owner was due to return at 1:15. It was well past 3:00.

  Rain slid down the panes. Inside there was a clutter of items.

  “That’s a pretty long lunch,” Broom muttered. He had located Malvagio’s home address. Then, to himself, I’ll just go visit him there. That way, we can talk where the man is most comfortable; no need to cut short his lunch break.

  * * *

  Home for Malvagio was a split-level brick and stucco number, just outside of Homewood, one of the nicer areas of town. High hedges and lawn sprinklers. SUVs and basketball hoops. A quiet, suburban street. Broom had lived like that once, before breast cancer took his wife of fifteen years. After that, it had all seemed pointless to him. He lived in an apartment, and hadn’t mowed a lawn in years.

  The rain was only misting down as Broom pulled into the driveway and walked up to the door. When no one answered, he went around to the side. There was a pool around back.

  “Hello. Police. Anybody home?”

  Broom stopped suddenly. Malvagio was lying on the ground next to the pool house, and it looked like his lunch break was going to be extended indefinitely.

  Broom pulled his gun and walked over to the body. The clothes were soaked; he had lain there through the storm.

  “Jesus.” The old man had been subjected to the same dark art as the young people, but he still had his hands. His eyes, however, had been removed. Duct tape was wound around his head, through his mouth. It had also been used to secure his hands behind him. The operation had apparently been performed upon that very spot.

  Broom pulled out his radio. “This is Detective Sergeant Broom. Need immediate backup at 44 Sunrise Terrace. Repeat, immediate backup.” Best not to mention a murder over the radio, even in code, these days. You’d have every pigeon with a channel scanner over before the meat wagon. Not to mention, the beloved members of the Press.

  Broom looked around. There was no evidence of a struggle. None of the white lawn chairs was disturbed. The front door had shown no signs of forced entry. But somehow this man had been bound and tortured to death, without alerting the quiet suburban neighborhood. It was almost inconceivable.

  * * *

  “Fausto Salvatore Malvagio, born in Naples, Italy, 1933. He immigrated with his family in 1945. Got himself arrested for vice and racketeering violations in Chicago, 1959. Convicted and served two years of a five-year stint. Pinched again in Las Vegas in 1972, and again in New York in 1981, but both of those were thrown out of court for one reason or another. Both were related to racketeering. Suspected connections to the Syndicate, notably the Salvatores, through his mother’s family. Has been photographed by undercover officers in the presence of known associates of same.” Mack was reading from a rap sheet the FBI had faxed him.

  “So what in the hell is an old Mafia soldier doing running an antique shop in Birmingham?” I asked. Broom had phoned him after getting back to the office. He probably figured that I would want to know that the source of my latest paycheck had dried up.

  “The guy wasn’t running an antique shop. He was running a Mafia bank.”

  “A bank?” Mack looked at him with a knitted brow.

  “That’s right. He ran a safe house, more than likely. Not for people, for objects. The antique shop was a front. The place is probably full of valuable items. We have yet to get anyone to sign a warrant to have a look. But it all figures. Here’s the way I think it went down.”

  Broom jabbed his desktop with one thick finger.

  “These kids see a kindly old man running a quaint little shop, figure what the hell, let’s take it down, it’s an easy score. This group of kids, they survive more or less by stealing. They plan the caper, probably right there in front of the place. A grab and run robbery. But they picked the one in a million, the shop that isn’t what it seemed to be.”

  Broom sighed and shook his head. “The items they think they are stealing for kicks or b
eer money happen to be extremely valuable museum pieces, or maybe even art, that belong to the Salvatore Crime family. Who knows, maybe they are heirlooms. They are probably tucked away safely down South to keep them from the all-confiscating hand of American Justice, in case the capo in question ever got nabbed. ”

  Broom shrugged, and shook his head again. “So now these kids, these denizens of the fringe counterculture, have gotten into the safe house, and stolen what was supposed to be secure beyond all question. Poor Malvagio; the old Mafia soldier’s quiet retirement suddenly became very unquiet. The head man in New York hears about the theft. He isn’t very happy, one can suppose. He calls Malvagio and breathes down the old man’s neck to get the items back, so Malvagio hires Roland, here.”

  Broom nodded at me and went on. “But Malvagio had been entrusted with the safekeeping of these things, so he’s failed his boss. A lesson needs to be taught. So his boss picks up the phone again and makes another call. Suddenly there’s someone else on the job, and he plays by different rules. Old, brutal rules. He has very explicit instructions, and he is carrying them out to the letter. Malvagio knew what would happen if they ever found out he had lost this thing, so he came to you, Roland, hoping to get it back before they sent down their cleaner.”

  I spoke, and my voice sounded bitter even to me. “He’s going to kill them all. This cleaner. Whether he gets the property back or not.”

  “Yeah, that’s the way I figure it. There’s no negotiating. Except I believe his head is riding on getting this thing back, too, whatever it is. But then there’s the other thing. The people who hired him want a lesson sent out, like you said. Malvagio was part of that lesson. His masters told him to watch over these things, and he failed his masters. The killer cut out his eyes, and sent them to his master. And he’s doing the same thing with the hands of these kids. The part that offended is sent as proof that the cleaner is doing his job.”

  “Good God. We have to find these kids.” It was obvious, but it was all I could think of to say.

  “I know, Roland, but we have no idea where to start looking.”

  “Let’s go over the old man’s shop. Maybe that might tell us something.”

  They were only a few blocks from headquarters when Broom’s cell phone rang. “Broom.”

  It was Cassandra. “Broom, you have a very important call. From an Inspector Cohen.”

  “Inspector who?”

  Mack livened up immediately. “That’s the Interpol guy. He called us back so soon?”

  There was a crazy maniacal glint in Broom’s eye as he hit the blue light on the dash and ran over the slight embankment that separated lanes to make a u-turn. “Hang on, Cassandra. We’re on our way back.”

  “Is this a break?” I shouted, hoping against hope.

  “It’s all little breaks, old friend,” Broom said. “Little breaks.”

  Chapter 28

  “Is this Detective McMahon?”

  “This is Detective Sergeant Lester Broom, Birmingham Homicide. McMahon is my partner. You have information for us, Inspector Cohen?”

  “I do indeed, Detective. I looked at the information your colleague sent to us, and I was struck immediately by the similarity to a series of crimes committed several years ago in Stockholm.”

  Stockholm? Sweden? Broom let Cohen go on.

  “The torture to which the victims were subjected is too similar to be coincidental. Particularly the amputation of the hands. In the cases where the hands were amputated, investigators could not locate them at the scene, or subsequently.”

  “Why did Interpol get involved?”

  “The killer is a specialist, the name of whom we do not know. It seems he is known as L’Etranger, or, the Foreigner, to the underworld figures of Europe. He has operated in several countries over the years since the fall of the Soviet Union. We believe that he may be, in all candor, ex-KGB, or perhaps former Spetsnatz, or perhaps even the old East German secret police. His methods certainly resemble their interrogation methods, as well as those employed by a certain agent, known by reputation to Western intelligence at that time. Also, he seems to have appeared on the scene shortly after the removal of the Berlin Wall.”

  Interrogation methods, thought Broom. Thank God in his heaven I am not so full of shit yet, as to call the butchery of these kids something that sounds so . . . clean.

  Broom said, “Who were these other victims?”

  “They were a ring of white-collar criminals, who had embezzled quite a bit of money through securities fraud, and international currency exchanges. Accountants and stock brokers gone bad. Their employers had ties to organized crime, so we believe that this man, this professional, was hired by someone with a vested interest to kill these men.”

  White-collar criminals. A thief is a thief, thought Broom.

  “I am sending you what information we have, but as I say, Detective Sergeant Broom, the actual identity of this person is quite unknown to us. He is very shadowy. There is no mug shot, no physical description. The information that I am sending you deals only with his profile, and his crimes.”

  “I understand. Thank you, Inspector Cohen. You have been tremendously helpful. I have amended my opinion of the French police.”

  “Of course. Please do not hesitate to contact us for further assistance. And Detective? I’m Canadian.”

  Broom smiled. But what Cohen said next sent a chill through him:

  “Let my last words be a warning to you, Detective Broom. Be aware that you are very probably on the trail of one of the most merciless killers alive. If you see him, you should shoot him on sight, and shoot to kill. You may rely on the fact that he will certainly conduct himself in a like manner with regard to you.”

  Broom hung up and took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Mack and I were staring at him.

  I finally spoke. “I don’t like the look on your face, Broom. What did Cohen have to say?”

  Broom shook his head and eyed us both. “Guys, we have got a big, big problem.”

  * * *

  Across town, Francis Lorenzo was preparing to meet his boss, Don Ganato. He was pretty nervous. The Don had entrusted him with a simple task, and things had gone terribly haywire. He had long been Don Ganato’s most trusted henchman, but he knew if he failed badly enough, that wouldn’t save him. So it was with deep trepidation that Francis climbed the stairs in the Ganato home and made his way to the study. He had been summoned by a phone call from Don G’s niece, Beatrice, who was also his secretary. She had called Francis at home, just after his lawyer had dropped him off. There had been a warrant out against Francis for discharging a firearm in the city limits, and assault with a deadly weapon. He and the lawyer had just returned from making bail arrangements when the call came. Francis had been expecting the call; he just didn’t know what it portended. Now he was going to find out.

  He opened the door and stepped into the study. Beatrice was sitting on a chair nearby and gave him a friendly smile. Don Ganato was staring out the window, his back to Francis. He was stirring a cup of tea and looking out into the darkness. Beatrice rose and left wordlessly through the door Francis had opened. Don Ganato had caught sight of Francis’ reflection in the window.

  “Francis, come in, have a seat,” he said without turning.

  Francis sat in the chair where Beatrice had sat. He waited.

  After a moment Don Ganato got to his feet and came around and lowered himself into the chair across from Francis. He wore a meditative expression.

  Francis cleared his throat. “Uh, I just wanted to, uh, apologize for the way things went down, Don Ganato.”

  Dan Ganato stirred his tea and took a tiny sip. He raised his eyebrow quizzically, then shook his head. “Not to worry, Francis. All is working well.”

  Francis was more than a little amazed. He had half suspected that Don Ganato had summoned him here to at least severely chastise him, or maybe even make him disappear.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I susp
ect that the events at Finnegan’s bar today is more or less what Detective Broom had in mind. He manipulated me into sending you to flush out Johnny Sheehan. Broom was looking for a connection to a contract killer who is currently at work in the city. He rather successfully took advantage of my personal vanity and used me to flush out the person who was in the know about the killer. Broom knew I would use my contacts to find out who the person was.”

  “But . . . I thought you said that all was well. That don’t sound like it.”

  “At first glance, things look bad for us. But let us take a closer look. Sheehan is a known associate of Longshot Lonny O’Malley. Broom came down here to stir up trouble with me because he thought perhaps our people were involved. Now we have deflected Broom, and the Birmingham Police Department along with him. They are, no doubt, taking a very close look into Longshot Lonny O’Malleys affairs, even as we speak. All in all, I would say that things worked out quite well. Except for your legal problems, of course.”

  Francis nodded. “Yeah, except for them.”

  Don Ganato rose and came over to Francis. He clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Never to worry. We will have the best lawyers in town explain how you were only protecting yourself. These charges will disappear overnight, I am sure.”

  “Thank you, Dan Ganato.”

  “Go get some rest, Francis. You look a fright.”

  Francis rose, grinned, and backed out slowly. “Yes, thank you again, Don G. I’ll do that.”

  After Francis left, Don Armand Ganato went back to the window, sipped his tea, and stared out into the night.

  * * *&

  Across town, in a room above a bar, a tall thin man with light blond hair stared out his own window. His eyes were the most striking thing about him. One was a warm green, the other an icy blue. He also suffered from slight astigmatism, so that one eye was always centered on the subject of his attention, while the other roamed in other spheres.