The ambulance screamed down the exit ramp, cut across three lanes of the access road, and bounced up the emergency room driveway. I released Snoop’s hand and put both hands on the blood-soaked pressure pad on his stomach.
The driver cut the siren as the vehicle slammed to a stop. The EMT climbed onto the gurney, one knee on each side of Snoop’s hips as both back doors flew open. He leaned over my hands as he continued CPR. Two green-gowned doctors grabbed the gurney and pulled it to the door, snapped its folded wheels into place. The attendant said, “Three GSWs to the abdomen, through-and-through to the shoulder, and a head wound.” He reported Snoop’s vital signs.
I walked beside the gurney and kept pressure on Snoop’s wounds, or at least some of them, as the doctors wheeled it inside. Inside the glass double doors, a doctor put his hands next to mine. “We’ll take it from here, sir. He’s headed straight into surgery.” The doctors shoved the gurney across the tile floor and through another set of double doors, metal this time.
I found the ambulance driver who had followed the gurney inside. “What happens now?”
She put a hand on my shoulder. “This was the worst I’ve seen since Iraq. Surgery will take a few hours. Make yourself comfortable in the waiting room. Oh, wait. Your shirt is bloody. I have an extra scrub top in the ambulance that’ll fit you. I’ll get it.”
I felt lost and useless. I surveyed the ER, hoped for something I could do to help. Admission desk, interview kiosks, triage nurse’s station, dozens of chairs in the waiting area, most of them occupied. Two empty wheelchairs waited off to one side. Not a person noticed me; they had troubles of their own.
The driver came back carrying a green scrub top. I noticed she had changed her own bloody top. “Let’s step out of the way.” She handed me the clean top.
I peeled off my bloody shirt, tossed it in a trash bin, and slipped on the clean one. “Thanks for the shirt.”
“I notice you’ve got a few scars,” she observed. “Iraq?”
“And Afghanistan. Snoop’s in worse shape than I ever saw over there. I never got a chance to ask you in the ambulance. What are Snoop’s chances?”
“Let’s sit down over there.” The driver led me to an unoccupied corner of the seating area. “I know where they keep the coffee in this joint. You want some?”
“You didn’t answer me. That means it’s worse than I thought.”
She shrugged. “Let me get you coffee; we’ll talk. How you take it?”
“Little cream, no sugar.”
When the EMT left, I called Snoop’s wife. “Janet, this is Chuck. Where are you?”
“On my way to Cedars emergency room. Kelly Contreras called me. How bad is it?”
Break it to her gently. “Don’t know how bad yet. They wheeled the gurney straight into surgery. You’re not driving are you?”
“Of course I’m driving. How the hell do you think I’m going to get there?”
“Janet, you should hang up. Don’t drive when you’re upset and distracted. We’ll talk when you get here.”
Her voice broke. “I’ll… I’ll… oh hell, you’re right. Doesn’t do Snoop any good if I wreck the car on my way there. I’ll talk to you soon.” She hung up.
Kelly and Bigs walked through the glass doors. “How is he?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I asked the ambulance driver. She changed the subject and went to get me coffee, so it can’t be good. Three GSWs to the abdomen, one to the shoulder, and a head wound. He’ll be in surgery for the next few hours. Thanks for calling Janet. She’s on her way down.”
The two detectives grabbed chairs in the waiting room as the ambulance driver came back through the metal double doors carrying two cups of coffee. She handed one to me. “Hello, detectives.” She sat down with us and set her coffee on an end table. “Are you friends of the injured man too?”
“More like family. Snoop’s an ex-cop like this one here.” Bigs gestured at me. “What can you tell us?”
The ambulance driver spread her hands and made a face. “Since the victim’s a civilian and not a cop, and since you aren’t technically family members, I’m not allowed to tell you doodly-squat—officially. But unofficially, he has three GSWs to the abdomen, a through-and-through in the shoulder, and a head wound that might be a graze. Head wounds bleed like crazy, and he’ll have a concussion from that, but it’s no biggie long-term. The abdominal injuries are touchy—lots of bacteria and shit like that—both literally and figuratively.” She frowned. “You all saw him when we wheeled him down that driveway. His wounds are as bad as any I’ve seen. I’d prepare for the worst. That’s all I know.” She picked up her coffee. “I gotta move the ambulance and get ready for another run when my partner comes back. Detectives.” She shook hands around and left.
“Somebody needs to be here when Janet arrives, but it doesn’t have to be you. Bigs and I will wait for Janet. She won’t have to sit here alone. Did anybody call Snoop’s daughters?”
“I know I didn’t,” said Bigs. “I don’t have their numbers. We’ll wait for Janet to get here.”
“I’m torn. On the one hand, I want to sit with Janet until we hear news on Snoop. On the other hand, the bastards who shot him are out there, and they have Doraleen Rice.”
Kelly said, “Snoop’s text said he saw four. One neighbor swore she saw four, maybe five men get out of two cars. The description of the cars both sounded like Jeep Grand Cherokees.”
“The only person the kidnappers will know to contact is Tank Tyler. I’ll tell him to expect a call.” I carried my phone outside and away from curious ears.
Chapter 36
Tank was asleep when his phone rang. He fought to wake up. “Hey, Chuck. I was catching a catnap while Al is with the physical trainer. That crazy stuff last night and this morning messed up my internal clock.”
“Tank, I have bad news. Have you heard about Doraleen?”
Tank jumped from the bed. “Is something wrong with Momma Dora?”
“Four gunmen stormed Doraleen’s house two hours ago and kidnapped her. They shot Snoop, but not before he killed two of them.”
Tank’s stomach tied in knots. “Oh, geez. Tell me everything.”
Chuck told what he knew about the attack. “You’re the logical person for the kidnappers to contact. We didn’t find Doraleen’s cell phone at her house. We figure they took it. Your number will be in her contact list.”
“So will yours; I added it to her phone.”
“Good point. Don’t be surprised if they wait until tomorrow to make contact. They might let us stew for a while. If they contact you first, give them my number and hang up. Don’t answer any questions, and for God’s sake, don’t tell them anything about Al. Refer them to me, then hang up.”
“Got it.” Tank glanced at the clock beside his bed. “I’ve had Al with a physical trainer and a nutritionist for the last couple hours. That’s why I could sneak off for a nap. With Momma Dora kidnapped, we need to find a safer place for Al. Any ideas?”
“Yeah, let’s kill two birds with one stone and hide him in a rehab facility. There’s a good one out near the Everglades. It’s called Sunny Place. Tell the trainer to sneak Al out in his car and deliver him out there. Register him under the name John C. Calhoun.”
“Who?”
“John C. Calhoun, the first vice president of the United States to resign. He was elected with John Quincy Adams and reelected with Andrew Jackson. He didn’t like Jackson, so he resigned as VP. Also he was a slave owner. It’s the last false identity anyone would expect a black man to assume.”
“What if I need to go there to make payment arrangements?”
“You still own that Mercedes, don’t you?” asked Chuck. “They know the Porsche, and I don’t want them following you.”
“Yeah. I’ll head out there now and have the trainer follow as soon as Al finishes his exercises.”
“Don’t go unless necessary. Even in the Mercedes, somebody might follow you. Moffett probably staked out
the bridge to your island. Try to register Al by phone first. Use your landline, not your cell. No unnecessary chances.”
“Okay. What will you do without Snoop as backup? Can I fill in?”
“Why do you ask? You plan to kill someone?”
Tank paused. “Yeah, if it comes to that.”
“It might. These are not nice people who grabbed Doraleen, and Snoop killed two of their men. They probably aren’t happy about that. Neighbors reported hearing over a dozen gunshots of which at least five hit Snoop, and he’s a trained professional. If I were you, I’d think long and hard before I dealt myself into the muscle end of this thing. I get paid to risk my life; you don’t.”
“I told you: Momma Dora is a second mother to me. I want in.”
“Tank, you’re personally involved with Al and Doraleen, and that leads to emotional decisions. Emotional decisions could make you very dead. Worse, they could make me dead, and that would ruin my whole day. Snoop and I’ve been tested under fire together; you and I haven’t.”
“There’s always a first time. You need another set of eyes and hands, and you’ve seen me shoot, if it comes to that.”
“Tank, it’s good that you can shoot a paper target fifty feet away, but a paper target doesn’t shoot back. It’s a whole other thing to shoot at a hired killer who’s shooting back from twenty feet away.”
“I can’t sit around as a bystander, Chuck. If I promise to keep my cool, can I help?”
“Let me sleep on it, Tank. I’ll get back to you on that. In the meantime, get Al to Sunny Place.”
Tank pictured the last time he shot a paper target. He remembered the sound of the rapid-fire bang, bang, bang, hushed through the earmuffs. He had placed five of six shots in the five ring and missed the target with his sixth. Chuck placed five in the seven ring and one in the five. Snoop placed all six in the eight ring. Tank was a better than average shooter, but not in the same league with Chuck and Snoop. How good did he have to be as a backup, even if Chuck did take him? He knew he could never replace Snoop, but no one could. The question wasn’t whether he could be as good as Snoop. The question was whether he was good enough to have Chuck’s back.
Tank pictured an armed man twenty feet away, shooting at him. He shuddered. He pictured it again, more vividly. He imagined the man aiming a gun at him, muzzle flashes shooting like fiery suns from the barrel. He shuddered again, but not as much.
He remembered that he wore ear protection at the shooting range. If he were Chuck’s backup, there would be no hearing protection. He imagined the gunfire assaulting his unprotected ears—deafening, sharp, and explosive. How would the sheer volume of noise affect his aim, let along another man trying his best to kill him? Would he panic? Would he freeze?
For six years in the NFL, he had faced three-hundred-plus-pound linemen, sometimes two or three at a time, trying to level him. That prospect had never fazed him.
This possibility was something else entirely. The offensive linemen had not tried to kill him.
Chapter 37
I walked back inside. Janet Snopolski had arrived and was sitting with Kelly. Janet stood and wrapped her arms around me. “Chuck, tell me he’ll be all right.” Tears streamed down her face.
I didn’t know if it were true or not, but I did what she asked. “He’ll be all right.” I patted her on the back. “Where are the girls?”
“Bigs went to pick them up at home.” She smiled a little and sat down. Kelly took her hand.
I sat on the other side. “Janet, I’d like to wait here with you until we get word on Snoop’s condition, but…”
“You go find the bastards who shot my husband.” She waved a dismissive hand at me. “Go. Go. You men are no good in hospital waiting rooms. Go do something useful.” She smiled again. “Kelly will keep me company until the girls arrive. Find those dirtbags for me—for Snoop.”
“Kelly,” I asked, “did you find an address for Scarface?”
“Scarface?” said Janet.
“Teddy Ngombo. Easier to remember than his real name. Snoop texted me that Scarface was one of the shooters.”
###
The taxi let me off at Doraleen’s house. I ducked under the crime scene tape and went inside.
Frank Bennett looked up from his fingerprint kit. “Hey, Chuck. I got good prints, but it’ll take until tomorrow to have any news. We found a bullet that hit the dirt in the yard. Should get decent ballistics from that for at least one shooter, and we got the guns of the two stiffs.”
“Snoop’s text said there were four shooters. How many were there really?”
“Witnesses said they saw at least four men, maybe five. They came in two cars, possibly Jeep Grand Cherokees. After they lost two men, they had to leave one of the Jeeps here because they only had two left to kidnap Doraleen Rice. If there were two men to a car, there were four. It’s not clear. You know how eyewitnesses are.”
“Did you get the bullets that hit the garage?”
“We dug four bullets from the concrete wall. They were so damaged that I doubt we’ll get any useful ballistic markers. There were three more bullet holes in the rear fence, but the slugs would have fallen in the canal. We do know from the weight of the slugs that they came from at least two different weapons. Don’t know how many more shooters fired. We’ll analyze everything. Kelly said to keep you in the loop.”
I held up the keys to Snoop’s car that Janet insisted I take. “Okay if I take Snoop’s car?”
“Sure. It’s not part of the crime scene.”
I had parked my car three houses away a few hours before. I got a few crime fighter/super detective items out of it and paired both my cell phones to Snoop’s Bluetooth.
Chapter 38
“Tank, I want to see Race Car,” said Rice as Tank entered the home gym. “I need to see Race Car.”
That’s all Tank needed—a delay getting his pal safely to the rehab center. “Chuck said to get you to Sunny Place, ASAP. You’re not safe here. Moffett has Momma Dora. We don’t want him to grab you too.”
Rice looked down. His shoulders shook. He clenched and unclenched his fists. When he looked up, his eyes filled with tears. “Tank, you and Chuck are doing things, taking action, and making things happen. I’m bouncing around like a balloon in a tornado. I’m not a cop. I don’t know how to find Momma. Even if I did, I’ve never held a fucking gun in my life. I wouldn’t know the first thing about how to rescue her.” He put his hands on his friend’s shoulders. “I feel really helpless right now, okay? I can’t help my own mother for crissakes. At least let me comfort our cat. Think of her as an inadequate surrogate for Momma.”
Tanks hugged his friend. “Okay, buddy.”
Al wiped his cheeks. “Bro, you know how much that cat means to Momma and me. You were with us in the cemetery when she came to us. She’s all we have left of Dad. I’ll ride with Carson, the physical trainer, right? They don’t know his car. We can swing by the vet’s clinic on the way to that rehab place.”
Tank smiled. Al was right. “Lie down in the back of Carson’s car until you get well away from the island, in case they staked out the entrance.”
“No problem. I’ll tell Carson I’m ready to go.”
When they reached the mainland, Carson pulled into a convenience store parking lot. “You can move up here now.”
Rice got out of the back seat and opened the passenger door. “You have a phone charger? My battery’s dead.”
Chapter 39
The address Kelly gave me for Scarface was on the second floor of an eight-story apartment house built in Port City Beach’s fashionable Art Deco District. The apartments were built in the 1930s as the tony Franklin Apartment Hotel. New Yorkers and Bostonians whose money survived the Great Depression would spend all winter at the Franklin and similar hotels. Lifestyles of the rich and chilly. Refugees from northern climes began to shelter in sunny South Florida a hundred years ago, and the Franklin Hotel was a pre-War favorite. After World War II, the Franklin fell
out of favor as newer hotels were built on the beach. The Franklin began a decades-long decline and ended as a flophouse in the late twentieth century. A wealthy gay couple bought it out of foreclosure and converted it to a twenty-first century cozy hideaway for upwardly horny young professionals and wannabee fashionistas to live fulltime.
The wages of sin must be pretty good for Scarface to afford to live there.
I circled the block searching for his Jeep Cherokee. I found one Cherokee parked a block away. It was the wrong color, but I called in the plate. Couldn’t hurt. It belonged to a young couple who rented an apartment elsewhere on the block. Wrong vehicle.
Entering from the alley, I parked in a visitor’s spot in the rear parking lot. No Jeep Cherokee anywhere in the lot and a Mazda Miata occupied the spot for unit 2-G, not a Jeep. I called in the license plate. The Mazda was registered to Helena Hopkins at this address. Maybe Kelly had the apartment number wrong.
I took the stairs to the second floor. The apartments fronted on an exterior walkway that stretched in a semi-circle both directions from the outdoor elevator lobby. The walkway was deserted except for the potted plants and hanging baskets that decorated the walk from one end to the other. It reminded me of an old-fashioned Fern Bar from a 1980s movie. Boy meets girl meets jungle.
A light shone behind the window for Unit 2-G. I drew my Glock, held it alongside my right leg, and backed against the wall on the far side of the door. If he shot through the door, he’d miss me. I hoped. I reached across the door and knocked with my left hand. Nothing. I waited a minute and knocked again.
The door opened a crack and a young woman’s face appeared over the chain. Brown eyes, brown hair, light makeup. “Yes.”
Perfume wafted from inside. “Is Teddy here?”
“Who?”
“Teddy Ngombo. This is his address.”
“No, it’s not. I’ve lived here over a year and the man who lived here before was named Rostow. You must be mistaken.” The door started to close.
Day of the Tiger (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 5) Page 14
