“That’s cool, man. So, what’s up?” He turned to face Staal.
“I need a ride-along tonight, with Fraser.”
Staal told Rodriquez about the night’s surveillance and how he hoped to bring Rodriquez in on the case, full time.
Rodriquez’s face lit up. “Are you kidding, man? Ole T-Rod is your guy. Shit, me and Kenny will rock and roll all over those cock-suckers!”
“All right, then. The squad is getting ready to head. I’ll see you upstairs in five.”
The detectives shook hands.
“Hey, I thought IHIT had this BB shit?” Rodriquez said.
“We’re just cooperating.” Staal smiled and Rodriquez nodded.
At the MCS table, Rodriquez pulled a chair over and sat next to Gina Hayes. “Can I see likenesses for our boys, Gina?” he asked.
“Sure, we got mug shots for Hennessey and Mohammed, and DL photos for Shultz and Posh.” Gina pulled copies from a file for Rodriquez.
“So, Hennessey does six years and then meets his old friend Mo at the Tech College?”
“Uh-huh, and then the other two, we think.”
“Mohammed did two years for robbery. But the other two have no sheet?”
Gina nodded.
Gooch stood and spoke first, “Okay, we’re all here. Fraser, do you have whereabouts for our boys?”
“Yeah. Posh, Shultz and Mohammed are online as we speak. I know they’re all at home.” Fraser handed out current address lists for the four men.
“You know for sure?” Gooch asked.
“Uh-huh,” Fraser said a little sharply. “I called and talked to Mohammed. He didn’t want an Am-Ex card. Dwight Shultz said he didn’t order no pizza, but decided that pepperoni was a good idea.” Sarcasm loaded Fraser’s voice.
“All right, we know where they’re at,” Staal interjected. “Gooch and I will join Hennessey at the DMV. Gina, you and Wakamatsu will sit over at Mohammed’s place. Kenny, you and Thomas are gonna watch Posh and Shultz.” Staal waited for any protests or questions. “Make sure your radios are working and your cells are charged.”
“Channel four, everyone.” Gooch added.
Rachael Gooch parked the Impala across the street from the DMV in a position that allowed the detectives to see the main entrance and Hennessey’s car. Hennessey drove a 1979 black Firebird with a vanity plate, BOOGYMN. Staal picked up the portable two-way Motorola.
“Team One to Team Three. Radio check,” Staal said into the radio microphone.
“Loud and clear, One,” Rodriquez’s voice said.
“This is Two. Clean and on the scene,” Gina’s voice said.
“Thanks, Two. Three, are you set and plugged in?”
“Affirmative, One. I’m watching our friends chit-chatting online right now.”
“Thanks, people. Good luck. One is clear.”
“Almost eleven thirty,” Gooch said. “He shouldn’t be much longer.”
Staal needed a cigarette, but he didn’t need his partner’s complaining. Instead, he sipped coffee and fiddled with the Motorola’s antenna. Then he picked up his cell phone and dialed Fraser.
“Yeah, Staal, the three of them are on and talking in that fucking code again. Sounds like they’re planning to buy some guns. They mentioned you. Well, Lynch, I mean.”
“There he is, Jack!” Gooch said.
“Okay, got our boy. Later,” Staal said.
Gooch started the Impala after Hennessey got behind the wheel of his Firebird. He pulled the coupe out of the employee parking lot and made a left on 207 NW Avenue. Gooch followed.
“Mr. H. is on the move,” Staal said into the radio.
“Mr. H. sent a note to his friends before he left the D,” Fraser came over the air.
Staal’s cell chirped as he began to dial Fraser. It was Kenny. “Jack, I thought you would want to know. The chatter sounds like the gun purchase is on at a nightclub, The Sanguinary. Our boys sound pretty excited.”
The Sanguinary was a little known after-hours club and hangout for the outcasts typically labeled as Goth. Hennessey drove on and Gooch kept the Impala at a safe distance.
“He’s heading for the Sanguinary. The others will probably meet him there,” Staal said.
“He’s taking a long route. Shit, he should have turned right on twelfth.”
“All teams,” Fraser said over the radio. “Our boys are out of the room and offline.” Mohammed and the others were no longer on the Internet.
Hennessey had changed direction and was driving back toward the DMV.
“Fuck, Rachael! He made us,” Staal barked.
“No, Jack.” She shook her head. “He’s on the phone. Instead of stopping, he’s just cruising.”
“No way. He made us, man.” Staal’s cell buzzed in his pocket, interrupting. He took it out and stared at the screen. “Jesus, it’s Hennessey.” Hennessey made a series of right turns that lead them toward the nightclub.
Staal flipped open his phone.
“Is this Chimera?” Hennessey spoke in the same false voice he used during his smoke break outside the DMV.
Staal remember how he spoke to Hennessey earlier and tried to use the same voice. “Yeah, Blood it’s me.”
“You got the greasers?”
“Yeah. You ready to deal.”
“You know the Sanguinary Club?”
“Yeah.”
“See you there in thirty minutes.” The call ended.
Gina said over the radio, “Our guy is leaving.” Then Fraser spoke, “Same with our boys here.”
Staal reached for his portable CB radio and told the others about his conversation with Hennessey. “Let’s meet up at the 24-Seven store a block east from the club in fifteen.”
To Gooch, Staal said, “We need to get our shit straight.”
Chapter 17
After a brief stop at Staal’s home to pick up his Ford Mustang, he pulled into the convenience store parking lot. He noticed the three Impalas parked in a tight row in far North corner of the lot and six detectives talking through the open windows. He stopped next to Gina’s car, got out of the Mustang, and stood between the Impalas. Gooch did the same.
“Hennessey and Mohammed got here about ten minutes ago,” Hayes said.
“Posh and Shultz stopped at Pete’s Pool Hall, three blocks down,” Fraser said.
“They’ll rendezvous at Pete’s when the deal is done,” Gooch said. “Damn. That will make taking all four difficult.”
“We’ll grab up Posh and Shultz later if we get anything from their buddies,” Staal said. He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and then tossed the butt. “We all ready?” he glanced at his partners. Nods all round.
“Okay, I’ll go in with Thomas.” Staal paused. “I’m gonna have my portable on so you can all hear the bullshit.” He set his Motorola two-way so it would only broadcast and not receive.
“Thomas?” Gooch questioned.
“Yeah, when it goes down, you guys take me and Rodriquez too. Then Rach, you’ll lead the interviews.” He inhaled. “Gina and Waku will stay clear unless the shit hits.” Staal waited for Gooch to disagree, but she nodded. Staal glanced at Rodriquez. “Ready, to do this, T?”
“Yeah, man let’s roll.” Rodriquez got out of Fraser’s Impala and swung into the Mustang.
Staal drove from the 24-Seven, turned left on 198 NW, and pulled into the lane behind the Sanguinary Club. He parked the Mustang a few feet behind Hennessey’s Firebird.
Both detectives checked their weapons and Rodriquez spoke first. “Hey, man. I appreciate you bringing me in on this one, Jack-o.”
“No worries. I just hope this isn’t a waste of time,” Staal said. He got out of the Mustang and led the way through the rear entrance of the Sanguinary. Instantly a bass-heavy electronic dance beat attacked his ears. The only vocals were a man’s tortured scream and a woman’s orgasmic moans. The searing soundtrack of hell.
Just inside the doorway was a gray stone wall with a nine foot archway. Guarding the arch s
at a shirtless, dozing bouncer in tight black jeans with sickly-pale skin devoid of body hair. The guard didn’t open his eyes, he only pointed to a sign above his bald head that read, 8$ Cover.
Rodriquez stuffed a twenty between no-shirt’s folded arms and moved through the arch. Staal thought that a flash of their badges could have saved the cover charge. However, such a move could have caused baldy to alert the place to a police presence.
The main hall of the Sanguinary was a two-level stone affair with little or no lighting. The second level had a wrought iron railing to allow optimum viewing of dance-floor action. The ground floor included the D-jay booth, bar, and a perimeter of round wooden tables with two chairs each. On each table sat the expected skull with melting candle. Staal could see only four customers in the place; midnight was early for such an establishment.
Later, the Sanguinary would come alive with disillusioned young people with white grease painted faces, ebony makeup, and back-alley amateur body piercings and tattoos.
“You see them?” Rodriquez asked.
“No, not yet,” Staal answered. The song on the sound system changed to a faster beat with synthesized-guitar and a growling vocalist who sounded as though he was gargling broken glass.
Sitting at the bar were two twenty-something men dressed appropriately for the establishment. They weren’t Hennessey and Mohammed.
On one table was a wax replica of a human head. The tabletop was covered in paraffin blood. Whoever designed the fake head had crafted the dead eyes perfectly. They stared up at him, pleading for help.
Dead and dying children were all around him. His heart began to pound and he struggled to fill his lungs. He wanted to break and flee the dingy place.
“Jack, is that them?” It was Rodriquez. “Staal, are they our guys? Earth to Staal...” He pushed against Staal’s arm. “Fuck is with you, man?”
“What?” Staal blinked his vision away. “No, they’re not our guys.” “Shit, man. Are you okay—”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Let’s do this.”
“—cause, dog, you waz in another time zone or somethin’”
“I’m good!” Staal snapped. “Shit.” These dreams were becoming a problem again.
“All right, you’re good,” Rodriquez said. “So what about those two; second level, three o’clock?”
Staal waited a few seconds before looking up. “Francis Hennessey, Come on down,” Staal said to Rodriquez while he pointed to the bar. Hennessey nodded that he understood.
At the bar, Staal ordered two Coronas and passed one to Thomas. Both men turned to watch the floor for their suspects. A door opened at the far corner of the room and Hennessey emerged, with a man following a few steps behind that could only be Abdul Mohammed.
Both men were dressed all in black. Hennessey certainly fit the description of the man in black seen in Stephanie McKay’s neighborhood before she was killed, and at Dell’s Diner before Kim Walker was murdered. He was thin, around five foot seven, and looked like a teenager despite his 32 years.
“Who the fuck is this?” Hennessey gestured toward Rodriquez. “I don’t know him.” He looked back to Staal. “What the fuck is this, huh, Chimera?”
“Hey, Bloodbath, chill. This is T-Rod. He’s with me.” Staal turned to face Mohammed. “And this must be Hate-Raven.”
Mohammed nodded.
“So, we all know each other,” Rodriquez said. “We gonna do business?”
“Yeah, okay, I guess,” Hennessey said. “You got our stuff?”
“Uh-huh, in the lane. You got the five hundred?” Staal said. He noticed how nervous Hennessey seemed, as though he suspected a setup.
“Five? Fuck dude, you said we could get it for two-fifty,” Mohammed said.
“Shut up, Abdul!” Hennessey barked.
“Both of you. Shut-the-fuck-up, ‘fore I bitch-slap the two of you!” Rodriquez said. “You wanna bargain. Get yo’ shit elsewhere.”
Staal almost smiled at Thomas in character. The man was a treat to work with. You could tell he enjoyed every minute of the con, exactly the reason that Staal had chosen him over Gooch or Fraser.
“No, no, we want the grease. But...but...can we do this outside?” Hennessey stammered.
“You guys know how to get out back from here?” Staal asked.
Hennessey led the way through the kitchen and down a narrow hallway littered with cardboard boxes and debris to the rear exit. He kicked open the door and stepped outside.
In the lane, Staal took the lead until they reached the rear of his Mustang. In his mind’s eye, he could see Kimberly Walker lying in filth, struggling for breath, in an alley much like this one. He saw Hennessey on top of her, his belt tight around her throat, and Mohammed standing near by, guarding the scene. Staal shook his head and spat. The idea of these two killing Walker made his heart hammer in his chest and his face heat. He fumbled for his keys and then paused for a moment, “You guys ready?”
“Fuck, yeah!” Hennessey said.
Staal opened the lid and motioned the two buyers to step closer. Inside the trunk was a dull black duffle bag. Rodriquez pushed through between the suspects and flipped open the bag, to reveal two pistols and extra ammunition. “Feast your eyes, ladies.”
“Jesus-fuckin’-shit!” Hennessey’s mouth dropped open.
“Meet the Smith twins!”
Mohammed’s eyes lit up. “Shit, yeah! Nine millimeter?” He reached for a pistol.
Staal blocked Abdul’s reach. “Only the best. Five hundred for the pair. But I need to move them right now.” He let Mohammed pick up the weapon and then to Hennessey he said, “How ‘bout you, Blood, you still need?”
Hennessey slowly nodded and lifted his own semi-automatic.
Mohammed stood staring at the pistol in his hands. He mumbled, “That’s no moon, it’s a space station.” He held the pistol sideways like some hip-hop gangster. “I’ll—I’ll get the cash.”
Hennessey’s interest in the pistols ended as soon as Mohammed moved for the bag of cash in their vehicle.
“See this?” His voiced trembled. He displayed three photos of a young blonde female, around thirteen years old.
Staal recognized the girl immediately. He had worked the case for VPD and never forgot his failure. She was beautiful even in death, and he hated this terrible disrespect. In her life, Lynda Fontaine was a normal, happy healthy kid enjoying her first year of high school. She deserved better, than her photos drooled over by this piece-of-shit.
“I need you guys to get me a girl like her—pure—a virgin.” Hennessey sounded orgasmic to Staal.
“Yeah, who’s this blonde?” Staal asked.
“I don’t know,” Hennessey sighed. “She’s dead, I think. So, can you get me a girl—no questions asked?”
“Yeah—sure, gonna cost you five grand for a bitch that tight,” Rodriquez said.
“Yeah sure—she has to be cherry,” Hennessey ran a hand across a photo down her naked leg. “Cause it won’t work if she ain’t pure.”
Staal wanted to pull out his weapon and kill this man. “Guaranteed—untouched!”
Hennessey spoke, “Good—you’ll call when you have her?” He touched the photo, running his fingers over her stomach and stopping at her breast.
Staal turned to look at Rodriquez.
“Yeah, I’ll call you, dude,” Rodriquez’s voice had a hint of disgust.
“Why doncha get a girl yourself?” Staal added.
“No way. I—um...”
“Whatever. So, about the guns. We gotta deal or what?” Staal said.
“Yeah, yeah! Mohammed, you got the fuckin’ money for these guys?”
Mohammed returned from Hennessey’s car with a backpack, reached in and pulled out a bundle of cash. He counted off five hundred for Staal, took one look at Hennessey and his photographs, and his face went bright red. “Fuck, Francis! Not this shit about the girl!”
“I need...”
“Fuck your need.” Mohammed looked to Staal and then to Rodr
iquez. “We’ll take the guns—but forget whatever this asshole said about a girl—fuck that shit!”
After a few seconds, Staal spoke. “Sure, man, no problem.”
Hennessey tossed the duffle bag into the Firebird, slammed the hatch and turned to glance at Staal and Rodriquez. “So, um—call me when you have it?” he managed.
“Sure, give me a number?” Rodriquez said.
“Um, no—I’ll call you.”
“Francis, get in the fucking car!” Mohammed said. He pushed Hennessey toward the Firebird.
Staal knew that the firearm deal was good for the arrest; however he believed he had a plan that the investigators could use to leverage a confession. “Okay, then.” He rolled up the cash and put it into his jacket. “I think it’s high time we all disappeared.”
Mohammed stuffed one pistol in his waistband and climbed into Hennessey’s car. “Come on, asshole,” he yelled at Hennessey.
Hennessey was obviously unhappy with his partner’s attempt to crash his virgin transaction.
Staal and Rodriquez hopped into the Mustang. “Lovers’ quarrel,” Staal said.
Rodriquez laughed and Staal began to back his vehicle out of the dead end alley.
When Hennessey reversed the Firebird, Staal gave the order into the radio. “All units execute!”
Staal pressed down hard on the accelerator, smoking the tires. Before he reached 207 NW Street, Gooch cut him off with her Impala. A second later Fraser pulled up his cruiser; both vehicles had their blue and red lights flashing. Four detectives burst from the blockade units with their weapons drawn.
“FREEZE!” Fraser commanded.
Hennessey continued to reverse toward Staal’s Mustang, seemingly unaware of the events unfolding in his rearview. Staal slammed down his hand on the horn. Hennessey stopped, and then he and Mohammed bolted from the Firebird and sprinted for the exit door of the Sanguinary.
Fraser continued to bark orders at Staal and Rodriquez. “Place your hands on top of your head!”
Hennessey flung open the door to the Sanguinary, and Mohammed followed him inside, but both men turned around as three uniform cops burst through the door with their guns drawn. With their hands on top of their heads, Hennessey and Mohammed dropped to their knees.
Dead of Knight Page 14
