“That won’t be necessary,” Father Jefferson softy replied. “It’ll go down exactly as you say it did.”
Two years earlier, after Mass, Polenski had caught Father Jefferson inappropriately touching an altar boy in the back of the church. Polenski never turned him in, but told him that from time to time he might be called upon if his services were ever needed. If Father Jefferson didn’t oblige, the lieutenant made it clear that he’d do a full investigation and would talk to all of the altar boys in the church and find out how many he’d actually molested. Polenski had never had a problem from Father Jefferson in the past two years.
“That’s my man,” Lieutenant Polenski said with a smile on his face. “Now wait here for the police and make sure you look very scared.”
“That won’t be hard to do.”
Lieutenant Polenski turned and headed out the front door, taking the front steps two at a time, and then quickly jogged to the parking garage.
When he got there, he saw that the parking garage attendant wasn’t at the work station. He looked around and saw wet footprints leading down into the garage. He pulled out his Glock and cautiously followed the prints until they dried out, and then he continued down into the garage. On the second lower level, he saw scattered parked cars, and then one with broken glass covering it. As he neared it, he saw a body lying motionless on the ground. His palm tightly griped the handle of the gun as he got closer to the body, until he recognized that it was Jacob.
His eyes opened wide as he walked towards Jacob’s unconscious body. He placed two fingers on his neck and felt his pulse. He looked around and saw that his hands were handcuffed behind his back. Immediately, a thought popped into his head as he looked at his gun. He would tell his peers that the shooter ran out of the church and into the garage. Jacob came after him and somehow was overtaken by him and then was shot in the head after being handcuffed. The only problem was that ballistics would be able to trace the bullet back to the lieutenant’s gun if ever an inquiry came up.
He quickly looked around the garage for anything that could be used as a weapon and then noticed all of the broken glass on the ground around the car. He reached over and grabbed the largest piece. A long, sharp edge pointed out between his thumb and index finger. He looked down at Jacob’s neck and thought that one slice should put him out of his misery.
The lieutenant brought the broken glass close to Jacob’s neck and then hesitated. Could he really do it; cut the neck of a man he’d known for more than ten years and then watch him bleed to death? Shooting him from a distance would be hard enough, but he wasn’t sure if he could really kill Jacob this close and intimately. He imagined that once the glass cut into Jacob’s skin that his eyes would shoot open and Polenski would be forced to hold Jacob down and watch him struggle to breathe. If that happened, Jacob would fight as much as he could until the life left his body.
He came to the conclusion that it had to be done; that this was the only way. He lowered the shattered piece of glass to Jacob’s neck and watched as the tip touched his skin. Polenski told himself that he wouldn’t look when the tip pierced the flesh, and that all he had to do from there was just hold Jacob down until he stopped moving. He readied his thoughts and tensed his arm. At the count of three, he would swipe the neck. Just then, as he was mentally prepared to end Jacob’s life, he heard a scurry of footsteps coming down the garage. He quickly opened his eyes and tossed the piece of glass to the side. He breathed. He turned around and saw three uniformed police officers nearing. Relief and despair came across him at the same time. The tug of war that he fought within himself would have to wait for another time.
He stood up and raised his badge. “Officer down! Officer down!”
Fifty-six
Two Hours Later
THREE ICE CUBES FELL into a glass and rolled around a bit before being covered with Scotch. Frank picked up the glass and gently shook it before taking a sip. The tart alcohol momentarily cooled his nerves as he sat on his living room sofa listening to Nathan Hunt and Lieutenant Polenski describe their partially-failed plan.
He leaned back and crossed his legs. His face was void of expression, but that wouldn’t last long because he could already feel the anger swelling in his body as if it were an alien trying to gain control of him. He took another sip and let the alcohol sit on his tongue before swallowing.
“Frank, the plan was foolproof,” Lieutenant Polenski said.
“Obviously not. The two of you fools didn’t get the job done. Without me even knowing, mind you.”
“Stephen was going to spill his guts to Jacob if we hadn’t interrupted things. You, the business, everything you worked for would have been in jeopardy.”
“And how do you know that Stephen hasn’t already told your detective everything?”
“He hasn’t.”
“How do you know for sure?”
“Because,” Lieutenant Polenski paused, “I just know. You work with a guy for ten years and you know him pretty well. If Stephen had told him anything, I would have known.”
Frank took another sip of his Scotch and then set the glass on the table. The tension in the room was thick enough to slice with a butter knife. Frank wanted to do his normal “fly off the handle” act, but decided to take a different approach.
He motioned with his head for Lieutenant Polenski to come closer. The lieutenant didn’t move at first.
“Come here for a minute,” Frank said calmly. “Sit next to me.”
“Frank,” Lieutenant Polenski apologetically gestured, “I’m not sure what…”
Frank smiled. “Just come here.”
Lieutenant Polenski slowly stood from his chair and moved next to the judge. Frank raised his arm and placed it over Polenski’s shoulders as if they were old buddies, sipping on a beer, telling jokes about the girls they’d conquered.
“So you think that just because you’ve known someone for a long time that you know them pretty well. Is that it?”
“Frank, I’m just saying…”
“No, you listen to me, dipshit,” Frank said without raising his voice. “I don’t care how long you’ve known this prick, he and Stephen were alone for a period of time. He needs to be dead.”
Lieutenant Polenski was about to speak again, but Frank cut him off.
“If not him, then it’ll be you. Do I make myself clear?”
Lieutenant Polenski nodded.
“Good,” Frank replied. “Now, on another note, are you sure the man who shot at Nathan was the same one who killed Faraji?”
“We think so,” Lieutenant Polenski softly replied.
“Well, now you’ve got two problems on your hands. I want the detective dead tonight and the shooter in custody by tomorrow.”
“We’re doing all we can to find this guy.”
“Well, do some more. Obviously there’s some connection as to why he’d be after Faraji and Stephen. Find it.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“I hope so. For your sake.”
Polenski stood to leave and Nathan started to follow until Frank stopped him.
“Not so fast, Nathan. Sit down.”
Nathan sat.
“Since you’re the other conspirator to fuck this up, you’ve got a little job to do to earn my trust back. I want you to charter a flight to Houston and come right back.”
“Houston?”
“That’s right. Seems like one of our guys got a little ahead of himself and managed to hide twenty grand from the books. Go down there, take care of business and come right back.”
“Sure thing.”
“And Nathan?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t fuck this up.”
Fifty-seven
THE ANSWER TO THE question was more troubling than the question itself. I now knew why the sniper had killed Faraji Owusu. I knew why the sniper had been at the church and why he wanted to kill Stephen Carter. Revenge. That’s why he came to the city. That’s why he risked his life trying t
o get away from the police after they had him trapped in the building. Revenge. And that’s why he’d do almost anything to kill his next victim, which made him even more dangerous than I had initially anticipated. I’m not religious, but I know the reason why the Good Book says “Vengeance is mine, says the Lord.” Because revenge, once embedded in the heart and mind of a person, takes over that person like a fatal disease and won’t let them go until the revenge has been satisfied.
I’ve seen it before, the look of a madman whose eyes and mind were fixated on revenge. The circumstances were different, but the mentality of the young man with the semi-automatic handgun was the same. Revenge.
It happened four years ago in a rough part of the city. I had just made detective and was heading home from a party when I heard the call over the radio. I was just two blocks away from the address and decided to respond. Evening had just turned into night when I turned into the parking lot of the apartment community. I pulled in front of the apartment building that had requested assistance when a mid-twenties Hispanic man came flying out the front door with a look of terror on his face. He was wearing only a white tank-top T-shirt and blue boxers. His hair was cut close and his body was of medium build. I quickly stepped out of the car and flashed my badge, when seconds later, another Hispanic man came out of the same door wielding a handgun. The second man was bigger and muscled up, wearing a blue mechanic’s uniform.
My heart immediately started pounding as I reached for my sidearm and stepped back behind the driver’s side door.
“Police!” I screamed. “Put the gun down.”
The young man acted as if he didn’t see or hear me. He continued pursuing the first man.
“I said put the gun down!” I yelled again. “Or I’ll shoot.”
The first man finally reached the back of my car and ducked down. The second man stopped in front of the car.
“I’m not going to tell you again,” I said. “Put the gun down.”
“Or what?” the young man surprisingly replied. “You’ll shoot me? Go ahead. But I’m going to kill that punk-ass bitch for what he did.”
“You don’t want to do that, son,” I said, trying to control the situation.
“What are you talking about?” The young man’s voice rose an octave. He aimed his gun at the back of my car.
Then, within a matter of seconds, I realized what had just happened. An attractive young Hispanic woman with long curly hair came from the same front door wearing only a small bathrobe.
“I just caught that puto in bed with my girl!”
“Jorge,” the girl called, “please, don’t do this.”
“Shut up, bitch,” Jorge said, “I’ll deal with you later.”
“Jorge,” I tried to say calmingly, even though my nerves were through the roof. “You need to put that gun down. I can’t let you come out here flashing it around like that. Now if you put it down, we can try to settle this like adults.”
“Fuck you, pendejo, I’m not afraid of you. Just because you got that badge don’t mean shit to me.”
Jorge removed one hand from his gun and began unbuttoning his blue mechanic’s shirt. When the shirt was finally unbuttoned he shook his shoulders and allowed the shirt to slip off of his body. I instantly recognized the many tattoos along Jorge’s torso and realized that he was part of the famous Hispanic gang MS-13.
“I gangbang with kids who have more heart than you, puto.”
I gripped the handle of my gun a little tighter as I realized by Jorge’s demeanor that this wasn’t going to end well. The young man wasn’t intimidated by my presence or the gun aimed at him.
“Jorge, I can’t let you do this. Backup will be here soon, and if you don’t drop your gun, things won’t go so well for you.”
“Think I care? I change oil for a living at a local gas station and live in this hellhole. The only thing I had going for me was my girl, and now that bitch took that from me.”
Jorge’s voice started to crack, but the intensity of rage in his face grew stronger. I sensed that the more Jorge talked, the angrier he became.
“Jorge, I’m only going to say this one more time,” I said with a stern voice, hoping that Jorge would get the point. “Drop your weapon.”
Jorge moved the target of the gun from the back of the car to me. “Or what?”
In the distance, I heard what sounded like a lawnmower engine slowly moving towards our direction. I looked to my left and saw a kid on a bicycle riding along the sidewalk and realized that he must have a playing card taped to the spokes of his wheels that makes the sound of an engine when the bike is moving. At the same time, I heard police sirens, multiple police sirens quickly getting louder.
I looked at the kid again and hoped that he saw what was going on and would stop, but he didn’t.
“Hey, kid, stay back.”
The kid didn’t stop. The police sirens grew louder and would be in the parking lot in a couple of seconds. Apparently, the man behind the car thought that it was a good time to break away. He stood up and took off in the direction of the kid riding the bike.
“Hey,” Jorge yelled.
I turned and saw the first man making a move for it, and that’s when I heard the gun blast, two, three, four times. I quickly ducked, thinking the bullets were meant for me, but then immediately froze when I realized where the bullets were flying to. From my bent position, I saw that the bike the kid was riding wasn’t upright any longer. My heart sank to the bottom of my stomach when I saw the kid lying next to the bike, not moving.
Then, as I was about to stand and return fire, I heard a roar of guns popping from behind me and then heard the young lady in the bathrobe scream Jorge’s name. Four cops from two squad cars opened fire, and without looking, I knew that Jorge was dead.
When the loud crackling of gunfire had stopped, I stood up and ran to the kid on the bike and saw that he had headphones covering his ears. I didn’t need to feel his pulse because I knew, from the lifeless void in his eyes, that the kid was dead.
Fifty-eight
A DAY DOESN’T GO by that I don’t think of that kid. I learned that his name was Mark Turner and that he was coming home from the community recreation center where a science fair was being held for the neighborhood youth. Mark was in the ninth grade and was there to receive an award for his part in a science project that had somehow reached the eyes and ears of NASA. Apparently, the kid was one of the brightest in his science class.
It didn’t take me long from that point to fall into depression. I kept thinking that if I’d just shot Jorge, Mark would still be alive. He’d be a freshman in college now, with his whole life ahead of him. Instead, well, now Mark’s mother can only visit him at the cemetery.
My depression led to drinking which led to Theresa nearly leaving me and disciplinary action from my superiors. Had it not been for Lieutenant Polenski, I probably would be a divorced security guard somewhere, guarding someone’s warehouse. Nearly half of the past four years had been spent at O’Malley’s bar on 18th Street, downing drink after drink, hoping that the alcohol would somehow wash away the memories of seeing Mark Turner lying on the ground lifeless. It didn’t. How ironic was it that I now found myself sitting on the same barstool at O’Malley’s, trying to figure out a killer whose motive was the same as Jorge’s.
O’Malley’s was a small, dark pub with a single bar in the back end of the room and a few round tables filling the rest of the bar area. After the confrontation with Harvey Lindenberg in the garage, I couldn’t stop thinking about O’Malley’s. The stress was getting to me. The more I couldn’t figure this thing out, the more I wanted to drink. But I knew I couldn’t. Yet, I found myself sitting at the bar, inhaling the scents of past drinks that had been poured throughout the day.
The man who called himself Harvey Lindenberg said that there was one more that he had to kill and then he’d be gone. Who was it that Harvey wanted to kill? And why? What was the connection between Stephen Carter and Faraji Owusu for Lindenberg?
Were they former associates? Had they wronged Lindenberg in some way? I remembered that Stephen told me when we first met that “we’re all dirty.” What were they into?
The answer to many of my questions lay in a safety deposit box in the Bank of America on I Street. I knew in order to get access to that safety deposit box, I’d need a search warrant. The problem was that I didn’t know who to trust in the department. If I went to a judge requesting a search warrant, Lieutenant Polenski would surely find out. If he was dirty, working with whomever killed Stephen, then he could be linked to the firm and likely confiscate the evidence.
As I continued pondering, I heard a familiar friendly voice from behind.
“Didn’t think I’d see you here again.”
I turned around and saw Nadine, a mildly attractive middle-aged woman, take the seat next to me. Her hair was longer than I remembered, dark and curly. Her skin was pale white and her eyes were the color of a clear sky.
“Didn’t think I’d see myself here again either.”
“You know that I’m supposed to call your wife or your lieutenant if you were to come in here again.”
I knew. I knew that Nadine, along with the rest of the bartenders, had been given numbers to call if I ever tried to drink in here again.
“Yeah,” I pointed to the bar, “but as you can see, I’m not drinking.”
“So what are you doing here then?”
I sensed a concern in Nadine’s voice.
“Just thinking about things. This place…I don’t know…for some reason, it clears my head.”
Nadine didn’t immediately respond. She looked into my eyes and leaned forward.
“Are you drinking again?”
“No.”
“Jacob, I’ve been around for a long time and have poured a lot of drinks. I can tell when someone’s about to fall off. And you, my friend, are about to fall off.”
“That’s not true,” I responded defensively, although I knew she was right. “I’ve just been under a lot of stress lately.”
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