Deadly Force sts-18

by Keith Douglass

  “Remember, we want this to be a silent operation,” Murdock told them as they rode in the old school bus toward the river and Dock Six. The dock was made of wood and only forty feet long. The thirty-foot patrol boat was probably the largest craft ever to tie up there. The boat was adequate. It had a .50-caliber machine gun mounted on a pedestal on the short bow ahead of the cabin. Murdock could see where bullet holes had been patched in the sides of the boat and the cabin. He stashed his men on board and then went to the small cabin to talk to the captain, a full commander in the Sierra Bijimi Navy.

  Murdock saluted him and the man returned the salute.

  “Commander, I’m Lieutenant Commander Murdock reporting with my seven men for this recon.”

  “Welcome on board, Commander. I’m Martin London. Some of our people took British names when the British ruled our country. I hope this will be a quieter trip than my last one.” London was about five-six and square-cut like an oak beam. He looked all military, and had deep-set eyes that almost were lost in his intensely black face. Murdock knew that this man was exactly what you saw. He would have no pretenses and would say precisely what he thought.

  “You were shot up pretty good as I’ve heard,” said Murdock. “We have no plans to draw any fire. In fact, we’ll go without running lights. No lights showing of any kind except red interior ones if you use them. I need some personal input on the river, the land, and the people.”

  “I understand perfectly. I’ve seen films of your team’s work. You are excellent at what you do. I commend you. I just hope that our forces will never have to come up against your men.”

  “I don’t see how that would ever happen.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t, Commander. Strange things are going on in my country these days. Are you ready to shove off?”

  “Ready, Commander.”

  They left the dock at 1815. Murdock had been assured that it would be totally dark at 1900 this time of year. The craft would make seven knots upstream, so they wouldn’t be in the danger zone before darkness fell.

  Murdock settled back along the rail and watched the river. It was slow-moving, and trees, plants, and vines grew almost to the water’s edge. He wasn’t sure how close they were to the equator, but it couldn’t be far away. His cammies had been sticking to his back all day, and he looked forward to a slightly cooler time once the sun set.

  There had to be fish in the water, but he didn’t see any signs. Plenty of bugs swarmed around the water, but no fish was interested. Along the edge of the water he saw several people. One was carrying a load of firewood on his back. He could be walking into the city to sell it. Murdock spotted smoke from what could be cooking fires. The smoke lifted out of the trees and went straight into the air.

  Once he saw three children splashing in the water. It was almost dark when he spotted an opening in the trees. A small stream came in from the side, and along each side were open spaces that had been planted with some type of row crops — vegetables, he guessed. Then the night closed in and he could see little.

  The pilot of the craft moved out into the middle of the forty-yard-wide river. The speed of the water increased as the shores came closer together.

  Murdock wasn’t sure what he would find up here. There were few boats along the river. He could hire a fishing boat if he had to, but this worked better right now. It tied in the local military so they wouldn’t get uptight about a foreign contingent barging into their territory. If it wasn’t for the Vice President, the locals would never have agreed to the SEALs’ visit. Now he had to make the best of it and get something accomplished. Like snatching the Vice President back from the rebels whether he wanted to come or not. That could be a problem later, but for now he was content to do his recon and see where they went from there.

  The coxswain cut the forward speed as the night deepened. He had only a silver moon shining off the water to go by. Then a large fire blossomed on the left-hand shore. Murdock wondered what it was for.

  “Spooky,” Jaybird said from just behind Murdock. “Why are they having a bonfire?”

  “Let’s go over and see,” Murdock said. Commander London appeared at Murdock’s side.

  “Must be a celebration of some kind. Our people go overboard with ceremonies and festivals. You want to come in over there? As I remember, there is a small dock there we could tie up to.”

  “Let’s do it, Commander. SEALs front and center. Going to take a walk. Bring your weapons, but keep the muzzles pointing down. Everyone up to speed?” He heard soft replies. He made a net check on the radio, and everyone sounded off in sequence.

  The boat nudged a used tire bumper tied to the dock, and quick hands tied up the boat.

  “I’ll go with you,” Colonel London said. “Might be able to smooth the way some for you.”

  The fire now showed fifty yards away through some trees. They took a well-used path, and slowed when they came closer.

  “Yes, it’s a wedding,” London said. “People out here go all out on weddings. Sometimes the party lasts a week.”

  “Why don’t we stay in the shadows here,” Murdock said. “Could you bring over two or three of the guests we could talk to?”

  “What we came to do, I guess,” the boat captain said. He walked away, and a short time later brought three men back with him. One was so drunk he could hardly walk. But he could talk.

  “Have you heard of Mojombo Washington?” Murdock asked him.

  He looked at the boat captain and grinned. “Oh, sure. Yes. Big man in the jungle. Wants to throw out the government. Hear him every time he goes past in his boat.”

  “Do you agree with him?” Murdock asked.

  “Will this sailor shoot me?”

  “No one will hurt you.”

  “Well, most of us like Mojombo. He’s trying to help us. We bring him food to help feed his soldiers.”

  “Most of the village people feel this way?” Murdock asked.

  “Most, except the spies for the Army. We hate the spies.”

  They talked to the other two men, and both said about the same thing.

  “Let’s get back to the ship,” Murdock said. He looked at the Sierra Bijimi officer as they walked. “How far are we from Sierra City?”

  “Eleven or twelve miles.”

  “Let’s try the next village,” Murdock said.

  In the boat Murdock talked with the captain again. “You think that General Assaba knows how loyal these villagers are to Mojombo?”

  “He doesn’t want to know. He wants to hang on as long as he can. I have no respect for him. He isn’t even a real general. He’s never fired a gun except to kill someone in cold blood.”

  “You’ve seen him kill a person?”

  “I was his Naval advisor until he realized he didn’t need one. Yes, I saw him murder three men he suspected of plotting against him. All were good Army officers.”

  “Would you testify to that on a videotape for me?”

  “No. Never. It would be my death warrant. I’ll never go against the government. Not until someone shows me that he has the guts and skill and the manpower to win. Mojombo doesn’t have it yet. He could. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  The next village was only fifteen minutes up the river. They came to a rickety dock, and Murdock, London, and the men got wet getting to shore. Commander London found two men they talked to. Both said about what the men at the first village did.

  One looked closely at the boat captain. “Are we going to get in trouble with the Army?”

  “No,” Murdock said. “This man is our guide. No one will harm you for saying what you think.”

  On the walk back to the boat, Murdock turned to the commander. “I trust that none of this talk will be repeated to anyone in the military.”

  “I have no report to make out on this trip. I will tell no one. My only hope is that your and your men might hasten the day when we can have a truly democratic government and a strong military.”

  As the boat neared th
e dock in Sierra City after the fast downstream run, Commander London took Murdock aside. “I’ll do one thing for you, Navy SEAL. I’ll report to Colonel Dara that the population we talked to were generally cool toward Mojombo, and still back the government.”

  “Thanks, Commander. That could be a great help.”

  10

  Central Police Station

  San Diego, California

  The interrogation room was warmer than the rest of the air-conditioned station. Detective Petroff took off his suit jacket and fitted it over the back of a straight chair. He stared hard at the young black girl sitting across the empty table.

  “Your name is Nancy, right?”

  “Sure. I know ten girls named Nancy in a big town like this.” She was about twenty, maybe less, Petroff figured. The word on the street was that she had been a good friend of Joisette Brown, the little black hooker who’d gone down with an OD of heroin.

  “Your best friend in the whole world was Joisette, right?”

  “Yeah, I knew her.”

  “You know where she stayed.”

  “Right. We met there sometimes to goof off and sober up.”

  “She stayed with a man named Shortchops Jackson. Isn’t that right?”

  “Never knew no last name. She called him Shortchops. He was a bass man. Played a wicked lick.”

  “How many times you been booked for hooking?”

  “Two or three maybe.”

  “Wrong, Nancy. You’ve been picked up nine times now. Ten and you get six months in the slammer.”

  “Maybe I been in here four times.”

  “Nine, Nancy. All you have to do to walk is tell me where Joisette lived. That’s all. You give us an address and we drive out there and you show me which door to knock on. Hell of a lot better than doing six months hard time.”

  “Oh, shit. I wasn’t even there when she died.”

  “We know. Now where did she live?”

  “I can walk? No strings?”

  “No strings.”

  * * *

  The unmarked detective’s car pulled up in front of a rundown four-unit apartment house on 27th Street off Imperial Avenue. It was the edge of Logan Heights, an intensely black and poor neighborhood. The building didn’t look like it had been painted for ten years.

  “Which apartment?” Petroff asked

  “Upstairs on the left, number four. Can I go now?”

  Petroff looked at the hooker where she sat in the secure rear seat of the police car.

  Detective Lasiter had come along as backup for Petroff. He shook his head. “Missy, you stay put back there. We’ll be back directly.”

  “You damn well better be here, Shortchops,” Petroff said as he and Lasiter climbed to the second floor and looked at the apartment door. Petroff knocked three times, then three more. “Open up, police,” he called. No response. Lasiter stepped back and slammed his foot and his 180 pounds against the door right beside the door lock. The old-fashioned lock popped loose and the door swung open.

  With guns out, the detectives surged into the room. They found it scattered with garbage: take-out food containers, opened cans, dirty dishes, and unwashed clothes.

  The detectives spent an hour in the apartment, searching everywhere including the spots where people often hid things. They came up with nothing. Not even the phone book helped. Lasiter dropped it, and it opened to a different page three times in a row. It didn’t look like Shortchops Jackson had been home for a week, maybe not since the day Joisette had died.

  “Another nail in the old bass player’s coffin,” Lasiter said. “If he didn’t do it, why disappear?” They left, closing the door behind them even though it didn’t quite latch.

  At the unmarked car, Petroff opened the back door and motioned the girl out. “He wasn’t there. Anyplace else he might be? He ever say any friends he had he might be staying with?”

  “He never talked much. Not while I was around. I don’t know where he went off to.”

  “He’s got to be somewhere. You know who Joisette was, who her father was?”

  “No, she never said.”

  “You ever hear of Billy Ben Brown?”

  “You kidding? Every cat knows about Billy Ben. He was the greatest jazz musician of all time. They had a big TV special about him when he died three or four months ago.”

  “Joisette was a late-life daughter of Billy Ben Brown.”

  “No shit? She never once said a word. Man, he was loaded. I mean he had more money than sense, somebody said. But jeez, could he wail with a jazz band.”

  Back at headquarters, Petroff had three phone messages. He put two of them down and called the last one, a good contact at the courthouse.

  “Petroff, you owe me one,” the clerk said. “The will of Joisette Brown has just been filed in probate. The girl finally came into her dad’s money. Her estate is something like three-point-five million smackeroos.”

  “Good haul for a hooker.”

  “A damned rich hooker. I can’t get you a copy of it, but I remember the beneficiary. One Shortchops William Jackson is the main heir. Then there are four others mentioned. Each to get fifty thousand. They are described as being the other members of the Gaslamp Quarter Jazz Band. Be in probate for about four months. Shortchops is also named executor of the will.”

  “When does he show up in court?”

  “He doesn’t. He hired a lawyer.”

  “Who is his lawyer?”

  “Am I getting in trouble here?”

  “Not a bit. Court filings are public records, open to the public and the cops. Give.”

  “Harlan J. Emmersome. Yeah. Around town he’s also known as Loophole. If there’s a loophole in the law he can find it.”

  “Thanks. He’s my next courtesy call.”

  It took Petroff twenty minutes to look up the lawyer’s address and find his building. It was a one-man law office in an uptown location not known for high rent. Emmersome was on the third floor, and the elevator worked. Petroff walked through the door and found a small outer office with a pert blonde, about twenty-five, working on her nails.

  “Yes, sir, may I help you?”

  After the preliminaries, she opened the door to the big man’s office. He was a big man, just over seven feet, and yes, he had played basketball, and no, not in the pros.

  “So, what can I do for the city’s finest today?”

  “One of your clients is in a sticky situation over the death of a girl and we need to clean it up. Problem is, we can’t find him.”

  “Is there a name? That would help.”

  “You know the name, Shortchops Jackson.”

  “Yes, I know Mr. Jackson. But with the client-lawyer privilege, that’s all I can tell you.”

  “One small item to consider. If I can prove that Shortchops had anything to do with Joisette Brown’s death, he won’t get a dime out of her estate, which means you won’t collect your big fat fee for handling the probate. Let’s see. My lawyer friends say that would come to something like a hundred and twenty-five thousand for your fee. More cash than you’ve seen in a whole good number of years.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Sergeant, but my fee is guaranteed, even if the client is found guilty and he gets nothing. Nice try, but it won’t work this time. I know probate law.”

  “So, what if I tie you into the murder, make you an accessory to the crime, show that you helped in the OD? Then we’ve got you and you don’t get a cent.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “You want to bet your future on it? I can manufacture witnesses who will say almost anything to stay out of the slammer. It would only take two.”

  The lawyer slumped in his chair. “Shit, you’d probably do it just to spite me. Okay, but I don’t have an address on Mr. Jackson. He calls in once a week to find out if he’s needed. He won’t be. It’s all fairly routine.”

  “Unless I charge him and you with murder. Then I make one phone call to the probate judge and everything comes to a rid
iculously fast and screeching stop.”

  “You wouldn’t do that.”

  “Not if I can talk to him and he can clear himself. He was seen with the girl a half hour before she died. He was a heroin user. He was high on something when he was with her. It’s entirely possible that he gave her the last shot of her life, and she went OD.”

  “What about the other four men in the will? Aren’t they suspects too?”

  “Could be, but I always go after the best one first, your client, Mr. Shortchops Jackson.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  “Think all you want. I’ve got enough now to bring charges and get a warrant. I’ll be doing that tomorrow at noon. Give me a call before then, and I can put off the warrant a day or two.”

  Petroff walked to the door leading out of the office. “Now then, Mr. Emmersome, you have a nice day.” He paused. “Emmersome, you have anything to do with the over-the-line tournament on Fiesta Island every summer?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Just wondered. The name sounds familiar.”

  Sierra City, Sierra Bijimi

  Alpha Squad slept in until 1000 the next morning after the river trip. Murdock talked with Don Stroh over a late breakfast the kitchen fixed for the SEALs.

  “The end result of our little trip was that the two villages we stopped at were fully behind Mojombo. The men were afraid of the Navy commander, and at first didn’t want to talk in front of him. My guess is that villages farther upstream and more distant from Sierra City are also just as enthusiastic about Mojombo.”

  “So, where the hell does that leave us?”

  “We need to contact Mr. Washington and have a sit-down,” Murdock said. “We have to find him without getting our heads shot off. That’s the first big job.”

  “Choppers. Do they have any helicopters in this runty little Army?”

  “I didn’t think to ask,” Murdock said. He sent Jaybird to find out by phone or a visit to the Army headquarters.

  “Say they do have a bird, even a small one that will fly,” Murdock went on. “I can take a run upstream and try to find the location of the camp. The military says they think it’s about twenty-five miles upstream. In the boat we weren’t more than twelve.”