Two Graves (A Kesle City Homicide Novel)

by Graystone, D. A.

  “But none of that matters to you,” Davis said. “All you need to know is that you can trust Mann and his motives. Stick with Mann and he will help you. You want the same thing and he might even keep you alive while you get Angelino. I got you on that task force so you can get back in the game. Don’t waste it.”

  Degget nodded. “And I appreciate it.”

  “Just be careful,” Davis cautioned. “And remember you don’t have to do this all by yourself. You’re family and that matters more than anything.”

  Chapter 25

  Where is the dwelling of the lions and the feeding place of the young lions, where the lion, even the old lion, walked, and the lion’s whelp, and none made them afraid?

  He wandered through the financial district along the busy streets. Everywhere he went, people shoved and jostled him as they rushed past him. Each of them hell bent on getting ahead of the other guy. They walked like they did everything – with no regard for their fellow human beings. They produce nothing. They create nothing. They thrived by tricking others into buying things for more than they paid for them, having added no value them.

  They lived in a world of lies, destruction and greed. And greed, Mr. Gekko, is not a good thing.

  Greed and envy breeds bullies.

  To find the lion, you must enter unto the den of the lions.

  Businesses were finishing for the day and people were hurrying home or to the nearest bar. Brokers and investors wore frowns of despair. The market had been unusually volatile making investors unsure where they would stand at the opening bell tomorrow. The brokers secretly smiled knowing that they would make their commissions either way and blessed the flurry of trading that marked the uncertain times.

  Truly, this was the den of the lions.

  In this place of greed and avarice, he would find his foe. Among these bullies, uncaring souls, rapists and pillagers, he would find those who had tormented him for so long. They created nothing and destroyed everything. They cheat and lie. They spread false hope – only profiting by someone’s misfortune.

  He flowed with the crowd and entered a bar. He tried to move slowly, trying not draw attention to himself. He did not belong. Others would sense that. The lions quickly smelled out and slaughtered the sheep.

  But this sheep had claws!

  *

  Three hours later, he still sat at the bar – ignoring his own advice. Strategically located beside a large potted plant where most of his nine drinks had ended up, he made himself invisible. This was Kesle and nobody approached a lone man slumped over his drink. But the hours of waiting had not been in vain.

  He consulted his small book and compared the picture with his target across the room. There he stood – his next target.

  The scum was holding court, surrounded by a crowd of admirers. The arrogant worm gestured extravagantly, voice booming, while those around stared in wonder and awe.

  Preston had found perfection and felt himself harden. He got up and wandered over toward the tight knot of people. Suddenly, the crowd erupted with laughter and he regained his senses.

  Just how badly do you want to get caught?

  He immediately veered to the left, almost knocking the drink from the hand of a designer suit. Ignoring the icy stare and mumbling an apology, he headed for the door. What was he thinking? Where was his brain? His cock was too big. His erection had drained all the blood from his brain. Be invisible.

  He immediately left the bar and walked across the street. Standing in the recess of a shop door, he began to wait for his prey.

  He was excited. He had actually found David Kraemer.

  Now he needed to make a purchase.

  Chapter 26

  Giovanni “The Hinge” Angelino considered himself one of the new breed. Gone were the days of fat old men sitting in cigar-filled rooms with torpedoes lounging around waiting for the next hit. The game had changed. Angelino had capitalized on that change.

  Two generations ago, his predecessors would have been scandalized at the extent of his legitimate enterprises. His empire included publishing, advertising, computer technology, medicine, food services, and flashlights. Each business was legal and very profitable. Every year, his organization made millions from these companies. He also contributed to art galleries, children’s hospitals, and wildlife concerns. In fact, he sat on the boards of three different charities.

  His office, located in his own building, was the height of respectability. He looked down on Fifth Avenue far below and, without even straining, the marinas at South Bay. He had three secretaries – none of whom he was sleeping with – and a collection of lawyers and accountants working to close deals, not keep him out of jail. The office itself was a masterpiece.

  One of Kesle’s top designers had designed it. The desk was the state of the art, brought in from Japan. He could access the computer of any one of his companies by pressing a couple of buttons. The rest of the office was just as modern but not sterile like so many he had seen. For some reason, space age meant uncomfortable to most designers. For him, space age meant more leisure time and greater comfort.

  Comfort and security – his office gave him all that. He looked at the paintings on the walls and the fresh flowers in the vase. Then, he turned around in his chair. When he passed his hand over a patch on the wall, a light flared in a recessed section. A huge crystal glittered in the lighted alcove.

  The crystal was over a foot in diameter and almost three and a half feet high. Greens and blues, evidence of chromium and aluminum, sparkled in the lower half. The upper spires cast red shadows as the light caught the iron traces in the crystal. Perfectly balanced, the crystal was power, strength, and intelligence. He gently stroked it and felt the power suffuse his body.

  He swung back to the desk, picked up the small racquetball and patiently squeezed. He could feel the muscles in his forearm press against his fitted shirt. Power, strength, and intelligence were the key to his success – the perfect blend.

  Angelino had always been a large boy. Since his early years in school, he was bigger and tougher than the other boys. And he always hung with the roughest crowd. Most of the fathers were connected in some way or another. Being the only child of a widow, he lacked the influence of a father. He made up for this by making deals with the other boys. He supplied protection in return for contact with their fathers and the business.

  Most of the other kids, and their fathers, assumed he was stupid. Stupidity went with size and brawn; everyone knew that. He didn’t fight the insult; he used it. Thinking him too stupid to understand, his friends would discuss things in front of him that he shouldn’t have heard. Each little nugget of information, he filed away.

  Angelino wanted what those kids had. The kids always ended up with something that fell off some truck. But, he had more ambition than his friends. He didn’t want the little gift that fell off the truck. He wanted the whole freaking truck.

  Brainpower wasn’t exactly legendary among his friends’ fathers. Like most of their ilk, they lived from job to job. Most had never finished fifth grade. Spending money was their favorite pastime. As soon as the money came in, it was gone. Nothing planned beyond the next score. Make a score, spend the money.

  Meanwhile, Angelino spent his time plotting and planning. He read everything he could – philosophy, art, psychology, mathematics, physics and history, especially the history of war and conquest. He led a careful double life, hiding his books the way some of them hid their drugs and money.

  He planned while they took stupid risks out of boredom and some ridiculous macho code. Yung taught him that self worth came from within. Angelino was not interested in their approval beyond entrance to the inner circle. He impressed them with his ruthlessness and quick violence. They missed his intelligence in the flurry of beatings, blades and bullets. A three-year stint, knocked down to nine months with good behavior, proved his loyalty

  Meanwhile, he quietly finished College courses in business.

  He created his busi
ness plan complete with organizational charts of competitors’ operations. He had a long-term plan that he executed flawlessly, adjusting and adapting like any good general.

  Within ten years and three times that many bloody, unsolved killings, Angelino controlled most of Kesle. Nothing moved without his blessing. And no profit realized without him getting his cut.

  Since that time, he continued to gather power around him. He stayed in good physical shape – no pasta and wine belly for him. He still worked out two hours a day. He used hired muscle for protection like everyone else but he was his own best protection. His athletic body and razor sharp reflexes had saved him more than once.

  And he still read everything he could get his hands on. His ever-active mind also kept his minions under control as well.

  He stabbed at several buttons on the computer console. A spreadsheet flickered onto the screen. He leaned back and looked at the monitor.

  He knew thieves surrounded him. No matter how legitimate he became, crime was his main business. Hundreds of millions of dollars flowed through his organization over the year and everybody skimmed. It was a tolerated bonus system– up to a point.

  Letting the spreadsheets cycle through, he watched the proof mount.

  That someone was stealing wasn’t surprising but the amounts were staggering. He marveled that anyone could be smart enough to implement such an intricate theft and still stupid enough to try it. Working for him, a smart, hard-working person could become very rich. Why steal from him when Angelino allowed himself to be used? People who blatantly stole from him only made themselves dead – very dead.

  Angelino squeezed the small ball, controlling anger directed mainly at himself. He considered himself as a keen judge of character. But Thorman had truly surprised him. Of all his employees, he had rated Thorman as one of the most trustworthy or maybe just most easily frightened. He had brought Thorman along, recognizing his ability early, and hiring him at a ridiculous rate straight out of school.

  Then, the boy stole from him.

  Still, Angelino had made the right decision about Thorman’s brainpower. The man was an accounting genius. Too bad he was a freaking idiot, too.

  William Hill walked across the light blue carpeting and sank into the chair in front of Angelino’s desk. He hadn’t bothered to shake hands with Angelino; he never did. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one with a silver lighter. He still hadn’t spoken and Angelino just stared at him, not bothering to mention it was a no smoking building.

  As it had in the past, Angelino’s mind wrestled with the conflicting signals it was receiving. Hill’s eyes were warm and sincere. Slightly sagging jowls gave him a soft, vulnerable look that welcomed trust.

  Everything about him screamed middle-class burnout. There was no hint of the trained remorseless killer that hid behind those soft eyes.

  “I have a problem with one of my accountants,” Angelino finally said.

  “Of the most serious nature?”

  “Ya, right,” Angelino said, hating this stupid kind of talk. His techs had swept the office just before this meeting but Hill would always be careful. “There is a complication. This has to be handled exactly as I lay out and might take some time.”

  “You’re paying the money, friend. Of course, everything has its price and this one is now double my usual fee. I hate this city. This city is bad luck.”

  Angelino shrugged. He wasn’t just making a lesson with this hit. Thorman had embezzled a great deal of money and Angelino wanted it back. He laid the circumstances out to Hill.

  “So, I don’t make a move until you say so. I just cover him until you find the bucks. It’s a done deal, though? I can go ahead with the planning?”

  “Believe me, there is no doubt how it will end. Just the when. But if he tries to run, he’s all yours, money or no. I want him brought to me, if possible. If not, take him. He doesn’t get to spend another dime.”

  “Use the usual transfer codes. And I’ll expect a daily transfer of an extra ten percent for every day I am stuck here. Work fast, I really hate this city.”

  Chapter 27

  No one remembered how East Wharf got its name. There was no West Wharf and East Wharf was on the north edge of the bay. During the day, the area was loud with the noises of large ships and dockworkers. The surrounding neighborhood, mostly shops, gut wrenching restaurants, and pornographic theatres did a slow business during the day. At night, that dark world came alive with junkies, hookers, and assorted unrighteous individuals who crawled up from whatever holes hid them during the day. Millions of dollars in goods, both legal and illegal, moved across the docks every day. At night, the trade ran almost exclusively to the illegal end.

  The night people crowded the sidewalk in the early summer heat. Prostitutes leaned into car windows, occasionally getting into the car to disappear for a few minutes. A street vendor hawked a watch to an unsuspecting visitor to the city. Street people shuffled along, trying to find somewhere safe to spend the night.

  Degget wore jeans, T-shirt, and an old fedora that had once belonged to his grandfather. A leather jacket covered his holster and gun. He moved with ease through the bustling streets.

  Degget had been assigned to investigate street gangs for the task force. He was supposed to concentrate on the black gangs, naturally. It would help, if he could get close enough to one of the gangs to make conversation. So instead, he was working on his own investigation. He passed by the porn theatres with both video and live shows. Muscular men with potbellies tried to sweep both men and women off the sidewalk and into the shows. Occasionally, he would stop and talk to the barkers. For the most part, the street people shunned Degget. Word had already spread.

  Degget needed a more willing participant.

  From a distance he saw a quick deal go down. Stevie had just scored and would be heading for one of the local shooting galleries. Even from this distance, Degget could see Stevie was hurting.

  Making an educated guess, Degget brushed past one of the bouncers at a sleazy nightclub and started through to the back. With the shortcut, he would intercept Stevie just outside the burned out hotel.

  Degget had been dogging it on the task force. It wasn’t as if that was hard to do. All he needed was a uniform who wanted his gold shield. He’d been happy to cover Degget’s ass. It wasn’t as if he was really involved in the active investigation. Once they got their heads out of their asses and stopped looking for a gang connection, he would involve himself more thoroughly. For now, he would use his time more productively on his own investigation.

  Unfortunately, that was going in the same direction as the serial case – nowhere!

  The leak had to be in SOCU. Flem waltzes in from SOCU and the shooters arrive. But Degget couldn’t see Flem as the snitch. The Inspector was up for the Commissioner’s job. The mayor would have checked him from his flat feet to his balding fat head. So, who did Flem tell? Who sold him out to Angelino?

  He released some of his pent-up anger as he grabbed Stevie. He slammed him against a wall with one hand and snatched the baggie from the junkie with the other. Degget stayed clear of the addict’s rotted teeth and bleeding gums. Stevie was sure to be positive and Degget wouldn’t risk a bite.

  “Who set me up, mon?” Degget asked, his Jamaican accent returning.

  Stevie took time to focus. He had been thinking exclusively of the Horse in his hand. The last thing he expected was Degget. When recognition finally dawned, he literally wet his pants. He was either too frightened or hurting too much to notice.

  “Jesus man, I don’t fucking know.”

  “How bad you need this, Stevie?” Degget asked, holding the baggie in front of Stevie’s face. When Stevie made a grab for the bag, Degget pocketed it out of the junkie’s reach. He slammed Stevie against the wall again to get his attention.

  “Hey, man,” Stevie pleaded. “I don’t know shit like that. I mean, Christ all mighty, I’m nobody.”

  “But you do talk to people. Pass the wor
d. I’m looking for whoever put the finger on me. Tell them that I’m real pissed. You got that?”

  Stevie nodded and Degget stepped back, tossing the baggie to the man. Stevie juggled the baggie for half a second and then darted toward the darkened doorway of the old hotel that served as a shooting gallery for local addicts.

  *

  Degget had come up with nothing. All his sources had dried up and blown away. But just being out on the street might prompt some action.

  Odds were Angelino was still gunning for him. It was an honor thing with The Hinge. And if the Guinea bastard was still after him, so was the traitor who had exposed him. If he made enough noise and rattled enough cages, the traitor might get nervous. And that might mean exposure.

  Degget turned up an alley. About half way to the next street, he heard the scrape of a shoe. He swung around, his hand going inside his jacket.

  Two men stood just inside the alley. A sawed off shotgun was clearing the overcoat of the man on the left. The drunk staggered out of doorway and reached for the man on the right. The shotgun swung to the right and went off. The blast blew the drunk backwards into a pile of garbage. The man started to pump another cartridge into the chamber as Degget fired. The bullet hit square in the chest. The man flew back and landed on his back rather than crumpled. Degget recognized the look of that fall.

  As the man on the right drew a pistol from beneath his jacket, Degget shifted his aim to the right and higher. The two headshots brought the second man down as the gun cleared the holster. Before the second man was down, the shotgun was coming up again. Knowing the man was wearing a vest, Degget went for another head shot. This time, the first man went down permanently.