Double Fake, Double Murder (A Carlos McCrary, Private Investigator, Mystery Thriller Series Book 2)

by Dallas Gorham

  “Dan Murphy.”

  She looked skeptical. “You’d think that Dan would know. He and Jorge were on Franco like stink on a skunk for dealing heroin before Franco got himself murdered.” She picked up the picture. “Still…Mollies, you said?” She raised her eyebrows.

  “Yeah.”

  Kelly looked at Bigs. “You ever hear anything about Franco dealing Mollies?”

  “Dominguez deals Mollies; Franco deals heroin. I never heard any different on the street.”

  “Maybe Franco was trying to expand his product line.” She reviewed the photo. “How many houses in the development, Chuck?”

  “I looked it up. Almost two hundred.”

  Kelly shook her head. “You search the ownership records?”

  “Of course. Nothing in his name. And too many land trusts, LLCs, and other intermediaries to chase down in less than a month. Could you get authorization to follow him with a drone?”

  “Nah. Budget’s too tight. The department’s only got four drones, you know. We got no evidence on Dominguez. He’s not a person of interest. Bigs and I have guys with hard evidence against them that we can’t get a drone on.”

  “Are you sure he and Franco were competitors?” asked Bigs.

  Chapter 19

  “Why you want to keep following Dominguez?” Snoop asked. “If you want to waste your money, why not send Janet and me to Paris? It would do the case as much good.”

  “Snoop, it’s right there in Private Investigation for Dummies. Rule number two: When in doubt, follow somebody. And I’m sure as hell in doubt.”

  “If you gotta follow somebody, let’s follow a UPS truck. We’re less likely to get shot at, and it will do the case as much good.”

  “Dominguez is a drug dealer; Franco was a drug dealer.”

  “Big deal,” Snoop said. “We gonna follow every drug dealer in Port City until one of us gets killed? Janet would love that.”

  “Dan Murphy said that Dominguez and Franco were competitors and that El Duque had a motive to kill Franco.”

  “Yeah, but Kelly and Bigs said they’d never heard that. Who you gonna believe, Kelly or Murphy?”

  “That’s why I’m in doubt.”

  Snoop shook his head and sighed. “Maybe Murphy’s jerking your chain for some reason.”

  “Well, he’s oh-for-two on the suspects I’ve checked out so far.”

  #

  Chuck met Murphy in the parking lot of a Cuban coffee shop near the North Shore Precinct. “Hey, Chuck. How’s Jorge’s case coming?”

  “Snoop and I found a guy in surveillance videos from two businesses on 84th that might have been our shooter.”

  “That’s good. What do they show?”

  “Not enough for Jorge’s lawyer, although she won’t bother to look at them. She doesn’t think it’s useful unless I can find the guy.”

  “Who’s his lawyer?” asked Murphy.

  “Some hard-nosed Yale graduate from the PD’s office who’s never taken a murder case to trial. Her name’s Darcy Yankton.”

  “Oh, Christ. I’ve heard of her. She the one who hates cops?”

  “Oh, great. You mean she even has a reputation for that?”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  Chuck nodded. “I’ve followed up on those names you gave me. Toots Pollaio is a mook who smokes a lot of dope. He’s not smart enough to frame Jorge. Hell, he can’t even drive a car without hitting the curb. And Marcello Dominguez sells Mollies, not heroin. He and Franco were not competitors. Where did you hear that they were?”

  “From one of my CI scumbags on the street. I guess he was misinformed. Sorry.”

  Chuck watched him drive away. Murphy said he was sorry, but he didn’t look sorry.

  Chapter 20

  Chuck called on Sergeant Wilma Leonard at Organized Crime. He carried in two cappuccinos and handed her one.

  “How’d you know about the cappuccinos?” she asked.

  Chuck grinned. “Snoop Snopolski sees all and knows all.”

  She laughed. A big, warm laugh from a big, warm woman. “Snoop and I go back a long way. He working for you now?”

  Chuck waved a hand back and forth. “He’s helping me out on the Jorge Castellano case.”

  She set the cappuccino on her desk. “I don’t care what the evidence shows: Jorge did not gun down Garrison Franco.”

  “I agree, Wilma. That’s why I’m here. Dan Murphy said that Gus Guzman may have had a beef with Franco. What do you know about Guzman?”

  She leaned back in her chair and took a sip of cappuccino. “What do I know about Gus Guzman?” she repeated. “Gus runs a racing book—track odds minus ten percent. Or plus ten percent, depending on your viewpoint.”

  “How does his operation work?”

  “Gus hires kids to pick up bets. If they get busted, they’re juveniles and we can’t do much to them.”

  “Pretty smart to use mules.”

  Wilma nodded. “Yeah. He uses older, armed hoods to pay off winning bets, which can run into the thousands of dollars. Guzman doesn’t want kids to carry around large amounts of money for the winners. It’s too tempting, and it might make them targets for robbers.”

  “What is this guy, the bookie with a heart of gold?”

  She smiled. “Let’s put it this way: Gus was in business when I got here, over twenty years ago. He pays off his winners without a hassle and doesn’t break any of his losers’ bones. He just won’t take their bets until they pay him back. His operation is clean and tidy.”

  “Sounds like a model citizen as far as criminals go.”

  Wilma lowered her voice. “Let’s be realistic, Chuck. It’s a victimless crime, and Gus doesn’t get violent with anyone. We concentrate on the truly bad actors. If we ever clean up the rest of the streets, then we’ll go after Gus.”

  “That should be right after the Second Coming. You think there’s any way he could have had a beef with Garrison Franco?”

  Wilma sipped her cappuccino. “I doubt Gus knows who Garrison Franco was.”

  So, why would Dan Murphy send me after Gus Guzman? Chuck wondered. Now he’s oh-for-three.

  Chapter 21

  Chuck woke, his mind swirling with unorganized facts. He needed a long run to put his body on autopilot and let his mind process the data.

  After much prodding from the police union, Darcy Yankton had finally obtained bail for Jorge. Chuck had an appointment with him at ten o’clock to report his progress, or lack of it.

  It was time to marshal his thoughts.

  #

  Chuck parked his Avanti crosswise on the far side of the parking lot. The golfers wouldn’t arrive at the course for another hour.

  The eastern sky glowed with a soft luminescence that hinted of the sunrise to come while a three-quarter moon hung low in the west. In the stillness, Chuck took a moment to enjoy the view over the driving range.

  The pre-dawn morning was as quiet and as cool as it gets in Port City at that time of year. The humidity hung like a damp curtain and bathed the grass with a dewy carpet that shimmered in the moonlight.

  Chuck stretched and took off down the nearest golf cart path, leaving a wake of foggy mist when he ran through the low spots.

  As his feet fell into a rhythmic pattern, so did his mind.

  Motive: Franco threatened Jorge’s wife. Okay, but if Jorge didn’t do it…If? what’s this if? Think positive: Jorge didn’t do it, so who else had a motive to murder Franco? None of the names Dan gave me had a good enough motive, or any motive at all. Hmm.

  He passed the fourth green and turned up the cart path toward the fifth tee box.

  Method: It keeps coming back to Jorge’s gun. All Glock 17’s look alike, except for minor wear marks on the grips or maybe a scratch or two on the casing. At first glance, even a cop wouldn’t notice if someone had switched his gun. But Jorge never lets his pistol out of his sight. But that’s not literal. It must be out of his sight sometimes.

  He ran past the ninth green
and headed out over the back nine.

  Opportunity: Nothing I can do about that. Jorge could have walked or run over to the crime scene and shot Franco. But so could Murphy. And, so could the jogging man. Hmm.

  By the time Chuck had completed the four miles around all eighteen holes, he’d formed some conclusions. He didn’t like the result.

  He headed for Jerry’s Gym to work out and shower.

  Chapter 22

  “Jorge Castellano is here to see you, Chuck.”

  Chuck nodded at the receptionist. “Thanks.”

  Jorge jumped to his feet. “Boy, am I glad to see you.”

  The two men shook hands, slapped each other on the back.

  “Come on, amigo. Bring your coffee.” Chuck led him down the hall.

  “How’re you feeling, Jorge?” asked Chuck when they were seated in his office.

  Jorge chuckled. “Nervous as hell. I tossed and turned all night, wondering what you’ve found. Karen kicked me out of bed at four a.m. so she could get some sleep. What’ve you found?”

  “The shooter may have fired from a different hiding place than the murder book shows. You remember there was a bullet that missed Franco and imbedded in a wall across the street?”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “I stood in front of that bullet mark and triangulated where that bullet was fired. It wasn’t the building with the three bullet holes.”

  “What does that mean? The shooter was actually standing someplace else?”

  “Maybe. Or else the murder book has the wrong spot where Franco’s body was found. That’s also a possibility. They would have had to be off by ten yards. I’ll come back to that later.”

  Chuck shook his head. “I examined every other piece of evidence in the murder book, every procedure that Bigs and Kelly followed. It’s the same stuff you or I would have done. It’s solid everywhere else except that they didn’t canvass 84th Street. I told you about the mysterious jogger Snoop and I found, didn’t I?”

  “That’s a lead, isn’t it?”

  “I took it to Darcy Yankton. She said, and I quote, ‘Hmm…unless you find the guy, it doesn’t mean anything.’”

  Jorge slumped.

  Chuck held up a finger. “I said the murder book is solid. I did not say it was complete. Remember the right way, the wrong way, and the Army way. I looked at this from a soldier’s perspective. Those shots the killer fired came from over forty yards away and at night. Three out of four rounds hit Franco, and the fourth barely missed. Could a street punk make a shot grouping that close? Could you?”

  “No, I couldn’t. I never thought of that. The shooter must be a crack shot.”

  “Could Dan Murphy have made that shot?”

  Jorge frowned. “Dan and I go to the firing range all the time. He’s an expert marksman. Dan could group shots that close together, but why would he kill Franco?” He paused. “No, no, no. I can’t believe it’s Dan.” He shook his head.

  “I noticed another thing that doesn’t make sense, amigo. It’s like Sherlock Holmes’ dog that didn’t bark. The killer lured you to the warehouse district with a fake phone call.”

  “Yeah, yeah. So?”

  “So, how did he lure Franco to the murder site? He must have had something Franco wanted. What would make Franco come out at midnight to a deserted street in the warehouse district?”

  “I don’t know, Chuck. You got any ideas?”

  “Maybe the shooter was someone Franco was afraid of—like a cop. A cop could make a credible threat that would draw him out at midnight.”

  “A cop? Who? What cop? It couldn’t be Dan. It couldn’t.”

  “Another thing, amigo, Franco’s shots at that building were in a tight group of three bullets. He couldn’t make those shots if he was wounded. They would have sprayed all over the place.”

  “What if Franco shot first?” asked Jorge.

  “Then how did Franco know where the killer was hiding? It was after midnight, and the guy was standing on a dark porch. How did Franco even know it was an ambush? He had to think he was meeting someone.”

  Jorge frowned. “What do you make of that?”

  “The killer had to have surprised Franco and shot first. Then after Franco was down, he made those three shots at the wrong building with Franco’s own gun.”

  Chapter 23

  Chuck put his phone on speaker. “Snoop, you in position?”

  “The GPS says I’m parked right where Murphy parked that night.”

  “Good.” He noted the time on his cellphone screen. 12:29 a.m. Just right. “Open the windows and kill the engine. I’ll fire a few rounds sometime in the next few minutes when you’re not expecting it.”

  “Will do. ’Bye.” Snoop’s picture disappeared from the screen.

  Chuck stopped his Avanti in the street where Franco’s car had been found and switched on the flashers. He slung his ear protectors around his neck, and walked to the building entrance where the shooter had supposedly waited in ambush.

  He mounted the steps to the entrance porch and checked the front door. Force of habit from years as a patrol cop. Locked, of course. He pulled a Glock 17, the same model the killer used, and turned to face his own car. He looked at the recessed lights in the porch ceiling. This is no good. No way would the shooter stand in the light.

  Chuck jogged a few steps onto the parking lot and studied the surrounding buildings. Where would I lurk if I wanted to ambush someone? He walked south. He stopped and surveyed the position of the Avanti, studied the next building he now stood in front of. No shooter would pick a lit porch. But he might pick this entrance here.

  He started toward the darkened entrance, then jerked to a stop. The porch lights on the first building went out. It was not yet 1:00 a.m. He studied the porch where he had first stood under the lights. It was now pitch dark. Lights must be on a timer. Maybe the shooter did stand there after all.

  He returned to the first porch, ejected the Glock magazine, and stuck it in his pocket. He replaced it with a magazine filled with blanks, pulled the ear protectors over his head, racked the slide, and fired four blank rounds at the ground. As he pulled off the ear protectors, the gunshots echoed eerily down the deserted street.

  He walked to the middle of the street and fired three more rounds at the ground.

  He called Snoop. “You hear anything?”

  “You fire yet?”

  His heart fell. “Yeah, Snoop, I fired seven rounds.”

  “Sorry, buddy. Silent as a tomb over here.”

  “Thanks, Snoop. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  To Chuck’s left, a light flicked on in a third-floor window of the building from which he had fired the first four rounds.

  #

  Chuck replaced the blank magazine with the real one and held the Glock down along his right leg. He studied the window on the third floor. A shadow passed across the ceiling as someone approached the window. He pulled out a Maglite and shined it back and forth across the window to signal the occupant.

  A figure appeared silhouetted behind the glass. Maybe he witnessed the murder.

  Chuck walked closer and stopped below the window. He shouted upwards. “Hello.”

  The figure disappeared and the light went out.

  Chuck wasn’t about to let this guy get away. The front is locked. He must have come in from the alley. He sprinted to the building’s north side and found a narrow access to the alley. He ran down the access, wheeled around the corner into the alley, and skidded to a stop.

  The streetlights at either end of the block cast a dim glow on the scene.

  He stuck the Maglite in a pocket and raised his Glock. A truck entrance with a man-access door in one side dominated the center of the alley wall. A piece of plastic was taped over the window in the access door. He glanced up. The alley windows were dark.

  Chuck ducked below the windows and crept sideways along the wall to the truck entrance. He pulled the ear protectors from around his neck and dropped them to the pav
ement. Pressing his ear to the heavy-gauge steel, he listened. Nothing.

  The plastic that covered the window in the access door had been torn loose at one corner. Lifting it, he saw the broken window. Someone had removed the glass shards in the corner nearest to the door handle. That’s how the guy gained access to the third floor.

  Holstering his pistol, he stuck his left arm through the broken window. The heavy steel door would protect everything except his arm if the guy inside started shooting.

  He felt the door handle and twisted. The door latch disengaged and he opened the door a few inches. He crouched below the window, keeping the steel door between him and whoever waited inside. Drawing the Glock, he pulled the access door wide open, stood with his back against the wall, and listened again. Nothing.

  Chuck wedged the ear protectors under the access door to hold it open. He dived into the darkness inside the warehouse, rolling twice to get away from the doorway where the faint light from the alley could silhouette him.

  A faint thump in the distance. Could be a door; could be something else—or someone else. He sniffed. French fries? Well, why not? Smiling in the darkness, he moved further away from the door.

  Chuck waited for his eyes to adjust to the faint light that seeped through the access door and the dirty windows. There was a faint outline of a stairway against the north wall on the left.

  He crept to the bottom step and started up. The French fry smell grew stronger. And something else…something burning? Marijuana.

  Reaching the landing on the second floor. he smelled a third smell. It’s familiar, but I can’t place it.

  The hallway on the third floor was not quite as dark as the inside of a coffin. Not quite. The doorway at the front of the building on the left stood open.

  He crept past several doors until he stood against the wall beside the last doorway and looked inside. A faint light from the street trickled through the window. The light-colored linoleum floor showed no furniture in the part of the room Chuck could see.

  He tucked and rolled into the room as quietly as he could. He scooted his back against the wall and extended the Maglite as far as he could reach to his left. If somebody shoots at the light, I want him to aim at my left hand, not my stomach. He switched the Maglite on.