Read Angelfall: Parts 1 to 5 Online
Authors: Conrad Powell
Angelfall: Parts 1 to 5 (14 page)
“Let's get out of here,” said Siton as he stood to his feet.
“Hold on Mister,” said Anne-Marie looking at her broken heel.
Somebody's obviously trying to kill you or something and I'm supposed to just come with you? Are you crazy?” she said looking around for where she could make her exit.
“No, no. I'm not sure what this is about,” said Siton with a doubtful look on his face.
“I get it. When you said your dad was big, I guess it was the Mafia you were talking,” she said. The shooting stopped. She sat with her back against the dumpster.
“These kinds of things always happen to me. I just can't find a good man as hard as I try whether white, black, yellow, green, or blue,” said Annemarie. Her hair was far from the perfectly in place weave she had earlier. Their faces were drenched with sweat.
“No. My dad is not in the Mafia and he's not a gambler although he is in the business of winning things to which you cannot set a price,” said Siton.
“I swear your creepiness turns me on in a freaky strange tantalizingly dangerous sort of way,” she said. They laughed as she calmed down.
“Look there’s a little guest motel nearby. Let's get out of here,” said Siton. “What you say?” He looked in her eyes and that was enough. She was up for anything.
He took her hand and slowly walked out of the alley as she hobbled on the one good high-heel. She gave up and took off her other high heel.
Within moments they crossed the street to a small motel called Shangri-La.
“The Shangri-La? Boy you are a big spender,” said Anne-Marie. They walked up to the entrance.
“If I took you to the exclusive executive hotels, it would be too conspicuous. Got it?” said Siton as he paid the $10 for a two hour stay. He didn't even get a key.
The downstairs front desk clerk, a young girl, just told him to pick a room and close it behind him when he leaves. Anne-Marie followed him in a tipsy stupor to a room on the second floor with an open door. The room didn't have a number on it.
He knew the ecstasy should have kicked in by now. Anne-Marie sat on the side of the bed.
“I want to tell you now. I really am a good girl. This is not a wham-bam-thank you-Ho kind of thing. Really I-”
Siton kissed her. His mouth felt funny because the fangs wouldn't budge. Every time she stuck her tongue in his mouth, the sharp edges of his fangs slightly poked her. Funny, his fake fangs should have fallen out by now.
She pulled him closer. Siton wasted no time stripping her shirt then her brassiere revealing the supplest caramel colored breast he had ever seen.
“Listen, I'm okay with fooling around, but I just met you. I'm not ready for sex yet,” she said.
Siton had already buried his head into the sloped curvature of her caramel neck.
“I promise. I'll be gentle,” said Siton now holding her firmly by the waist.
“No. Please. Don't,” she pleaded. Siton ignored her pleas and pushed her on the old bed almost breaking it.
He dropped on top of her and now she screamed.
He muffled her scream with his right hand as he zipped down his pants with his left. She continued to scream but these went no further than the small spaces in between his hands.
Her eyes bulged in frustration as Siton placed his fangs on the side of her neck.
A white man broke open the door and jammed a needle full of battery acid solution right into Siton's exposed back. It was right in the area that encaged his vampire heart. Within seconds, Siton went limp and Anne-Marie pushed him off.
“What took you so long?” said Anne-Marie. “He almost bit me. Ugghh.”
“Thank God he didn't,” said the white man to Anne-Marie.
“Where Zorona?” said Anne-Marie to the white man.
He’s on his way from the club.
“Did you like the gunshot effect?” said the white man. “That was my idea.”
Siton lay still on the bed next to Anne-Marie.
“Yes. Nice touch. At least it got us faster to the motel room,” said Anne-Marie.
“Who's working downstairs at the front desk?” said Anne-Marie.
“Oh that's a new Cherubim. Her name is Avaree. It's her first assignment,” said Adonari.
A taller white man rushed into the open room. It was Zorona.
“Cyrenee are you okay?” said Zorona to the black woman on the bed. She nodded. Adonari walked over and put his fingers on Siton’s neck checking for a pulse.
“Finally we got him,” said Zorona looking at the very dead Siton whose skin color was turning whiter than white.
“Well in case you haven't noticed, we've just assassinated Lucifer's only son. I don't think it will be too long before his minions arrive,” said Adonari.
“Too late,” said Cyrenee as they looked up at more than One Thousand vampires levitating outside the motel room window and standing outside the room door.
“Adonari? Exactly what was the exit strategy?” said Zorona.
With Adonari, Zorona and Cyrenee still in human form, they stood like three deer certainly caught in the headlights.
:-Continued in:
Celebration: Part 6 of Angelfall
(Twilight at Dawn Saga, Book 1),
Then Continued in
Prophet: Part 7 of Angelfall
(Twilight at Dawn Saga, Book 1).
Then Continued in Twilight: Part 8 of Angelfall (Twilight at Dawn Saga, Book 1). (TO BE RELEASED First Week of October 2012).
Better yet purchase the Box Set to save money:
Angelfall: Box Set - Parts 6 to 8 (Twilight at Dawn Saga, Book 1). This Box Set due to be released first week of October 2012.
All titles are available for purchase wherever eBooks are sold.
***
6(1). [FREE EBOOK] - The Kill: Part 2 of Start (Detective John Start Thriller Series, Book 1).
(Detective John Start Thriller Series, Book 1).
By Conrad Powell.
©
Copyright 2008 Conrad Powell.
Chapter 5
North Coast, Jamaica.
A yacht emblazoned with the words “Rensaleer” barreled towards The Posse.
“No,” said Ana as she motioned The Posse to disengage. Everyone lowered their guns.
“This is our office for the next few weeks,” she said as she signaled the captain to dock. The Posse jumped aboard. Fiyah was the last to get on.
The Rensaleer was an elegant three story boat. On top was the Captain’s deck and control room shimmering in the moonlight with polished gold railings.
The main deck had the common area, cabins and bathrooms. The lower deck was the kitchen and eating area.
Billy-Bob wasted no time grabbing a Red Stripe Beer from the cooler outside the main deck. On the deck Fiyah sat tying his massive locks into a cornrow bun.
The captain, Carthright Ugodi, was a richly dark skinned man in a flowing white linen outfit that looked like it came from J. Crew. The captain left the controls to a second in command and descended to the deck. The Rensaleer headed out to sea.
Ugodi was a Senegalese confidence man who made millions off the lottery scam. He operated from the Caribbean snagging Brits and Americans looking for quick wealth without work. Ugodi or Shawn or Trevor or Bart or whatever name he chose to call himself for that client, promised a better life but needed advances of US$10,000 to do it.
Of course after the unaware wired funds, Ugodi’s cell number was inoperable.
The scam was perfect because Caribbean police had no resources to fly victims to the islands to testify. No victim, no crime. So he always got away.
“Now this is Jamaica mon,” said Deitrick from the main deck. He shivered in the cool sea air as salty winds whipped his face.
The tropical depression finally gave way and sent a deluge on deck. The rains poured sending everyone inside.
“I’ll be needin’ these,” said Billy-Bob as he picked up the cooler full of Red Stripe Beer and ran inside. Sasha and Ana laughed as they ran from the main deck through a door to the common area.
The Rensaleer’s common area was elegantly lined with splashes of red and white decor. A couple of semi circular couches lined the walls.
The common area emptied into ten sleeping quarters and two bathrooms all with their own access doors. Ugodi descended the internal staircase from the captain’s deck into the common area. Ana began the introductions as the boat’s helper handed out clean towels.
Chapter 6
Brooklyn
I eventually reached Willmohr Street in East Flatbush. The cross street, 95th Street had a Terra Cotta brick church with stained glass windows glistening with the Star of David.
In the 70’s East Flatbush was a strong Hasidic community until Caribbean migrants flooded the area.
They now called it Little Jamaica.
Church Avenue, its longest avenue, boasted shops stocked with all things Caribbean.
I pulled up beside the police barriers blocking Willmohr. Officer Wilcox stood guard. Cox had been my partner until they took him off front line duty.
“I heard about your promotion Start. Damn good partner. You ain’t got nothin’ to worry about now brother,” said Wilcox.
“You know what they say Cox,” I said. “What we got here?”
I peered past the barriers.
“I hear it’s some Jamaican connection thing. Them Jamaicans come to America and take all our jobs. Their asses should stay in their own country. Damn curry goat eatin’ nig-”
“I see.” I intentionally cut him off. The memory of what happened flashed in my mind. Cox and I were on duty in the Bushwick area about eight years ago. We were chasing a boy suspected of dealing drugs. Cox reached him first knocking him to the floor. When I was a closer distance, I saw the boy lying on his stomach begging for his life with Cox stooping above him with his gun firmly planted in the boy’s back.
By the time I reached, Cox had shot the boy several times. Protesters cried murder but the Kings County District Attorney’s Office failed to file charges. I was the sole witness. I knew he had murdered that boy but I kept my silence. Officers honor. Right? That was our code. We didn’t rat on each other just like lawyers or doctors don’t.
If you ever did that they would make life hell for you. Internal Investigations interrogated me for hours but I lied to cover Cox. We never talk about it though. I didn’t care to and tried to put it out my mind.
Cox was suspended for 3 years and when he returned, the most they let him do was traffic duty and guarding police barriers.
Wilcox pulled the barrier for me.
“Enjoy,” said Wilcox above the noise as I drove past him. I didn’t answer.
Talk about a swarm. I could hardly drive through with the throng of Looky Lou’s. I left Bessie near the police barrier and grabbed my black knapsack from the trunk.
With the crowd and flashing emergency vehicle lights, for a split second I thought I was at the Palladium. All I needed was the musical elements known as Earth, Wind and Fire.
I squeezed past the crowd and the Channel 7 news crew.
Officials swarmed in and out of the crime scene at 1078 Willmohr Street, a run down three story apartment building sandwiched between an abandoned four story building and a large apartment complex on the left.
As I approached the entrance, I spotted Weidermeier.
Robert Weidermeier, Channel 7 news’ superstar anchor, always had a toupee out of place.
His makeup crew swarmed around him like worker bees trying to salvage what was left of a Ted Coppell like relic. His young director shouted that they were on in fifteen.
As good as Channel 7 was, no one was better than my Aunt Genie from Bed Stuy. Nothing escaped her in the community. I mean nothing. I am convinced CNN sought her out when they needed the low down on the streets.
As I reached near the entrance, the director motioned to Weidermeier that they were on in 5...4...3...2...
“Breaking News out of East Flatbush. Man found dead in apartment. No Witnesses. Details at ten. This is Robert Weidermeier for Channel Seven news.”
His voice tapered off as I followed the human traffic up the stairs. Everyone headed to the third floor.
I reached the third floor landing as Officers Rodriguez and D’Agostino were ducking under the - Police Line Do Not Cross - tape.
It was draped across a smashed in door to Apartment #3A.
“Well, well. Detective Start. Nice seeing you back on the beat, Mano,” said Rodriguez as they laughed.
“Don’t be jealous Rodriguez. You know you’re too short to make detective.”
Rodriguez stopped laughing. D’Agostino chuckled.
“It ain’t pretty in there Start,” said D’Agostino, as he stifled a chuckle. “I think you’ll need your spy goggles.”
Rodriguez and D’Agostino laughed.
“Sure beats crime squad, huh fellas?” I said. “What are you guys doing here? I thought this was a special crimes assignment?”
“It is but we were in the area and got a transmission over the radio. We responded first. A little old lady called it in. She is a doozie,” said D’Agostino as he and Rodriguez descended the steps.
“Well. I’ve got real work to do,” I said as they began to descend the staircase.
“Yeah and I am the President of Mexico,” said Rodriguez. They laughed as they disappeared down the staircase.
I ducked under the tape and entered a pitch black apartment.
I flicked on my pen flashlight and walked into the main passageway. Immediately on the left was a small white bathroom.
I walked past the bathroom into the yellow kitchen and then to the living room. I saw a bright flood light ahead. As I walked into the bedroom, Crime Scene Investigation was busy snapping photos. Cilantro wasted no time.
“About time you got here,” he said above the activity. The cameras flashed. The captain stood filling out a preliminary sheet while negotiating a stubborn booger from his hairy nostril. It refused to yield.
The captain stood next to a well dressed tall skinny black man lying face down on the bed with a gunshot wound to the head and a 45 special in his left hand.
The cameras flashed.
Dried blood leaked from his head soaking the blue sheets.
“It was bumper to bumper downtown,” I said pulling a small notepad and pen from my blazer. “What we got?”
“Suicide. Body has been cold for some time. It was called in a few hours ago by Mrs. Lichtenstein, a little Jewish lady in #3B. Says she smelled an awful odor coming from the apartment and called 911. We broke the door down. It’s a waste talking to her. She’s a flippin’ chatterbox. Anyway I obtained all the information I think she can offer.”
I jotted away as the cameras continued to flash. This explains the smashed door. Suicide. No forced entry.
I wanted to ask him what was so special about this crime, but I didn’t.
“All yours,” he said pointing to the dead man. “Give me a report in a couple of days.” I nodded.
He turned on his flashlight, squeezed past the crime scene officers and headed out the door leaving me with the mess. I donned a pair of latex gloves and went to work. I noticed a piece of paper on the floor and picked it up.
A final flash caught my eye. I recovered and read the note:
Ana,
You hurt. I hurt. They knew. Who is to blame?
My humiliation runs deep.
Next Time,
O.R.
I suffered a squinting aftershock as I flipped the note over. It was written on the back of a blank Bank of Jamaica letterhead.
As I examined it, the Forensic Unit dashed in obviously rushing from their last crime scene. I place the note in a clear plastic bag and deposited it into my evidence knapsack.
The team acknowledged me and got down to work like busy worker ants on a freshly killed bug. They took swabs of the blood around the bed and separate swabs of the blood from the victim.
They collected hair samples and the bullet. When they were complete, they nodded to me and left me alone with O.R.
“Looks like it’s me and you my friend,” I said. I noticed his nails. They were dirty and his body was extra cold.
“Have you had a woman divorce you and take all that you have?” I said softly.
“I suppose that wouldn’t matter now anyway.”
I looked around the room. No blood was splashed on the wall. I engaged my pen light and meandered to the living room.
I picked up a mangled computer and retrieved the hard drive putting it in a clear bag and dropping it into my knapsack. I noticed a little plaque on the wall.
It read:
“Revenge is a soup best served cold.
-Author Unknown”
I wandered into the kitchen and shined the flashlight in the fridge. It was completely empty and frowsy. Not a family guy or a cook. A note was attached with a magnet on the outside of the fridge.
It read: BOJ closes 3PM.
I slipped the note into a clear bag and dropped it into my knapsack.
As I ducked under the police line and walked out of the apartment, the Coroners came up the stairs with stretcher in hand.
I looked at the door marked #3B and gently knocked. No one answered.
I knocked louder. Still no one answered.
As I walked away, I heard the door open behind me.
A short elderly lady peeped through the cracked door latched with a security chain.
“Yes?” she said in a strong voice. “May I help you?”
“I hope so. Mrs. Lichtenstein?” She nodded through the crack.
“I am Detective John Start. My superior spoke to you earlier about the incident next door?” I flashed my new detective badge.
“Yes, he did.”
“May I speak to you for a moment?”
“Sure.” She unhooked the chain and waived me inside. Her hunchback caused her to walk a bit slow but sure. When she reached the couch, I reached out to help her sit but she waived my hand away.
“I’m fine,” she said.
The strange aroma of old coffee grinds mixed with Bendgay, Vicks vapor rub and alcohol stifled my nostrils.
“Mam, how long has O.R. lived next door?” I asked.
“O.R.?”
“Yes. The person next door had the initials O.R.”
“I didn’t know someone lived next door at least not recently. I have not seen or heard anyone in that apartment since the Simpsons moved a years ago. Nice little family. Husband died. Terrible car accident. Wife moved with her two sons to Long Island.”
She hacked an awful cough spitting up yellow mucus into a chamber pot next to the couch. She recovered.
“I haven’t heard from them since.”
“What did you hear next door?”
“I didn’t. Not a peep. Just a smell. An awful odor coming from next door earlier this evening. I called 911 right away.” I jotted away in my notebook.
“Not a peep and you were here all last week?”
“Not a peep and I am always here. My grandson Noel shops for me and gets my medicine.” She pointed to a picture on the living room bookshelf.
It was a photo of a young man with gold plated teeth who looked like he belonged in a Lil’ Wayne rap video instead of a synagogue.
“Mmm. Thank you for your time. Please call me if you see anything strange.” I handed her my new business card.
“Sure,” she said as she escorted me to the door. I exited her door and turned back to her.
