The Damascus Chronicles (11 page)

“And?” asked Frank.

“And the carving matched a tattoo of one Jesse Rollens. He spent time in and out of the joint for dealing narcotics, petty theft, and vandalism.”

“Looks like he was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” said Jack.

“We didn’t find a wallet on the victim, as stated in the report, but he did have a card in his back pocket and we also found a small speck of cocaine in the same pocket,” said Doug, giving the card to Frank.

“Gino’s Deli,” said Frank, surprised.

“Rollens probably stopped by there before he was killed. He later made a drug deal and was then killed with Louis Scarfo while making the deal. Louis Scarfo was known for a coke addiction and pimping hookers,” said Jack.

“Whoever killed them probably grabbed the cocaine and took off,” said Frank.

“I think we have enough here. Let’s head to Gino’s,” said Jack.

“Right, thanks Douggy boy, keep up the good work,” said Frank.

“Thanks Frank,” Doug replied as the two detectives took off. At 8 pm the Gino’s Deli was open, smelling of fresh pizza. A small line of customers waited.

“While we’re here, lets grab a pie,” suggested Frank.

The owner Dino recognized them and was ecstatic to see his two favorite customers. “Buena Sera, Paisanos, Franco, Jackie, how are you guys!” exclaimed Dino happily.

“We’re Good Dino,” said Frank.

“The usual then?” said Dino.

“The usual, one large pizza pie with pepperoni, mushrooms, and meat balls.”

“You got it. Hey Leo, you heard the man,” Dino ordered.

“Got you boss, one special coming up,” shouted Leo from the kitchen.

“It’s good to see some old faces around here, business has been bad lately since the neighborhood’s gone downhill,” Dino sighed.

“That’s too bad,” said Jack.

“So tell us Dino, have you seen anything unusual here the last few nights lad, any strange things?” Jack queried.

“No, why?” said Dino, nervously, his smile turning to a frown.

“We’re investigating a report of some murders at the penthouse around the corner and we found a stiff that had your restaurant’s card in the pocket,” said Frank.

“All right you got me,” said Dino, talking in a low voice. “The local crime families have had my place on protection. They said if I told anyone what I saw they’d kill my family.”

“You have nothing to fear, those dirt bags aren’t going to touch your family. We’ll put you and your family in the witness protection program, where they won’t be able to get to you,” Frank assured him.

“You’d do that for me?” asked Dino.

“It’s our duty lad,” said Jack, sliding him a card with the contact information for the Witness Protection Agency.

“What do you want to know?” asked Dino.

“Do you know a customer by the name of Jesse Rollens?”

“Yeah. What about Jesse? He’s a regular of mine, the guy comes in every week on Wednesday.”

“He’s dead,” said Jack.

“What happened?” asked Dino, shocked.

“We believe that three nights ago, on Wednesday, after Rollens came in here he was followed and later murdered. We found his body in the 34
^th
precinct,” said Frank.

“I did see someone eying Jesse down on the corner; the guy looked like one tough customer. But he took off when Jesse left,” said Dino.

“What did this guy look like?” asked Jack. “Tall, Italian guy with long black hair and dark glasses in a black suit and tie, white shirt with suspenders and black shoes. He had a beard.”

“He had a beard,” Frank repeated.

“Know the guy?” asked Jack.

“No, but I seen his car casing the area for about a week around closing time,” said Dino.

“What about Pedro Sarde, the owner of that all night print shop?”

“He’s seen the same guy too, I think,” said Dino.

Jack thanked Dino as he called into his walkie-talkie, contacting headquarters to escort Dino to a safe location.

“Let’s go,” said Frank forgetting the pizza. The duo walked next door to visit Pedro, who had just opened up his store for the evening.

“Excuse us Mr. Sarde, police.” Frank flashed his badge.

“Yes officers, how can I be of service?” asked Pedro.

“Do you know anything about the shooting that took place three nights ago in the vicinity around 9 pm?” asked Frank.

“Yes. I saw a tall man with long hair in black with a black beard and black coat taking off on what looked like a motorcycle or something like it, after I heard gunshots being fired,” Pedro offered. “Did you say he had a black beard?” asked Watson.

“Anything else?” asked Jack.

“I have a video surveillance of the corner, I had it installed after my store was robbed a month ago.”

“We like to have a copy of the tape if you please,” asked Frank.

“By all means, here take it, maybe it well help in kicking out these scumbags who killed my son when we were robbed. Take it if it keeps us locals safe,” said Pedro assertively.

“Thank you for your help, our apologies for your son,” said Jack.

The two hardboiled cops raced back to the station with great excitement to see the tape. Commissioner Hamilton was in the computer room checking over narcotics reports when Frank and Jack bolted into the room with the tape.

“Did you two bring back anything?” asked Commissioner Hamilton, stern with her arms crossed. “Here you go Commissie,” said Frank, handing her the tape.

“Good. Doug, play this tape and let’s see what we got,” ordered Commissioner Hamilton.

“Right away, boss,” said Doug as he loaded up the tape. As the tape played they saw their suspect leave the scene of the shooting, speeding off on a bizarre vehicle of sorts.

“What the hell is that?” asked Frank.

“Wait, pause and zoom in here right where the vehicle is speeding off,” said Commissioner Hamilton. Doug obeyed and as he zoomed in, the Commissioner asked, “What’s that license plate number?”

“O12489-NV Plate,” read Doug.

“Get a trace on that plate from the DMV system and find who it’s registered to,” said Commissioner Hamilton.

“Searching … damn. It’s unregistered,” said Doug.

“Probably a phony,” offered Frank.

“Who in the world doesn’t own a hover bike; these things are everywhere now days,” Jack sighed. “Well, another dead end,” said Commissioner Hamilton.

“We did find residue and strange tire impressions on the ground from that vehicle in these photos,” said Jack.

“That’s not enough to get a fix on this guy. Scan through the tape again.”

Looking once again, they managed to get a brief glance at the suspect’s face.

“Bingo!” said Frank.

“Cross reference the criminal files to get a match,” said Commissioner Hamilton. Doug continued to scan the computer system, crossing footage with other criminal profiles and mugshots from the robbery with the same guy in it.

“I think we’ve hit pay dirt,” said Doug.

“The guy here taking off on the hover bike and the guy robbing the bank truck are the same guy. He has the same facial features and clothes. Look at the right arm of the assailant, a tattoo marking torn from one of the other thieves attacking him before he made his escape with his fellow accomplices. It looks like two teams were competing for the stolen cash or working together,” Frank mused.

“Security guards found the abandoned truck in a deserted alley.” said Doug.

“Put out a description on the suspect and let’s wait. That’s all we can do for now,” said Commissioner Hamilton.

“Hold on, the computer system is matching the suspect’s facial profile to the system, aha, one class A loser by the name of Johnny Anderson, previously released on charges of possession of receiving stolen property, last known address 3458 Desert Palm Drive Hotel,” Doug crowed.

“Let’s go, he’s ours,” said Commissioner Hamilton.

Blazing as on wings of fire, tires smoking, the trio raced to nail their man with his pants down. In less than seven minutes Harris, Watson, and Hamilton arrived on scene with backup. Frank flashed his badge at the front desk and grabbing the register list, he quickly found Room 105, Anderson.

Commissioner Hamilton signaled and the three went sliding close to the walls of the hotel hallway. The team crept stealthily to the entrance door, on the way hearing blaring sounds coming from the other rooms. Cocking his 357 Magnum, Frank kept his eyes dead on to the door.

As they smashed open the door, Johnny Anderson was lounging on the couch in his underpants and undershirt, one minute watching the tube, the next pinned to the floor with a bunch of guns against his face. He was a young punk, skinny, and not too smart.

“Hey, what’s going on!” exclaimed Anderson.

“On your feet killer,” ordered Frank, pissed off.

“I didn’t do anything!” yelled Anderson. “You’re under arrest for murder in the first degree, you have the right to remain silent, to have an attorney, and a hope in hell that you get life, otherwise its bubba and injection time,” said Frank.

“But I didn’t do anything,” yelled Anderson. “Save it for the judge lad,” Jack slapped the cuffs on the suspect.

Back at the station the officers uncuffed the suspect and put him in a stall to hose him down. “Spray him,” said Commissioner Hamilton. As they hosed the suspect down she noticed something different, something that was out of place. “Wait pal, turn around, let me see your arm,” said Commissioner Hamilton. Anderson complied. “Jack, he has no tattoo matching the footage on the tape,” she said.

“You sure?” replied Jack.

“Look at his arms.”

“Maybe he had it lasered off,” said Jack.

“No man, I never had a tattoo! Never killed anyone, I was set up, it’s Damascus, he did this!” yelled Anderson.

“Some how I got a hunch he’s telling the truth,” said Jack.

“Put him in the interrogation office upstairs. Things aren’t adding up,” said Commissioner Hamilton.

Grabbing Anderson, Frank brought him to the interrogation office and threw the suspect’s ass in the chair. “All right, bozo, talk. Who is this Damascus?”

“The guy who would do anything to save his own hide. We both pulled past jobs, he must have…” CRASH! A bullet shot through the window behind Anderson, blowing a clean hole through his head. Anderson stood still for less than half a second as his brains fell out; Jack and Frank looked on in horror as Anderson fell dead to the floor in a pool of blood. On the rooftop behind the police building, Michael lowered his sniper rifle. Serena was at his side as his lookout.

“Sweet Jesus!” screamed Frank.

“Anderson you could never keep your mouth shut, you snitch. Pity I had to make you,” said Michael. Serena looked surprised at Michael’s reaction. “Let me guess, boss’s orders?” she asked, lighting up a short baby cigar.

“When the Don asks I deliver. I hate a rat as much as the Don does, especially one that cheated his own crew out of a score,” said Michael.

“You knew he would be picked up?” asked Serena. “Of course, you gave me the dark gift didn’t you? Remember, you said “it” is different for each of us. Apparently I can see visions of the past, present, future, and read people’s thoughts sometimes,” said Michael.

“Let’s go now!” Serena urged.

At the same time, back in the interrogation room, Frank and Jack screamed for backup. They saw two shady figures get into a black car and take off two stories below outside the window.

“Shit! Squad Team, get in here now!” yelled Jack. Frank cocked his gun as he and his partner ran to their car down the stairs to engage the attackers.

“Squad car, 65, officers in need of back up, in pursuit of black 1972 sports car with Vegas plates, murder suspects, armed and extremely dangerous, over,” yelled Jack over his car intercom.

“Roger that, deadly force has been approved, shoot to kill,” Commissioner Hamilton ordered over the police scanner, as they chased Michael and Serena’s car.

Michael and Serena raced through the side streets with the cops hot on their trail. “All right assholes, you’re going down,” said Frank, blasting through his side window at Michael’s car. He hit the left side driver’s mirror.

“Shit!” said Michael as he tried to lose them. The siren screamed as chase burned. Jack took out his pistol and shot at Michael’s tires in an attempt to disable the car. Serena shot back relentlessly, but she only put dents in Watson’s squad car.

“Damn! I can’t get a clear shot,” she cried. “Then take the wheel, he’s shooting at our tires,” yelled Michael. He opened the sunroof and opened fire with his Mac 10 Uzi, bullet shells flying so fast you could smell the sulfur off each shot from the gun barrel. Jack fired back and hit Michael in the left arm.