Two Graves (A Kesle City Homicide Novel) (13 page)

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.”

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 word. 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.

Degget pulled out his cell phone and called in the officer involved shooting as he ran over to the drunk. A quick look told Degget there was no rush for an ambulance. Holstering his gun, he sat down on a box and waited. He could already hear the wail of the sirens approaching.

Hill sat in his car outside Angelino’s office. Already, his mind was working on the hit and the implications of the unusual stipulations. He flipped open his laptop and typed in a few commands. He waited for the connections to go through his encrypted sat-modem. As soon as he was connected he checked his balance. The initial deposit was already there.

Angelino was serious, he thought to himself.

Angelino had not named a figure but this Thorman must be into him for huge bucks. Normally, the lesson was of key importance since that saved more money in the end. To let the accountant walk around while he tried to trace the money was stupidity. Angelino’s ego was working full tilt, risking everyone around him so he didn’t come off as such an idiot.

If the money was worth it to Angelino, then it would be more than worth it to Hill. He was getting old and ready to retire. His reflexes were slower and he felt the pressure. The jobs were getting harder, more complicated. He longed for the old days of a .22 in the ear. Now they wanted “natural causes”, not hits. Too much work, risk and stress weren't worth the money anymore.

And with enough money in the bank, he would just get rid of Angelino. Kesle would be reeling for years from the power vacuum and nobody would ever think to worry about looking for him.

Hill wondered how many men Angelino had on the job. He would be keeping it quiet, using only one or two and Hill could guess who those would be.

They could be useful, Hill thought, as his plan started to come together.

Dale Lewery looked at the computer screen. In his hand, he had a hard copy of his original story. Munro had cut it in half and he was fuming. He got up from his desk and stalked up to his editor.

“Munro. What’s with my story? Christ, you cut me in half.”

“I had reason.”

“Pull it up. Slug McIntosh slash serial.”

“I know,” Munro said, making no move toward his computer. “You don’t have enough to go with the serial angle. I’m not going to print trash because you think you have a story. And, the gang kid? What’s that?”

“Look, this is good. Really good.”

“Words, those are all just words. I need proof. Show me proof.”

“It’s simple. The kid gets killed in the washroom.”

“Gang related,” interrupted Munro.

“I don’t think so.”

“Did I ever mention I hate when my reporters say ‘think’?”

“Ya, ya. Listen, the kid is killed and Southfield gets the call, right? It’s their division but just barely. A couple more blocks and it’s in Central.”

“So?”

“Then Yeck is killed.”

“Strangled, I might add, as opposed to beaten to death.”

“Yeck is killed on Friday, right? Central gets the squeal. But, three days later, Southfield picks up the case.”

“Central tossed it? It happens. They get more cases than they can handle so they dump everything they can justify.”

“Exactly! What’s the justification? From what I hear, there’s some connection, some link to the kid.”

“You have ‘heard’, ‘some connection’. These are not words that fill me with confidence. We are talking some middle class, drug free, bride-to-be and some lowlife gang banger kid. What’s the connection?”

“I tell you, there is a link. I don’t know how. Not yet. But they have connected the killings somehow. That’s why they tossed Southfield the case, first rights. You know how it works. You get a connected case; the original detectives get the call. But this time, whatever connected them, didn’t come out for days.”

“What about this task force?”

“I told you, the Commissioner formed a task force today to investigate a
serial killer
. McIntosh is the latest victim. I know there’s a link between Yeck and McIntosh. They got the same detectives on it.”

“Southfield got the call because it was in High Park,” Munro said. “That’s their division. No mystery there. And you know there aren’t enough detectives to go around. They all get multiple cases.”

“But they aren’t up yet. And, there’s more to it. I tell you, there is a task force.”

Your information is good?”

“Golden. And I’ll tell you, this last one was a bad one. I was there and some of those cops looked real green coming out. And, the cops cleaned it up themselves.”