The Midtown Murderer Page 2

  “Priest will turn up the heat,” Radcliff said with a grin as he led Trent down the hallway.

  #

  It was past midnight when Priest took Trent’s statement in a long narrow room at an oval conference table. A large rectangular mirror hung from the wall, and a small window looked out over the parking lot.

  When they had finished, Priest looked vaguely convinced. “Pen a summary of the events,” he said, opening the door and walking out.

  With his pen poised over the paper Trent said, “Yes, boss.”

  Trent had finished his report and was studying a laminated street map of Midtown tacked to the wall; a dozen or so angry red Xs were scratched on it.

  A rhythmic tapping noise out in the hall grew louder, stopped, then the door opened and Radcliff walked into the room. “Finished?” he asked Trent.

  “Yes.”

  Radcliff leaned over the phone and punched an intercom button. “Tell Inspector Priest he’s done,” he said to the speaker.

  “What’s with the map?”

  “Recent gang killings in Midtown,” Radcliff said simply. “Atlanta’s Gang Intelligence Division is headquartered here; they had an operations briefing this afternoon to discuss the murders.” He ran down the year-to-date stats for Trent. There had been thirteen killings in all. He attributed the rise in violence to a newly-arrived cartel that was vying for control of the lucrative meth trade.

  “These gang-related homicides are skewing our figures,” Radcliff said. “We have to add those numbers in with the local Midtown numbers; it puts this year eighty percent above last year. You’d think the James brothers had settled into Midtown.”

  Trent spotted a black plastic notebook lying beneath a chair; the words GID CONFIDENTIAL were embossed in red on the cover. “How do you know what gang the victims were in?”

  “Arm tattoos or brands on their skin,” Radcliff said. “Maybe a criminal record.” He added, “An occasional tipster rings in.”

  “Has anyone been arrested for the killings?”

  “Not a single eyewitness to any of the murders. As long as they kill each other, who gives two shits?”

  “You sure it’s gangsters shooting gangsters?”

  “Yeah,” Radcliff said, seeming to be distracted by something. “I could’ve predicted it. We’ve busted scores of meth cookers, but eventually they get released from jail; when a cook wants back into his organization’s meth kitchen, he’s gotta whack someone.”

  “Kill them?”

  “Kill them. That’s the only way he gets his membership back.”

  “That’s rough.”

  Chapter 5

  Priest reappeared in the doorway speaking with an officer. When Radcliff turned to be included in the conversation, Trent retrieved the report and slid it between a file cabinet and the wall. Then he stood at the far end of the table.

  Priest came in with the other officer. “Palmer, this is Detective Lieutenant Butch McClure; he’s on my team. Take a seat.”

  Radcliff saluted Trent on his way out.

  Trent slid the summary to Priest then glanced at the new arrival. His head was massive like a tomcat’s; his eyes were highly alert, and his hair was cropped short. He had weight-lifter shoulders; he wore a black suit with enough silk in the fabric to give it a nice sheen and a red tie and a starched white shirt with gold monogrammed cufflinks.

  Priest and McClure sat on either side of the table and trained their eyes on Trent like video cameras. McClure wanted Trent to retell his tale of leaving the airport on his Ducati and encountering the thugs.

  McClure thrust his head forward and fingered his neatly trimmed mustache while Priest rested an elbow on the table and cupped his chin in his hand. Trent felt isolated and unnerved by their double stare, so he fixed his eyes on his folded hands and recited as many details as he could.

  McClure then used a felt-tip pen on an overhead projector to sketch the location of the construction equipment, the three vehicles, and the positions of the corpses. Priest turned to study the images on the wall and together they referenced photographs taken from various angles to crosscheck Trent’s movements. Then they talked about distance in feet and inches, limited visibility, and police procedures.

  Trent glanced at the mirror and it occurred to him that someone might be watching and listening from the other side; he hoped no one had seen him hide the report.

  McClure then studied his notebook and Trent’s eyes and asked all kinds of perceptive questions. “How many people did you see?”

  “Two in the low rider; four or five poured out of the truck.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It was dark; I didn’t get a very good look because of the rain and all.”

  “But you were close enough to kill three of them. So, did they get out of the van? Or the lowrider?”

  “The baldheaded guy got out of the lowrider; he drug Rikki out of the car window. The other two could have emerged from either vehicle, I guess. I mean they were hunting me, so I don’t know what vehicle they got out of.”

  “Good, that’s good. Now this is critical; we need to know everything there is to know about the man you knifed.”

  “You know more than I do.”

  “Was he black? Caucasian, Hispanic, what?”

  “Hispanic.”

  “He was what, dark?”

  “Yeah, dark skin; but not dark like an African American.”

  “Light brown complexioned?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hair?”

  “Long and curly.”

  “Clothes?”

  “He was wearing all black. Or dark blue.”

  “That’s good information. Now, was he carrying anything on his person?”

  “Besides a rifle? Hell if I know.”

  “A backpack? A wallet? Anything in his pockets? His jacket?”

  “No backpack. That’s for sure.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because his back was against my chest when I knifed him. No backpack.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I really have no idea. Everything happened so fast.”

  McClure looked at his notes then leaned toward Priest. Without saying anything he took Priest’s notebook and thumbed through it. Then he handed the book back to Priest and took a cold, hard look at Trent. “Are you positive?”

  “For chrissake,” Trent said, cutting him off. “I’ve told you everything.”

  McClure didn’t even blink. “OK. That’s good to know,” he said, handing Trent his business card. “Call me day or night if you recall any additional details.”

  Trent pocketed the card and said, “Who would try to kidnap Chief Clay’s daughter? And why?”

  “I’ll answer that,” said a voice with a thick southern accent. “I’m Chief Clay.”

  Chapter 6

  Trent glanced up, and Priest and McClure snapped to attention. Chief Clay strode into the room with unmistakable authority. A man followed him in and jerked the door shut.

  Clay was in his mid-sixties. He had a silver crew cut and his sun-browned face was lined; he wore a blue, double-breasted Brooks Brothers suit and had an expensive-looking gold wristwatch on his wrist.

  Clay smiled quickly and said, “Trent, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He held out his hand and Trent shook it.

  “Likewise,” said Trent.

  “This is my Deputy Chief of Police, Mike Butler,” Clay said.

  Trent extended his hand, but Butler smirked and hooked his thumbs in his belt.

  Butler was an albino. He had pale skin and pink irises and was mostly bald except for some wispy white hair pushed behind his ears. With his designer jeans and white turtleneck, Trent thought he looked like an American college professor on sabbatical.

  “At ease, gentleman,” Clay said encouragingly. “This is an informal meeting.”

  Everyone but Clay sat.

  “Trent,” he said, buffing the face of his watch with a monogrammed handkerchief
, “you observed, you acted, and God bless you for it. Rikki and my precious granddaughter are safe from those despicable thugs.”

  “I just reacted.”

  “And put yourself in harm’s way,” Clay said, putting his palms down on the table and locking eyes with Trent. “The key element here is confidentially. You are forbidden to discuss the contents of this discussion with anyone outside this room; can you go along with this condition?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “To answer the question of who would kidnap my daughter,” Clay said, “it’s personal. Two years ago I put the baldheaded cretin away for murder; he escaped from a maximum-security prison three months ago and disappeared to parts unknown. He didn’t surface until last night.”

  Trent massaged his eyes with his fingertips and said, “He won’t bother you anymore.”

  “No,” Butler said, tapping the palm of his hand with a rolled up report, “but credible intelligence says his jailbird twin brother was traveling with him last night.”

  Trent leaned back in the metal folding chair and said, “Tell me about the evil twin.”

  “Triple is a stone cold killer who always carries several automatics. Or so they say,” Priest said. “The brothers are the original members of the Atlanta Outlaws. They are a hard-core motorcycle gang; the members are all ex-cons and speed freaks to boot.”

  “They are the human equivalent of pit bulls with hyperaggressive tendencies,” Clay said.

  “In the last year,” McClure said, “the Outlaws have made a massive move into meth production.”

  Trent mulled the information over. “Is Triple his real name?”

  “No,” McClure said. “It’s a tag he picked up-not like a triple in baseball, but Triple because he murdered an entire family inside a firearms store. The owner had a nice-looking teenage daughter who got raped in the process.”

  “Real nasty shit,” McClure said.

  “A security camera tagged him for the killings,” Butler said curtly. “He’s been on the FBI’s short list ever since.”

  “Who were the other creeps I popped?”

  “The one with the chest hits was also a member of the Outlaws,” McClure said.

  “And the third?” Trent sensed a quiet alarm spread through the room.

  Clay had taken a position at the end of the room. He faced the window, speaking to his own reflection in the dark glass. “The man you knifed was an assassin for the Latin Kings; they have been carving up South Florida for decades. Murder, kidnapping, extortion. Intelligence says their goal is to become a world production platform for methamphetamine. Unfortunately, they want to outsource a large percentage of their production to Atlanta.”

  Trent broke a cold sweat. “What was his connection with the Outlaws last night?”

  “Last month,” Clay said, “The Kings sent two thugs to Atlanta to talk to the Outlaws about an alliance. They disappeared. No warnings. No threats. They just vanished. The way Jimmy Hoffa did.”

  McClure said, “The working theory is that the Kings were after payback. They got wind of the carjacking and saw an opportunity to kill the twins and muscle in on the business; holding Rikki for ransom would have been icing on the cake.”

  Clay said to Trent, “But you interrupted both parties. So these aren’t just any killings. It’s first blood in a new gang war. And you fired the first shots. Again, Trent, this discussion did not take place. OK?”

  “OK.”

  “You are released,” Clay said, opening the door and walking down the hall with Priest and McClure in toe.

  Butler stood in the doorway. “Priest told me about you,” he said, full of hostile suspicion aimed at the outsider.

  “That right?”

  Butler gave a short, snorty laugh. “I thought a PI was as low as a person could sink; until I met you.”

  Trent’s jaw tightened. “I’m happy with what I do.”

  “I’ll give you a word of advice,” he said. “Before you pull anymore maverick stunts in Atlanta you should pack up and leave town.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Your departure might be permanent. Now get the fuck out of here.”

  When Trent was sure that Butler had gone, he stuffed the GID report down his shirt, lodging it firmly between his hip and the waistband of his pants. Then he walked into the hallway where he saw Rikki Clay standing on a pair of crutches by the water fountain.

  Chapter 7

  Trent moved easily in her direction, smiling. She was bending to scrutinize her bandaged ankle. She’s beautiful, he thought. And young. “Hello,” he said.

  She smiled at him without any superiority, only kindness. “We never introduced ourselves,” she said, pushing her brown hair over her shoulder. “I’m Rikki Clay.”

  They shook hands. “Rikki, why aren’t you home resting?” he asked, prompting her to talk so that he could examine her features one by one. Curved nose, wide mouth, and blue eyes. And well-dressed, he thought. Ideal.

  “It was two A.M. when the doctor released me from the hospital,” she said quietly. “My car had been towed to the precinct, and my sketch portfolio was in the trunk. I had one of Daddy’s officers drive me over so I could pick it up.”

  “What do you sketch?”

  “I’m an Atlanta police artist; I do victim sketches for investigators to work with, composite drawings of criminals, clay busts, and such.”

  “Are you a police officer?”

  “No. I teach art at Georgia Tech. I make some extra money working for Daddy.”

  An admiring grin formed on Trent’s face. “I’d love to hear about that police work.”

  Rikki smiled. “Stop by the studio anytime; it’s on the third floor.”

  “I will. So, how’s the ankle?”

  “They X-rayed it,” she said, lifting it slightly to look at the ace bandage. “Nothing broken; I just have a deep sprain.”

  “Stay off it for a while.”

  Right then Butler came out of the bathroom. His eyebrows climbed when he saw Trent talking to Rikki. He set his hand on her shoulder and smiled. “Are you ready to go, dear?”

  “Yes, Mike. I am so, so tired.”

  “Come along then,” he said, his eyes shooting daggers at Trent.

  “Bye, Trent,” she said, leaning forward and kissing him on the cheek. “And thanks again.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Trent took the elevator down to the lobby and found Radcliff waiting for him by the night duty officer’s desk.

  “OK, macho man,” Radcliff said. “Priest told me to escort you out of the building.”

  Trent had a feeling Radcliff really wanted a minute alone with him, and that he seemed to be deciding whether or not to say something.

  They were outside when Radcliff spoke up. “What went on with Clay?”

  Trent watched his breath form clouds in front of his face. “A run-of-the-mill meeting. They questioned me about killing the thugs; then they discussed the Atlanta gang problems and how the Kings are muscling in on the Outlaw’s meth business.”

  “My money says the thwarted carjacking is connected to the Midtown murderers.”

  “Hard to say until someone is arrested.”

  Radcliff lighted a cigarette. “There you go again, thinking like a cop.”

  “What happened on the highway could have been between the Kings and the Outlaws,” Trent said thoughtfully. It had quit snowing. Gray clouds scuttled by in the night sky.

  Radcliff shrugged. “I’d say Eddie Garcia is after payback; word on the street says the Outlaws recently executed one of his top lieutenants.”

  “Who’s Garcia?”

  “A rival mob boss who runs the Apostles,” Radcliff said. “They were the Outlaw’s main competition in this town.” The street light illuminated the tips of his gold teeth, and his breath was a funk of cigarettes and alcohol.

  Radcliff explained that Garcia was incarcerated for life over in Macon, Georgia, where he managed the organization with an iron fist, del
egating resources and manpower, providing protection for his people in prison or out, ordering contract hits on rivals, or his own people if they didn’t toe the line, and generally conducting the day-to-day affairs of the business.

  Trent nodded. Then he thought of Rikki and Butler by the water fountain. His eyes hardened. “Do Rikki and Butler date?”

  “For the last couple of weeks,” he said, puffing his cigarette and keeping it close to his mouth for the next drag.

  He handed Trent a pint of Early Times. “Complements of the Midtown Blue. Now go home and grab some well deserved R-and-R.”

  “Thanks,” Trent said, turning toward the parking lot. The wind was picking snowflakes up off the ground and tossing them into the air.

  “Hey, Palmer.”

  Trent turned and Radcliff gave him the gunman’s salute. “That was a sweet piece of work you did on the highway last night,” he said with a not-quite-right smile.

  Trent wasn’t sure what he meant, but he was quite aware of Radcliff’s eyes on his back as he mounted his Ducati.

  #

  Instead of pulling into his driveway, Trent rounded the corner, turned off his headlights, and drove deep into Piedmont Park. He stopped on the far side of the outdoor tennis courts where a narrow dirt road sloped below the playing surfaces. There was dense forest on the other side of the road and he was positive he was out of sight. He retrieved the bloodied purse from under the bike’s seat and shined his pencil flash inside. Pocketing a wad of wet cash, he left everything else then drove to the park entrance and dumped the purse into a trash bin.

  Chapter 8

  It was three in the morning when Trent stepped into his office. He lived on Monroe Avenue, a two-lane black ribbon of pavement, and across the street, an ornate iron gate framed by a pair of stone columns marked the entrance to Piedmont Park.

  Trent was new to the city and had found a bargain on an office near the downtown. He had a two-room suite in a run-down three-story office building. His office was on the first floor, in line with Thu Do Imports, Inc., and McIntosh, C.P.A. Six-inch gold letters gave him the edge over the others: Peoplefinders.com.

  Rather than have a separate apartment, he struck a deal with the building manager to live in the second room of the two-room office. The outer room had been designed as a reception room which he had turned into his office. The room behind it was a small windowed office where he set up his living space.