Aftermath (9 page)

“OK.  You got it,” Jerry said.  “But what about Mendez?”

“Hope that he listened to what we said to him.  If he harms them, then he dies.  And so do you, Brandon.”

Logan got up and walked around the desk.  Took the short-barreled .38 from the drawer and slipped it in his pocket.  Grasped hold of Jerry’s right arm and wrenched it back, straight out at an angle, so that Jerry’s head was forced down onto the desktop.  He then drove his right forearm into the elbow joint and broke it.  Even as Jerry’s mouth opened to form a scream, Logan’s left hand clamped over it to stifle the sound.

Thirty seconds later, Logan removed his hand.  Jerry was shaking, tears ran down both his cheeks, and he was grinding his teeth against the all-consuming pain.

Logan took Jerry’s cell phone and wallet from him.  He was accruing quite a collection.

“Remember, Brandon,” he said.  “I can always find whichever stone you crawl under.  If I have to come back to Charleston, you’re history.  I don’t have an address, or a phone of my own, or usually stay in one place for more than twenty-four hours.  I’m untraceable.  I’ll just check in with Rita and Sharon on a regular basis to make sure that they’re healthy.  If they so much as catch a cold, I’m going to blame you for it.”

Logan walked to the door of the office, opened it and gave Jerry Brandon a last, hard stare, before ambling out past Marcie into the sunlight.

His own throwaway phone only had two numbers in its memory; those of the other two phones that Rita and Sharon had.  Logan tried both numbers.  No answer.

Back behind the wheel of the Discovery, he left town in a hurry, heading northeast on I-79, more uptight than an over wound watch spring.  He was feeling culpability for what may have happened to the two women whose safety he had assumed responsibility for.  Knew with hindsight that he should have stayed with them.  Maybe he was getting rusty.  He’d always thought situations through from every angle, to cover every possible eventuality, not making any assumptions.  Above all he had made certain that he was where he needed to be to deal with danger when it presented itself.

He had to stop for gas.  Bought a coffee to go in a foam cup with a lid and hit the road again, driving ten miles an hour over the speed limit with the flow of the main outside lane traffic.

After the call, Sal thought it over as he put the phone back in his pocket.  What the hell!  He took careful aim at the younger woman on the floor.  He wasn’t going to be dictated to by some jerk who’d threatened him.  As for the payoff, if Brandon was still alive, then he would collect it.

Three
gleaming white patrol cars slid to a stop at the curb outside the house where Sammy Lester’s apartment was situated.  The anonymous caller’s mention of a firearm and drugs had generated a quick response from the Charleston Police Department.

Officer Clint Horton stood to the right of the door.  He noted the splintered wood around the lock, and could see that the door was closed but not locked.  He nodded to Officer Louis Catlin who was standing on the landing at the other side of the damaged frame.

Clint didn’t announce himself, just used his foot to push the door open and moved inside, down in a crouch as he went left and searched for a target; his gun held two handed, the barrel and his eyes tracking in conjunction.

Between them the officers cleared the rooms in seconds.  One of them found the gun and bag of coke on the kitchen counter.  The others gathered in the bedroom where Sammy was still lying on the carpet all trussed up and feeling sorry for himself.  He was in a lot of pain, his vision was blurred, and he’d thrown up.

Clint radioed for EMS to attend, and then asked Sammy who he was and what had gone down.

“A guy broke in and attacked and robbed me,” Sammy said.  “He had a gun.  Took my wallet and phone and then knocked me out.  I woke up a few minutes ago.  Then you turned up.”

Clint and Louis searched Sammy’s pockets, and then unwound the tape that held him almost doubled up by his wrists and ankles.

Due to the discovery of the Glock pistol and drugs, Sammy was in more trouble than he realized.  After being checked over and treated at a medical centre on Morris Street, he was released into police custody and taken to the Charleston Police Department headquarters on Virginia Street East.

Sammy was left alone in an interview room for an hour to think things over.  A cop brought him coffee in a paper cup, but wouldn’t talk to him or answer any questions.  Sammy sipped the coffee and ran a few stories through his mind.  He needed to come up with a plausible story, because he was sure that the cops would be in possession of the pistol that he’d shot Roy and Carmen with.

Detective Charlie Garfield was big, black as tar, and was the kind of cop that usually put two and two together and came up with four.  This was turning into a busy day; just how he liked them.  A couple had been found dead from gunshot wounds in a downtown apartment.  And before the blood had had time to dry, a guy with a long rap sheet had been brought in for questioning.  He had been beaten up a little and left tied up in his apartment.  That in itself didn’t ring any bells, but a gun had been found, and three rounds were missing, which was the exact number used on the couple.  Add to that the fact that the deceased guy was Roy Naylor, an ex-con, and that the gun had been found in the apartment of Sammy Lester, another lowlife, and a coincidence reared its ugly head.

Charlie didn’t like coincidences.  He knew that they occurred, but had long since decided that it was best to be suspicious of them.  He saw the link and had a good feeling about it.  There was a connection, and he would find it.

Sammy wanted to snort a couple of lines then go to bed for twenty-four hours.  He was tired and hurting.

Charlie entered the interview room and took a seat across the desk from Sammy Lester.  The young man had a large, bruised lump in the middle of his forehead, and looked as sorry for himself as a three-legged dog with no bone.

“This interview is going to be videoed,” Charlie said to Sammy, nodding toward the camera bracketed to the wall, just below the ceiling and angled to show the pertinent area of the room.  “So for the record I’ll be stating the time, date and place, and who is present, and reading you your rights.  OK?”

Sammy shrugged.  He’d wait and see what was on the cop’s mind before asking for a lawyer and clamming up.

Charlie started the interview and asked Sammy for his name and address to get the ball rolling.

“You know my name and address,” Sammy said.  “It’ll be in the file you’re holding.”

“For the record.”

“I don’t think so,” Sammy said.  “I’m the victim here.  You’re acting as if I’ve done something wrong.”

“We found a Glock 17 and a bag of coke on your kitchen counter, Sammy.”

“So?”

“So it’s your apartment.  Follows that it’s your property.”

“No way,” Sammy said.  “It was planted.  You think I’d leave shit like that out in plain sight.”

“Who’d you reckon would plant it?”

“Must’ve been the guy that robbed me.”

Charlie grinned.  It made him look a lot younger than his fifty-two years.  “Let’s get this right, Sammy; a thief breaks into your apartment, takes your phone and wallet, then leaves a semiautomatic pistol and some nose candy behind.  Does that make any sense to you?”

“I was knocked unconscious.  I have no idea what happened.  But the gun and coke are
not
mine.”

“So we won’t find your prints on them?”

“If you do, then I’ve been set up.”

“I wonder if a jury would buy that, Sammy.  I’ve got a feeling you’re on thin ice here.  There were three rounds missing from the Glock’s mag.  That’s how many were used at a double homicide this morning.  Wouldn’t it be a bitch if it turns out to be the same gun?”

“I’ve got nothing more to say to you, cop.  I want my lawyer.”

“Fine,” Charlie said.  “I don’t think I need anything else from you.  One of the victims was an old buddy of yours, Roy Naylor.  So with the forensic I know we’ll get, and your link, you’re toast, Sammy.”

“Like I told you, this is a set-up,” Sammy said.  “You need to be talking to the piece of shit that broke my door down, assaulted me, and planted this stuff.”

“OK.  Give me a description of him,” Charlie said.

Sammy thought it over.  Maybe the stranger who’d paid him a visit was his only way out of this.  “He was at least a couple of inches taller than you,” he said.  “All muscle, with short, muddy hair and gray eyes.”

“And?”

“And what?  He didn’t introduce himself.  I’d never seen him before in my life.”

“I need more than a vague description of some big guy with gray eyes, Sammy,” Charlie said.  “If you’re on the level, then think who’d send him to work you over and leave evidence that could get you the needle.”

Sammy closed his eyes – that were still troubling him from the hot coffee – and wondered how best to get out of the bind he was in.  “You just mentioned his name,” he said, opening his eyes and meeting Charlie’s gaze.  “Roy Naylor wanted me to be part of a crew.  Said that he and another guy were being paid to put the frighteners on a family.  I said I was going straight and wasn’t interested.  Thing is, Naylor gave me a few details before I said no.  Maybe someone thought I’d talk.”

“Someone?”

“Whoever Naylor was working for.”

Charlie shook his head, stood up and headed for the door.  Paused and turned round.  “Back when I was a rookie I was given good advice from an old street cop,” he said to Sammy.  “He told me that if something looked, smelled and tasted like bullshit, then it probably was bullshit.  You’re digging your own grave, Sammy.  I’m done with you.”

The door was closing behind Charlie when Sammy called him back.

“Don’t waste any more of my time, Sammy,” Charlie said.  “Give up what you know and I’ll work on it.  Lie to me and I’ll wrap you up like a Christmas gift for the DA.”

“I work for Jerry Brandon,” Sammy said.  “He had a beef with his accountant; a guy by the name of Richard Jennings.  Jerry asked me if I knew anyone who’d lean on him.  I said I did.  Next thing I know the accountant is killed in a hit and run, and Naylor told me that Brandon wanted the wife and daughter out of the way.”

“How does that involve the guy that roughed you up?” Charlie asked.

“Roy told me that he appeared from nowhere and stepped in to save the accountant’s wife.  He hurt Roy bad.”

“What’s his name?”

“He said it was Johnson.”

“So Johnson comes to Charleston to kill Naylor, right?”

“I suppose.”

“Which doesn’t figure.  If he’d wanted to kill him he would have done it first time round.”

Sammy hiked his shoulders and winced as the movement made his head throb.  “Maybe he thought it over and decided that Roy and Sal were still a threat.”

“You just said Roy and Sal,” Charlie said.  “Who’s Sal?”

“He’s Roy’s pal, Sal Mendez.  That’s all I’ve got, his name.  I never met the guy.”

“Where is he?”

“No idea.  He could still be after the women.  Ask Brandon.”

Charlie grinned.  “Oh I will, Sammy, you can count on that.”

Everything seemed to slow down as the hitman put his cell phone back in his pocket and pointed his gun at Sharon.  Rita thumbed off the safety of the pistol, simultaneously withdrawing it from under the cushion, pointing it at the man and pulling the trigger.

Sal saw the movement out of the corner of his eye and swung the gun forty-five degrees to the right and took a snap shot at Rita, a split second before a slug whined past his left arm, taking a piece of material from his jacket sleeve with it.

Rita kept firing as the cushion that had concealed the gun was blown apart next to her.

Sal dropped to the floor as the second bullet from Rita’s gun drilled into the inside of his left thigh.  A third bullet hit him in his right side, and before the pain had time to paralyze him he rolled towards the door, out of Rita’s line of sight, to loose off a couple of shots at the back of the settee as he exited the cabin, dragged himself upright and limped along its length and into the bushes.

Rita watched as a starburst of cloth and foam rubber erupted six inches to her left, and another appeared only inches away from it.  She threw herself forward onto the rug next to Sharon and twisted round, to rise up and sit facing the open door, ready to fire again if the hitman reappeared.

After a long minute, Sharon stammered, “H...has he g…gone, Mum?”

“I think so, honey,” Rita said.  “Are you OK?”

“Yes, are you?”

Rita nodded, but could not take her eyes away from the doorway.  Through it, all she could see was the sparkling lake and the wooded mountains beyond.  Strange how such explosive violence could take place in such beautiful and normally tranquil surroundings.

Sharon got up, walked over to the door and closed and locked it.  There were big teardrop-shaped drops of blood on the floor.

“You hit him, Mum,” Sharon said, turning, rushing to Rita and helping her to her feet, before hugging her and putting her head on her shoulder.

Rita rubbed Sharon’s back, then pulled away and went over to the table to pick up one of the untraceable phones.  She dialed Logan’s number and prayed to God that he would answer.

He did.

“Yeah?” Logan said.

“The man you were talking to on the phone just tried to kill us,” Rita said.