Deadly Force (28 page)

 

By the time Murdock and his men had commandeered a car and transported ex-President Kolda back to the Army base, the resistance was over. The remaining guards in the Government Building had come out with their weapons held over their heads. The Loyalist troops occupied the Government Building and brought Mojombo to the President's office, and there he waited for the electrical power to come on. The moment it came on, he gave a talk to the country on TV and radio.

At the Army base, Lam set up the SATCOM and Murdock made his report directly to the State Department in Washington. When he was through, he looked up to find that Jaybird had appropriated a jeep, and they piled in and headed for the ten-mile dock and their motorcycles.

Back in the tent in Tinglat, Murdock made a complete report to Stroh and asked him to get orders for the SEALs. Stroh repeated to his boss on the SATCOM what Murdock
had told him, and ten minutes later the SEALs had their marching orders.

“Back to the carrier at first light in the morning,” Stroh said. “From there you will be checked out by the medics, then flown to the airport at Dakar in Senegal, where a Navy Gulfstream II will meet you for transport back to San Diego.”

“Oh, yeah,” Murdock said, and headed to his bunk for a few hours of sleep. Next stop, the Quarterdeck in Coronado.

Murdock checked his desk calendar. Third Platoon, SEAL Team Seven, had been home for a week. The walking wounded had been checked over at Balboa Navy Hospital in San Diego's Balboa Park, and returned to duty. Frank Victor was the only worry. His neck wound was not serious, but the doctors were worried about his chest. The bullet had fragmented, and they still weren't sure they had it all out. Victor would be out of the platoon for at least two months, probably three.

Murdock put in a call for a temporary replacement in case they were yanked out for a mission before Victor was duty-ready. Master Chief MacKenzie had sent over three candidates. The man would go into JG Gardner's squad. He didn't like any of the three, and three more came the next day. He picked one, a wiry little Vietnamese who was tough as old leather, could swim like a fish, and had been on top of the rung through his tadpole training. He'd been a SEAL for two years and both Murdock and Gardner liked him. His infectious grin played a big part. His name was a small problem, Vinh Lai. It was pronounced Vin Lie. They'd get used to it.

Murdock stretched and looked at the training schedule. JG Gardner had pushed the men once they came back from their three-day leaves. They needed it. The days in Africa with little action had taken a toll. Now they started every day at 0730 with the three ups: pull-ups, push-ups, and sit-ups. They had started with twenty-five of each and now
were up to sixty-five. They were on schedule to go up five more every day.

The phone rang, and Murdock picked it up. “Third Platoon, SEAL Team Seven. Murdock.”

“Yes, I figured it would be you.” It was the master chief on the Quarterdeck. “I've had two requests from the San Diego Police to talk to Senior Chief Sadler. It's about a murder case that he was somewhat involved in before you went to Africa.”

“A murder case?”

“He was a witness to what the police say happened before the death. They want to talk to him again. It was at that jazz club where he plays his horn.”

“The cops want to see him today?”

“As soon as possible. They suggest that he come down to the Central Police Station and ask for Detective Petroff. Tell him to call first and set up a time.”

“Consider it done, Master Chief. Thanks.”

Murdock hung up and called on the Motorola for the senior chief to come into the office.

 

Two hours later, Senior Chief Sadler parked on 14th Street, fed two quarters into the meter, and walked over to the Central Police Station. At the big desk he asked for Detective Petroff and gave his name. A woman in uniform told him the detective would be right down, and pointed to some chairs in the small lobby.

Sadler had started to flip through the San Diego
Union-Tribune
when Petroff loomed over him.

“Ah, yes, the globe-hopping senior chief. How is the trumpet sounding these days?”

“Not the best when I don't practice every day. A trumpet player can lose his lip in a rush. Have you found out if the girl died of an accidental OD?”

“Not yet. We were hoping that you could help us find your buddy Shortchops Jackson.”

“By now you know much more about him than I do. I just did the gigs with him once a week. I've never been to his apartment, if he has one, or his house. I don't know where he hangs out when he isn't with us. I know little
more about him than some of his history and the great music he's played. He has out six different albums, did you realize that?”

The tall, slender detective dropped into a chair next to Sadler and stared at him from his almost black eyes. “Did you know that you're considered a suspect in the OD murder of Joisette Brown? Why? As I told you before on the phone, you were named in her will with an inheritance of fifty thousand dollars. I know a lot of men who would do a lot of things to get their hands on fifty big ones.”

“I'm not one of them. I never knew anything about that until that day you called. It's not a motive for me.”

“You did leave the rehearsal room while Joisette was still alive.”

“When?”

“We figured you went to the bathroom. Did you?”

“Yes, I usually do. I told you that. My prostate isn't all that it should be.”

“Did anyone see you there?”

“Of course, two cooks, three waitresses, and the cocktail girl with the big boobs.”

Petroff stood and walked around his chair. “Snide remarks won't help the situation. I could put you under arrest.”

“And I would sue you for twenty million dollars. Now if you don't have anything of importance to ask me, I am still on duty with a lot of work to get done.”

“Afraid I'm not quite finished yet. Do you know the name of the hooker who Joisette was with that night?”

“No. I never saw her that night or before or after that night.”

Petroff rubbed his chin. “A definitive answer.”

“Have you talked to her about what Joisette did in that alley? Did she see Joisette take a hit with a needle?”

“That's police business. I can tell you we have talked to her. She wasn't what you would call a solid witness. She'd been on drugs that night as well.”

“Didn't you pick up any drug paraphernalia at the scene?”

“Of course.”

“Did any of it have the dead girl's prints on it?”

“I can't tell you that.”

“In other words what you found didn't have her prints, or you would have closed this case out a week ago. Sorry, I wasn't out at the death scene, I didn't see Joisette and Shortchops shooting up in the hall or outside. If Shortchops knew who Joisette was, I'm almost positive that he wouldn't provide her with any drugs.”

“She lived with him for almost six months on and off.”

“So you've got a simple OD self-inflicted.”

“Not without that syringe.”

“Wish I could help you. Anything else?”

The cop shook his head. “Thanks for stopping by. If you think of anything that might clear Shortchops, give me a call.” He held out a white card.

 

Five minutes later, Senior chief Sadler sat in his car thinking about it. Did he know where Shortchops lived? He did take him home one night. It was raining and the man didn't have a car. Yeah. Where did they go? Like he had told the cop, he didn't know where Shortchops lived. But could he piece it together now? Exactly where had Shortchops directed him? Could he find the place again?”

Not the best part of town. Where? Grant Hill. Yeah, right beside Logan Heights. They had driven straight out Broadway to 28th Street. Turned right, but how far?

He gunned the engine, pulled out of the parking spot, and found Broadway and turned east. It took him a few minutes to get to 28th. He turned right and watched the houses and small apartments. Mostly large houses turned into four or five units. But he had driven here six months ago, just after Shortchops had joined them. He could have moved two or three times since then. Or maybe moved back. Sadler drove under Freeway 94 on 28th and kept watching.

At K Street he hung a right and slowed. Yes, it felt familiar. But was it right? The first cross street was Langley. It only went to the right. Halfway up he stopped again. The house he was hunting had been purple and green. He had seen the unusual paint job even in the rain at night. They
had laughed about it. Shortchops had said the owner was drunk when he bought the paint, then couldn't afford to buy any more. It had been mixed to order so he couldn't take it back. He used it.

Sadler stopped in the street in front of a house painted purple with green trim. Four units. He remembered he had waited until Shortchops dashed through the rain and went in a door on the left. Hell, why not? The area was predominately black. He felt out of place as he passed four black kids playing on the sidewalk and moved up the concrete to the door, then around to the left to the next entrance. He knocked.

A black woman about forty-five opened the door a foot. She scowled. “What you'all want?”

“Looking for a friend. Shortchops Jackson used to live here.” She started to close the door, but his big Navy shoe wedged in and stopped it.

“Hey, I'm not the cops, I play jazz with the man every week. I want to help him.”

The woman frowned. “You got a name?” He told her. She turned and shouted something, then waited. After what seemed to Sadler to be five minutes, she slowly eased away from the door. It swung open, and Sadler stared at the man he had known as Shortchops Jackson. He looked twenty years older, ancient. He had a week's growth of beard showing white on his black skin. His cheeks had sunk in and his eyes seemed to bulge.

“Be damned, the horn.” He stepped back and waved for Sadler to come in. Shortchops grabbed a chair at once and sat down. His knees gave way and he barely made it.

“What'n hell you doing here?” he asked.

“Looking for you. Hey, the cops are hunting you. They need some answers.”

“Can't. They'll throw me in jail and I'll never get out.”

“Not if you had nothing to do with Joisette's OD.”

Shortchops closed his eyes and tears seeped out around his lids and wound across wrinkles down his cheeks.

“Oh, yeah, my baby, my wonderful little adopted daughter. Tried to keep her off that shit. Did for a while. She went back. Said she was gonna be a porn queen soon as
she got a wardrobe and met the right producer. She even went to Hollywood twice. Got stoned and called me.”

“Tell me what happened that night.”

“Yeah.” He sighed, and for a minute Sadler thought he had gone to sleep or died. He snorted and sat up straighter. “That night. Yeah. Showed her off to you guys, then we went back outside. She gave me a small hit, a quickie, so I could still play, then she wanted one herself. I saw her fill the damn syringe. Way too much. Way too much. I tried to stop her, but I was too late. Then she smiled and told me how great she felt, and almost at once she fell down. I found the syringe and picked it up with my handkerchief and put it in my pocket. The cops would never believe me.”

He opened his eyes and stared at Sadler. “I ain't exactly been a church choirboy. Got me a record. Done good lately. Just too much shit for my own body. Got me a woman helps me. Gonna get some money if I ever kick this damn murder rap.”

“Maybe I can help.”

“Nobody can help but Joisette or that hooker, Nancy. Who was so stoned she didn't even know if it was day or night.”

“You still have that syringe wrapped in your handkerchief.”

“Oh, yeah. Didn't want the cops to find it.”

“You have it now, here?”

Shortchops frowned. “Have it?”

“Do you still have the syringe that Joisette used to shoot up that night she died?”

“Oh, hell, yes. In my drawer.” He motioned to the woman, who had hovered in the background holding an iron frying pan. Sadler figured she wasn't doing the dishes.

“Get the handkerchief and the syringe,” Shortchops said, sounding more straight than he had all night. The woman frowned, looked at Sadler.

“Sure you ain't a cop?”

“I'm in the Navy, and I play horn with Shortchops.”

She nodded after staring hard at him, then went into another room. She came back a few moments later holding a white handkerchief. She started to hand it to Shortchops,
but his hands shook so much she gave it to Sadler. He pushed back the edges of the white cloth to see the syringe. Carefully he folded the cloth over it again.

“Shortchops. I'm going to take this downtown to the police. If it has Joisette's fingerprints on it, you'll be in the clear. It will be a simple self-inflicted OD.”

“No,” he said. “No cops.”

The woman walked in front of him and slapped him gently on the cheek. He looked up in surprise.

“Yes. The police. This man can help. You can stop hiding. You can get your money and we can live in a respectable house.”

His eyes went wide, his head sagged, and the woman caught him before he fell off the chair. Sadler helped her carry him to the sofa and stretch him out.

“No more heroin for Shortchops,” he told her. “This should clear him. You get him dried out and we'll be playing jazz again in two weeks.”

Sadler left the room and hurried down to his car. He had put the handkerchief in his civilian jacket pocket and reached for his keys. Three teenage boys sat on the hood of his car. He stopped and stared at them. Two stood and walked toward him.

“Your car, mister?” the one just over six feet asked.

“Yes.”

“You did shit by not paying us to protect it. Man, this is our turf. Don't nobody park here without protection.” They moved up within three feet of him.

The third boy came up beside the other two. “I have protection,” Sadler said. “It's right over there, that unmarked police car.” Two of the boys turned to look. He kicked viciously out with his right foot at the boy in the middle who didn't look away. He felt his hard shoe skid off the youth's thigh and land hard into his crotch, smashing penis and testicles upward against his pelvic bones and bringing a wail of agony. The kid slumped to the ground and rolled into a ball.

One of the kids looked back quickly. Sadler slammed a hard right fist into the boy's jaw, and at the same time spun and caught the third boy with a back-kick in the kidney
putting him on the ground. The only one standing backed up and lifted his fists, then thought better of it and turned and ran.

“See, I told you guys I had all the protection I need.” He walked around them, stepped into his car, and drove away.

 

Detective Petroff was not in the Central Station when Sadler arrived. The dispatcher put in a call to him, and a half hour later he came in the door and spotted Sadler.

“So, you remembered something?”

Sadler told him the story that Shortchops had told him. The detective held out his hand. “Give,” he said.