The Merry Pranked (11 page)

“At that meeting, you were talking about revenge,” she said.

This caught him off guard.

“You know the Survivor’s meeting,” she said.

“I know what you’re talking about,” he said. “That was quite a segue. I take it you’ve lost someone in your life?”

“As have you?”

“My parents and sibling,” he said. “It was a long time ago.”

“Does that matter?”

“What about you?” he asked. He wanted to change the subject; he really didn’t want to tell her any more about his family and what had happened; it just didn’t feel right.

“I’ve lost someone. Enough said.”

“It’s not easy to talk about, is it?”

Gail looked at him; intently. “Life as we know it is a marriage between Heaven and Hell. It’s never black and white as most people want it to be. In my life I have experienced a lot that is good. At the same time, I have also had my miseries. I try to leave those miseries in the past. Bury them, but from time to time they resurface. It’s at those times that I find myself looking for answers or support. In other words, groups like the one I originally saw you at.”

“Have they helped you find any answers?” he asked.

“Not a single one. I’ve come to the conclusion they simply don’t exist.”

“Yet you’re still searching from time to time?”

“That’s possibly just human nature; what they often talk about in group. The desire to always seek answers even where none exist,” she said.

“I can relate,” he said.

Once again they fell into quiet, eating breakfast, the two of them lost in their own private thoughts.

“You know,” she said, breaking the silence. “Coming to terms with the past, is all in how you approach the future. An awakening of your mind. Your consciousness. Seeing life and reality for what it really is. Seeing the truth.”

“And you’ve accomplished this?” he asked.

“I have,” she said, a smile crossing her face. “And who knows, if you’re a good boy, maybe I’ll show you the way.”

Without saying anything further, Gail got up from the kitchen table and made her way out of the kitchen.

chapter
ELEVEN

the
KILLER
has to be a woman. Could it be a woman?

Detective Ray Michaels didn’t know what to think; the common denominator in both the Leonard Cabot and Anthony Whyte murders seemed to be a woman. From what he had read, that was rare. Serial killing had long been the domain of the Caucasian male, although possibly in the morally corrupt underworld, affirmative action was taking hold and giving non-Caucasian’s an opportunity to join their ranks.

Ray put his feet up on his desk. He and Detective Bryan Stork had hit the pavement hard since the discovery of Anthony’s body, performing some old-fashioned police work. Much like with Leonard, they were able to track Anthony’s movements on his last day alive. Both had last been seen in a bar - Leonard at Tabby’s and Anthony at Connor’s - picking up or being picked up by a beautiful young woman with dark hair and eyes, which really didn’t narrow anything down. Unfortunately, both bars were popular enough that new faces really didn’t stand out, although she had been noticed more at Tabby’s than Connors, assuming it was the same woman; this woman, whoever she might be was only noticed by a few regulars until she set her sights on one man, and then realizing she wasn’t going to give them the time of day, their attentions wandered, looking for their own one-night stand.

Both men also worked in finance – another common denominator - but that really didn’t help; the two men worked at different firms and had risen to different levels of success within their world. Leonard did well for himself, but not as well as Anthony who was a young hotshot on the rise, making the big bucks and expecting more. One man was middle-aged and the other a young stud. Aside from working in finance, both men couldn’t be any more different from one another. Checking out backgrounds had also proven futile. There was nothing there, like gambling debts, or something like that, that might lead to a motive for the murder; Ray also knew that even if that was the case, enforcers for bookies didn’t really get all that creative if the decision was to terminate a customer. He also knew that terminating a customer in that field meant never getting paid; they generally just liked to hurt.

Ray wanted easy answers, but didn’t expect them. Add the murder of Joe Weldon to their current case load, and so far they haven’t been too successful in closing any cases. It would help if forensics could find something for them to go on, but, again, nothing. Despite the rage apparent in Leonard and Anthony’s killing, the killer – man or woman – was careful enough to cover their tracks; they left nothing behind that could implicate them; absolutely no mistakes, which if it didn’t annoy him as much as it did, was impressive.

Both men were drugged,
thought Ray,
so it’s possible the killer could be a woman.

He didn’t know. He wasn’t even sure both men had met the same woman; dark hair with dark eyes, petite and well dressed wasn’t much of a description to go on; and certainly could apply to any brunette or raven haired beauty that frequented bars in the financial district.

Admitting he had nothing to go on wasn’t something Ray liked. He was intelligent and methodical; most murderers weren’t; so he should have the edge. Should, but he didn’t. All they really had was time; having hit a dead end in the investigation, all they could hope for was when this murderer decided to kill again, he or she would get sloppy and slip up, leaving behind something that could help them; in other words, they needed someone else to lose their life; not exactly an ideal situation.

Ray envied Bryan. His partner was good and dedicated to the job, but he also had a way of distancing himself from the job mentally. The circumstances of this case pissed him off, but that didn’t stop him from letting go of that frustration and heading home to spend time with his family. Ray envied not only the fact he could do that, but at this particular time, that he had a family to go home to.

Ray raised his drink to his lips and scanned Connor’s. It was a trendy crowd, definitely upper-upper middle-class; today’s young and affluent movers and shakers. He really didn’t fit in, but who knows, maybe if he sat there long enough a dark haired, dark eyed beauty would enter his life.

Leslie took a few seconds to aim his gun. The more he held the piece the less intimidating it became. He was trying to get familiar with it, as he aimed at the distant target and fired off six shots. He could feel the recoil, but was saved from the sound by the protective head-set the gun range required patrons to wear. He hit the button to bring the target towards him. He wasn’t much of a shot, or at least hadn’t been, but with each round he fired, he seemed to get a little bit better. Of course, for the moment he was pointing the gun at paper targets, how he would handle himself in real life circumstances, he had no idea; he hoped it wasn’t as pathetic as his run in with Harry, that still troubled him; he also had no idea if he’d ever get a chance to find out; his decision that night had been impulsive and stupid; he knew he was lucky to be alive. Would he be stupid enough to put himself in a similar situation again? He wasn’t sure.

As Leslie made his way home he considered calling Gail. She had left his life abruptly that morning; no small talk, nothing. She had simply determined it was time to go and that’s exactly what she did. Leslie liked that. He’d never met a woman so confident in her actions; in a way it was refreshing. The only problem was if he were to call her, would she think it was too soon; would she think he was needy? He did want to see her again, but didn’t want to put her off; as he had never met a woman like her before, he had no idea what to do that wouldn’t annoy her. In the long run he decided to wait until he got home to make a decision in that regard. When he got there, however, the decision was made for him.

Sitting in the lobby of his apartment building was Walter; a manila envelope in hand.

“How long have you been waiting here?” he asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Walter getting up from his seat.

“Want to come up for a drink?”

“I’m fine.” Walter looked at his watch. “Should be getting home. I...I just wanted to bring you this.”

Walter held out the manila envelope for Leslie. He looked down at it and hesitated. He knew what it contained; the information Walter had promised him. He felt strange; the envelope was in essence a Pandora’s Box. He knew once he opened it and unleashed the information, there would be no turning back; the fact Walter seemed off tonight, not his usual talkative self, only added fuel to Leslie’s anxiety. Leslie reached out and took it.

“My Father?” asked Leslie, although he all ready knew.

“What I can give you, kid. It’s probably not all, but it’s enough.”

Leslie looked into Walter’s concerned face; he wanted to tell him it was all right. His role as keeper of the Marshall family secret was now over, but didn’t. The fact this bothered Walter so much, kind of frightened him;
what the hell could possibly be in the envelope?

“I know,” said Leslie. “I’m heading down the wrong path in your estimation. It’s my Father. I want to know. I
have
to know.”

“I guess I can understand that,” said Walter. “Just don’t let it ruin you, kid. I’ve given you what I can. A lot of what your Father and Morgan did in the early days went unreported; there was stuff attributed to them, but not proven. They were cogs in the wheel, working for the big guys whom most of us were focusing on. Eventually, based on their ambition, they came on our radar. Your Dad, well, he was involved in one high profile case. You’ll see it’s all in there. He beat the rap, but it’s not pretty. I suggest you go upstairs and put that way, unseen. Work on your latest novel, or watch some TV. Whatever memories you presently have, which I know are good, cherish them, you’ll be better off.”

“I’ll consider it,” said Leslie.

“Right, kid, right.”

Walter turned and made his way to the front doors, the Doorman opening them for him.

“Walter,” said Leslie.

Walter turned to look at him.

“Thanks.”

All thoughts of calling Gail went out the door as Leslie made his way up to his condo, manila envelope in hand.

Practicing refrain, he tossed the envelope on the coffee table and made his way to the bar to pour a scotch; he’d been tempted to rip it open and start reading it right away, but decided he might just need a drink while doing so. Multiple thoughts and feelings were fighting for control of his mind. He wanted to know, but in another way he didn’t want to know. It was like asking for something you never believed you’d receive and suddenly it was just there – warts and all.

He started over for the couch but stopped; he needed something soothing on in the background. He moved to the entertainment console and put in his favorite Supremes Greatest Hits CD. It took a couple of seconds before the sounds of
Reflections
started filling the living room.

Through the mirror of my mind,

Time after time,

I see reflections of you and me...

Leslie moved to the couch and sat down, all the while staring at the envelope. He took a few sips of his Scotch and considered Walter’s words. Whatever was in that envelope could change his world. He lived with the horror of having witnessed his family being killed, but other than that, all he remembered were the good times; he remembered his father as being big and strong; around him Leslie felt safe. In knowing the truth, would those memories hold up or would they lose something?

Like the moment of truth in the alley, when he should have been pulling out his gun and dealing with one of his family’s murderers, Leslie knew he was hesitating, acting foolish. Hesitation nearly got him killed; it was a bad habit he needed to break free from. He reached for the envelope and opened it.

Walter had put some effort into the paperwork, writing him a bio of his father, whom he never knew was referred to as Dan “Mad Dog” Marshall. From what he could see, his Father had been in trouble with the law since his early teens. He had a juvenile record for drug possession, shoplifting and breaking and entering – not all at once, but over several years. It also seemed that Mad Dog Marshall was a fighter; he earned his reputation around the tough neighborhood in which he lived by taking on anyone whom he felt needed a good beating. It was at this time that he earned the name Mad Dog, according to Walter’s notes. As Walter wrote it, “Mad Dog Marshall fought with such conviction and ferocity that even the toughest guys in the neighborhood were afraid of taking him on, even if they knew they could beat him.” As Walter’s notes explained, even if you’d won the fight, if the fucker you were fighting just wouldn’t stay down, but kept getting up and coming at you, after a while, he’s going to get some good licks in, and you’re just going to want the damned fight to end. Apparently his Father fought like that. If you weren’t lucky enough to knock him out, win or lose, you were in for a rough time. It was this psychotic determination in Dan Marshall that made those around the neighborhood believe he was crazy - as mad as a dog.

Leslie took a sip of his scotch and continued reading. His Father’s reputation soon caught the attention of local mobsters, who were always on the lookout for fresh young talent, who were up for anything. According to Walter’s notes, Mad Dog Marshall started doing some work for the local ‘made’ guys, and it was during this time that he met and became friends with an equally tough and ambitious young hood – Morgan Neil. From that point on the boy’s crimes escalated in nature and even turned to enforcing; it seemed Mad Dog Marshall and Morgan Neil found breaking legs and roughing up people more enjoyable than breaking and entering.

As is the case in most crime stories, greed eventually took hold of the two youths; it would seem they quickly became tired of taking orders from the ‘made’ men and being left to fight over the scraps they let them have. As is known by many who followed the career of Morgan, he and Mad Dog Marshall (forgotten by the history books for his contribution) took on the mobsters and won. They pulled together their own crew of tough guys, a multi-racial mix of some of the city’s most dangerous and psychotic hoodlums and went to war. They apparently had the element of surprise on their side initially. The Mob never suspected anyone would dare take them on, so when ‘made’ men started showing up dead, it wasn’t hard for Morgan and Mad Dog to convince them another organized crime family was the culprit, looking to move in on their territory. If an Italian ended up dead, they blamed it on the Russians or the Asians. It didn’t seem that farfetched, and in a brilliant move the two killers sat back and watched with great amusement, as during the early days of the street wars in Lakeview, the various organized crime gangs took on and tried to wipe out each other. By the time they realized they were being set up by Morgan and Mad Dog’s crew, they’d all ready seriously depleted their ranks, and in doing so seriously hurt their business interests. The newspapers were calling for their heads, the public outraged by the constant reporting of murders on their streets, even if it was just street thugs, and the police and the F.B.I. were all over them. Many equated it with Chicago during Prohibition and the number of gangland killings that littered the streets back in the days of Al Capone.

Dan Marshall and Al Capone?

Leslie let that thought linger in his mind for a bit as he took another sip of his scotch. The man that threw the baseball with him in their backyard and taught him how to properly hit a ball, could be said to have been as ruthless and deadly as Al Capone? He just didn’t see it, although he imagined Capone’s kids, if he had any, probably didn’t see it either.