The Traffickers boh-9, page 17
part #9 of Badge of Honor Series
Even if apparently you don’t give a damn.
Matt looked at James Benjamin.
And that’s not lost on her father…
No wonder Skipper can be such a prick.
Clearly, the nut didn’t fall far from the fucking tree.
“That’s right, Mr. Olde,” Payne replied.
“You still playing cop?” Olde said, but didn’t wait for a response before looking at James Benjamin. “Listen, Jim, I’m prepared to let bygones be bygones, but this time, this meth-”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Benjamin snapped.
Payne could see the veins in Benjamin’s temples pulsing.
Olde arrogantly went on: “Well, clearly this girl of yours has an established long pattern of substance abuse-”
“Why, you son… of… a… bitch!” James Benjamin shouted, furiously drawing out his declaration of sonofabitch.
What happened next transpired so quickly that Payne did not have time to even try to stop it.
Benjamin balled his right fist and swung. His punch hit Olde square in the left cheek, causing Olde to stagger back two steps. But remarkably Olde quickly recovered, and practically launched his lanky body at Benjamin, knocking them both to the floor.
“Stop it, you two!” Andrea Benjamin demanded.
The blue shirt sitting by the swinging doors dropped his paperback book. He reached up to his right epaulet, where the microphone of his radio was pinned.
He keyed the mic, and barked, “Kowenski! Get your ass down here!”
Then he jumped out of the chair and moved toward the brawl to break it up.
As Payne also moved that way, he saw a gurney come around the corner and into the corridor. It was being pushed by an orderly in blue scrubs.
TWO
1344 W. Susquehanna Avenue, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 10:40 A.M.
Chad Nesbitt weaved his cobalt-blue BMW M3 coupe through the slower traffic headed down Broad Street. He idly wondered if he was about to walk into some kind of setup, but the anguished voice on the phone sounded painfully genuine.
It had been that of a man. He spoke reasonably good English, but it was clearly with a Spanish accent. And when he said he was trying to find “Meester Skeeper,” Nesbitt knew that that was just too coincidental. He had to grant the man’s request for a meeting.
“How did you get my number?” Nesbitt had asked.
“From Meester Skeeper.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He give me his old cell phone. One day, I make mistake when I push a button. I thought the phone call Meester Skeeper. But it had all Meester Skeeper’s numbers, and it call you, your voice mail. I hang up. When I tell Meester Skeeper this, he say it is no problem. That you are his best friend. That you are partner in his business.”
“But why are you calling me now?”
“Because there is a problem with the business. Very bad. And I cannot reach him. He does not answer his cell phone.”
“What sort of bad problem?”
There had been a long silence before the man spoke. “I cannot say.”
“You cannot tell me? Or cannot tell me on the phone.”
“On the phone. Is better that I tell Meester Skeeper in person.”
And there had been a long silence before Nesbitt spoke. “That won’t be possible for some time. He’s badly hurt, and in the hospital.”
Nesbitt heard the man mutter, “Madre de Dios!” Then he said, “Is Meester Skeeper going to be okay?”
Nesbitt did not know how to answer at first, then said, “We don’t know. I can tell you that it will be some time before he’s able to speak with you.”
The man then said, “Then, please, I must speak with you. His best amigo and partner in business.”
Six blocks after crossing Lehigh Avenue-which almost didn’t happen because he nearly got sideswiped by a damn rusty white Plymouth minivan that ran the red and then flew down Lehigh-Nesbitt approached the intersection of Dauphin and Broad. This was the outer edge of the neighborhood where Temple University served as somewhat of an anchor.
The light at Dauphin turned red. As he waited for it, he looked down the street. On the left he saw a series of retail chains-a McDonald’s fast-food restaurant, a Rite-Price pharmacy-and some mom-and-pop shops.
The man on the phone had said the laundromat was there, but he could not make it out.
And that’s another coincidence.
A laundromat. And Skipper.
Who is this guy?
He absolutely would not tell me what he wanted.
Except that it was “mucho important.”
The traffic light cycled. He crossed Dauphin and started scanning for the laundromat. At the next corner, which was Susquehanna, he saw a convenience store’s signage-TEMPLE GAS and GO. Next door to that, sharing a wall, was a brick-faced building that looked as if it recently had been renovated.
The brick was clean and bright, as if freshly sandblasted. There was a glistening glass door set in shiny aluminum framing. On either side of the new door were six large plate-glass windows, also similarly framed in aluminum, that were covered from the inside with what looked like brown wrapping paper.
As Nesbitt slowed the car, he read the announcement that was painted on the paper in bright festive colors: COMING SOON! ANOTHER NEW SUDSIE’S!
Under that, with lots of cartoonish foam overflowing from an oversize beer mug and a washing machine, was Sudsie’s’ marketing slogan: GET SLOSHED WITH US!
Nesbitt groaned audibly.
What were you thinking, Skipper?
About that and everything else?
He then pulled the M3 coupe into an empty parking spot at the curb around the corner.
When Chad Nesbitt got to the new front door of Sudsie’s, he saw that someone had posted a sign that read CLOSED-PLEASE COME AGAIN and an emergency contact telephone number. He didn’t recognize the number.
He hammered the door with a balled fist, but there was no answer.
He then pulled out his phone from the left front pocket of his pants. He thumbed keys to reach the RECENT CALLS menu, then highlighted the first call on the list. He hit the CALL key.
When the man answered, he said, “This is Chad Nesbitt. You asked to see me? I’m at the door.”
There was silence on the phone for a moment. Then Nesbitt saw the brown paper on the glass of the door pull back just enough for someone to peer out. There then came the sound of the front door being unlocked.
Nesbitt hit the END key, put the phone back in his pocket, and scanned the area. About all he saw were students coming from the Southeast Philadelphia Transportation Authority’s Susquehanna-Dauphin Metro stop. Some of them crossed the street, headed for McDonald’s before class.
The door, its hinges squeaking, opened not quite halfway.
Nesbitt saw standing there a five-foot-two Hispanic male. He was heavyset, with an enormously wide, flat nose. He looked to be maybe thirty.
“Come, come!” the man anxiously told Nesbitt, waving him in.
Nesbitt did. The man looked nervously up and down the sidewalk before closing and locking the door.
Chad Nesbitt looked around the brightly lit, newly renovated laundromat. It was obvious to him that this was Skipper Olde’s work, that this was one of the locations they had acquired in the package deal. There were lines of brand-new commercial-quality washers and dryers in the walls, and positioned neatly against the back of the room at a long tan linoleum counter were waist-high thick-wire baskets on heavy-duty casters.
The man walked up to him and held out his hand.
“Senor Nesbitt, mucho gusto. I am Paco Esteban.”
“Paco,” Nesbitt said shaking his hand, “you want to tell me now what the hell’s going on here?”
“Here?”
Nesbitt looked around the room. “Okay. Start with that. Why are we here?”
El Nariz looked him in the eyes, then nodded.
“Si. I have agreement with Meester Skeeper,” he began, “to use his machines for my laundry service…”
“… And as the evil man was leaving, he shot holes,” Paco Esteban said, as he finished his five-minute explanation. “And so everyone, all of my crew, they run for their lives. I come back here to clean up the place. I could not leave it the way it was.”
“This evil man shot holes?” Nesbitt repeated.
“Si. Come. I show you.”
El Nariz led Nesbitt to the rear room. He pointed to the arch that was the bullet-riddled masonry wall.
“My God!” Nesbitt exclaimed.
“Si.”
“Why did he do that? I mean, to scare you?”
El Nariz nodded. “ Muy scary.”
“And you have a head in your freezer?”
“Si.”
Chad Nesbitt could not believe what he was seeing and hearing.
The gunfire was bad enough-gunfire in a business he partly owned.
But the barbarism?
Jesus!
That’s the kind of thing you hear about those animals committing in faraway backward countries!
He pulled out his cellular phone and hit the speed-dial number of Matt Payne. The phone beeped in his ear, and when he looked at the screen, he saw: NO SERVICE
Then he saw that the signal bars were low.
“Shit!”
Nesbitt typed out a text message to Matt and sent it: CALL ME WHEN YOU GET THIS… MORE TROUBLE
“Paco,” Chad Nesbitt said anxiously, “you must not tell anyone about this! Understand? Not until I figure out what to do.”
He nodded, and said, “S?. Muchas gracias.”
THREE
Temple Burn Unit Temple University Hospital North Broad and West Tioga Streets, Philadelphia Wednesday, September 9, 10:43 A.M.
Police Officer Stephanie Kowenski came pounding down the third-floor corridor, her hands on either side of her ample hips. One held her police radio and the other her Glock pistol, both in their respective holsters, in an attempt to keep them from banging against her as she ran.
She turned the corner. Just as she glimpsed what looked like a scuffle at the southeast end of the corridor, she ran smack into a gurney that was being pushed up the corridor. When she hit it, both she and the gurney went flying.
The Hispanic orderly who had been pushing the gurney got knocked on his ass.
After a second, Police Officer Stephanie Kowenski regained her footing. Ignoring the gurney, and not saying a word to the Hispanic orderly, she rushed toward the two men scuffling. She recognized now that one was Joseph Olde.
The orderly righted the gurney, then calmly continued pushing it up the corridor. He got to the corner and made the turn.
About the time that Police Officer Stephanie Kowenski reached the end of the corridor and the altercation, the other uniform and a young male civilian had managed to pull apart Olde and the other older man, who were on the ground. The young male civilian now stood between them as they started to regain their composure and get up.
“That, Benjamin,” Joseph Olde said indignantly as he attempted to straighten his necktie, “was completely uncalled-”
From far down the corridor, there suddenly came the sound of a rapid series of shots. At least ten of them.
“What the hell?” Payne said as he automatically pulled out his black Officer’s Model Colt.45.
“You can’t use that in here!” Dr. Law said.
Payne looked at her incredulously. “What would you have me use, Doc, a fucking tongue depressor?”
“Drop the gun!” Police Officer Stephanie Kowenski ordered as she reached for her Glock. She did not yet have it drawn from her holster.
Payne blurted, “Three-six-nine!” using the old Philadelphia Police Radio code for police officer. He pulled back his shirt to show his badge on his belt.
Police Officer Stephanie Kowenski, finally with her weapon out, looked at the male blue shirt, who nodded. He already had his gun drawn. And he had his left hand on the police radio microphone on his shoulder, his head cocked toward it, calling for backup-“Assist officer! Shots fired! Temple Burn Unit. Third floor. Broad and Tioga.” Then he repeated it.
“You four!” Payne ordered, herding Dr. Law, the Benjamins, and Jason Olde toward the swing doors. “In there and get down. Bolt the doors if you can!”
He pointed to the blue shirts. “You two cover this door! No one gets in after the Benjamin girl or anyone else!”
Then Payne ran up the corridor, stopped at the corner, and carefully checked down that corridor. All he saw was the empty gurney. It was standing by the stairwell exit door.
He turned the corner and ran in a crouch, holding his pistol up and ready. His elbows were bent, the gun close to his chest.
He was halfway down the corridor when the left swinging door to Skipper Olde’s ICU flew open. Out ran the Hispanic male orderly in the blue scrubs. He had a black semiautomatic in his hand.
Did he pop Skipper? Shit! “Police!” Payne yelled. “Drop the goddamn gun!”
The orderly did not slow. And he damn sure did not drop the gun. In a flash, he ran right to the steel door of the stairwell, leaning his shoulder into it as his hip smacked the horizontal bar that unlatched its lock.
The door flew open. And the Hispanic male went through the doorway. “Shit!” Payne said.
He took off after him.
The steel door was starting to swing closed when Payne reached it. Payne kicked it open, his right foot slamming the horizontal bar. He stopped and checked to see if it was clear to continue, then heard the fast footfalls echoing down the concrete stairwell. He could see the man’s left hand sliding down the inside handrail as he went.
Payne looked down the stairwell to see if there would be an opportunity to get a clear shot. There wasn’t.
“Shit, shit, shit!” he muttered as he started down the steps, taking two at time.
As he passed the steel door to the second floor, he saw that he was gaining a little on the man, whose hand was sliding on the handrail only half a floor below him.
Payne tried to take three steps at time and damn near rolled his ankle. It twisted, a flare of fire burning deep in his muscle. He went back to taking only two steps at a time.
He heard the metallic bang of the horizontal bar getting hit on the first floor’s steel door.
“Police!” he yelled again. “Stop!”
Maybe he doesn’t understand English? “Police” is-what? — something like “polic?a”?
But what the hell is “stop” in Spanish?
Shit. Who’s kidding who?
He knows what the hell I want…
Payne reached the door and kicked it open. The door swung open onto the sidewalk on Tioga. The Shriners Children’s Hospital was across the street. He looked left and saw people running away, clearly in fear. He started to look around the leading edge of the open door when he heard two shots being fired-and the unmistakable sound of bullets impacting metal.
Payne dropped to his knees.
A glance up the door revealed two exit holes, the thin sheet metal with two ragged holes roughly resembling a king’s crown.
“You sonofabitch!” Payne said.
He quickly stuck his head around the edge of the door and back again.
His split-second view had shown him the man running down the middle of the street, holding his right hand up as he fed the pistol a fresh magazine of ammunition.
Payne popped to his feet and gave chase, running along the sidewalk to use the cars parked at the curb for cover and concealment.
The man cut the corner at Germantown Avenue and started running up it. Payne started to cross Tioga to follow, but the loud horn of a taxicab he hadn’t seen coming forced him back on the sidewalk. He checked again for any traffic, then bolted up Germantown Avenue.
Payne kept looking for an opportunity to shoot. But there were people on the sidewalks and vehicles beyond the running Hispanic male, all of them in what would be the field of fire.
As the man approached the intersection of Germantown and Venango, the traffic light changed. The vehicles started moving east and west, effectively blocking the male’s path. At the corner, he made a right onto Venango, and Payne, looking over his shoulder, crossed over Germantown Avenue to follow.
Two blocks later, at Camac Street, the man again got caught by the changing of the traffic light. This time he cut down an alleyway behind the row houses there.
Payne, breathing heavily, turned down the alley. But when he got there, he saw that the only row houses there were the ones facing acing Venango Street. Behind them, the alleyway opened up for more than half a block. The other row houses had been torn down, leaving a huge vacant area.
And the man was running right down the middle of it, wide open.
Payne could hear the sirens of squad cars in the direction of the burn center. But he had no way of directing them to his location.
Payne once more shouted, “Stop! Police!”
Surprising him, the man did stop-only to turn and fire off two shots.
The shots struck the pavement near Payne. He dropped to one knee and, trying not to let his heaving chest botch his aim, squeezed off one round, then a second one.
The second shot found the Hispanic male. He went down, rolling as he hit the ground, holding his left thigh with his left hand.
Payne stood and started toward him cautiously, shouting, “Drop the goddamn weapon! Now, goddammit!”
From where he lay, the Hispanic male rolled and fired another round at Payne, causing Payne to seek cover behind a tree. Then the man popped up and took off, running with a bit of a limp.
“Sonofabitch!” Payne muttered to himself. “The fucker just won’t quit.”
Up ahead, Payne saw that vehicles were again stopped at a traffic light, this time at Old York Street. And the light was about to cycle from red to green.
Good! I can close the gap again.
But then Payne watched in surprise as, just before the lights changed, the man ran up to the first car in line. It was an older silver Chevrolet Caprice sedan-The Whale Car, Payne thought, for whatever reason remembering its nickname. The man grabbed the handle to the driver’s door, flung it open before the driver-a fat middle-aged black male-even knew that anyone was there, put the muzzle of the pistol to the driver’s left cheek, and started shouting at him.
