Strangled! Page 2

  The young, curly-headed man stood on the wall with his legs apart, while Sergeant O'Leary palpated him.

  A brass knuckles, a switchblade and a long revolver of caliber.45 came to light. The revolver shone metallically and was apparently polished to a high gloss. The handle was made of mother-of-pearl and had some characteristic decorations. Among other things, the head of a cowboy could be seen.

  "Very tasteful," Milo said.

  He took the gun from Sergeant O'Leary and put it in cellophane.

  "This could be the gun that first hit Rizzo," I concluded.

  In the meantime, a driving licence had also been obtained. I looked at the document. The expiration date was pretty clumsy. The young man's name was Wayne Smith and he lived just a few blocks away.

  Handcuffs clicked.

  I got closer to him. "Do you know whose convertible it is?"

  "I don't know."

  "You don't have to say anything, but if you decide to testify, anything can be used against you in court," Milo instructed him.

  Sergeant O'Leary grabbed the prisoner by the shoulders and turned him around. He leaned against the wall. "I already taught him, Agent Tucker. But once again, it can hardly hurt."

  "In my book, it looked like he was trying to short the car," said Sergeant McGhee.

  "You cops can kiss my ass," he shouted.

  "We're looking for the shooter who shot the owner of the convertible," I told him. "Your gun was fired a short time ago, you can smell it. "If we take you to the Federal Plaza, they can check your hands for gunshot residue and make sure you've used a gun in the last few days."

  "Yes, I fired the gun and I also know that public carrying of firearms is not allowed in New York! But I had nothing fucking to do with that guy's murder!"

  "You probably just hurt him, but someone gave him the rest a few blocks away," I said. "The guy's name was George Nelson Rizzo. He was dealing drugs. Do you know him?"

  "No."

  "Now open your mouth. "You really can't call that cooperation so far!"

  "Damn!"

  "Come on!"

  He grimaced.

  "What do I care, I just wanted the car. But the damn thing has some kind of security lockout or something like that. This can't just be short-circuited." He took a deep breath.

  "Rizzo had a book with a lot of numbers in it. If you were his customer, you better tell us now," I demanded.

  "I wasn't his client!"

  I wouldn't let up. "What happened? Was there an argument about a delivery? "Did the crack stones only contain baking powder and hardly any cocaine?"

  "That's bullshit, man!"

  "Or did Rizzo just enter an area where he wasn't allowed in?"

  "Damn, don't you have ears, G-man? I didn't kill that guy! As I stand here!"

  "Did you see anything?"

  Suddenly the curly-haired head stared past me with eyes widened in shock. Pupils were quite dilated. Indicating he'd taken anything.

  "No!" he cried.

  The next moment, shots were fired. The first one hit Wayne Smith in the middle of the head. He staggered back, swayed briefly and then went down like a fallen tree.

  Sergeant O'Leary reached for the gun on his hip, but he was no longer able to pull the service weapon out of its holster. A bullet hit him in the chest, ripped his shirt open and got stuck in the obligatory Kevlar vest in this area for all cops. He was torn to the ground. The second shot hit him in the neck. Blood leaked. He tried to stop the bleeding with his hand. In vain. Blood ran through his fingers. He sank to the ground. Milo and I took cover as we drew our service weapons and fired at the fifth-floor window from which we were being set up. A silhouette was visible at an open window. The rifle barrel with the silencer on it reached quite far out.

  "Take care of O'Leary!", I turned to McGhee.

  Milo and I ran out of cover. We ran diagonally across the street and approached the building from which the shots had been fired.

  The front door was hung out.

  The hallway sprayed with graffiti. A man sat sunken down in a corner. His eyes were closed. There was a syringe set scattered on the floor. He breathed calmly and regularly. In the lungs it rattled frighteningly noisily.

  "Have you seen anyone here?" Milo asked. He had to repeat his question so that the person opposite him would even take note of it.

  The man opened his eyes, looked at my colleague and immediately closed them again. There was no point in talking to him.

  We reached the elevator, but there were nothing more than empty shafts. We also noticed that at least on the ground floor all the doors had been hung out. I doubted whether anyone lived here at all - not to mention the rats who occasionally scurried across the corridor.

  We took the stairs, stalked our way up paragraph by paragraph. We always stayed outside because you can only keep an overview from there. With the gun at impact, we worked our way forward. If the shooter, who had the young man named Wayne Smith on his conscience, was still in the house and wanted to disappear, he actually had to come to meet us.

  Almost silently we brought the stairs to the fifth floor behind us.

  A draft blew through the entire building. There had to be dozens of windows here that had been without glass for a year or more.

  The walls were bare, the plaster flaked off.

  We crept through a long, wide corridor. The apartments joined to the right and left. Here, too, the doors had been posted everywhere. Apparently they had taken everything to the house that still had some value.

  A noise made us listen. I ran after that noise to the end of the corridor. Milo followed me. A large room of at least twenty square meters lay before us. I was at the window front with a few sentences. There was glass in about half of the windows.

  A shot hissed into one of the windows and completely destroyed it.

  I ducked when I heard footsteps outside. With both hands I grabbed the gun and emerged from my cover.

  A man in a leather jacket and pirate scarf ran away over the flat roof of the neighbouring house. THE HELL's FINEST stood in ornate fracture letters on his jacket.

  He turned around, tore his rifle in my direction and fired immediately without aiming. It was an assault rifle, just like the Army Standard. The man with the pirate scarf had set it to automatic fire. I ducked. The shots were eating their way into the concrete of the walls across the room. The few windows that were still intact broke.

  Milo stayed by the door and jumped aside to get nothing.

  I emerged from cover after the hail of bullets had ebbed.

  The guy kept running across the flat roof.

  I climbed through one of the windows and followed him.

  "Freeze! FBI," I shouted and fired a warning shot. He didn't respond. Finally he reached the end of the flat roof. A gap of two and a half yards yawned towards the neighbouring building. He jumped, rolled off on the other side of the floor and then fired in my direction. The bullets passed me. I ducked and shot back.

  The guy got up and kept running.

  I fired another warning shot. Then I aimed for his legs and caught him on his calf.

  He cried out and slowed the pace down a bit.

  Meanwhile I jumped over the two and a half yards wide chasm and caught up.

  The guy with the pirate scarf had meanwhile reached the roof exit and disappeared shortly afterwards. I rushed after him.

  There was some blood on the floor. So we definitely had a genetic fingerprint on him when he slipped through our fingers.

  The roof exit consisted of a small building structure of about three times four yards.

  The fireproof steel door must have been forcibly opened at some point and could no longer be closed. At the level of the castle it was strongly bent.

  Milo caught up with me.

  I completely ripped the door open, Milo picked up the service weapon. But of course no one was there anymore.

  A staircase led down.

  Milo picked up his cell phone and called for ba
ckup. There were bloodstains on the floor again. We came down the roof stairs into the stairwell. Steps could be heard in the depths. Someone ran downstairs in a hurry.

  We followed paragraph by paragraph and secured each other in the process. Finally we reached the ground floor, which was apparently inhabited. After all, most of the mailboxes in the bottom row had names on them. However, the elevator was shut down.

  We heard footsteps.

  A young woman stepped out of the corridor and froze when she saw our weapons.

  "Trevellian, FBI!", I introduced myself and gave her my ID card. "There must have just been a man in a pirate scarf and a leather jacket running down here."

  "I didn't see anyone!", she said.

  "He's wearing a jacket marked 'Hell's Finest'!"

  "Like I said, there was no one here."

  "What's your name?"

  "Susan Cabanez, Apartment 1.08."

  "She must have seen someone," Milo clarified. "There's blood here." He stood a few steps further down the corridor and pointed to the floor.

  The sound of a starting motorcycle could now be heard from outside.

  "Is there a back exit here?" Milo asked.

  "Yes, down the corridor and to the left."

  "Thank you."

  7

  We reached a backyard.

  A motorcycle howled.

  The machine was jacked up. Two young men stood next to him. One was pushing the gas, the other was screwing on the engine.

  They both froze when they saw us. The engine's been cut off.

  "No, Milo. These are the wrong people," I muttered.

  Milo was looking for blood on the floor. It was actually obvious that the fugitive had taken this path.

  We approached the two young men and pulled our IDs.

  "FBI," I could just say before the taller one of them raised his hands and started defending himself before he was accused of anything.

  "We're clean, man! No drugs! Nothing at all!"

  "We didn't suspect you," I explained. "We're looking for a guy with a gunshot wound to the leg." I gave them a brief description. The outward appearance of the fugitive killer was actually so concise that any confusion was ruled out.

  "We didn't see anyone here," both assured in unison.

  "And you probably didn't hear about the shots either?"

  "Everybody around here has heard a few shots," said the taller one.

  And the other added: "Mostly it's harmless."

  "How is it harmless if there's shooting?" I asked.

  "Often someone just shoots at a few tin cans."

  "It's still forbidden."

  "If you lived here, you'd see yourself walking through the streets well armed."

  "Well armed or under the protection of good friends," the other added.

  I understood what he meant. The protection of a gang.

  We could not detect blood anywhere - but in view of the stained, oil-polluted soil, only a trace-securer was probably able to do so anyway.

  Milo let his eyes wander. "The guy's up and gone," he thought.

  I turned once more to the two young men. "Does the name George Nelson Rizzo mean anything to you? He dealt crack."

  "No."

  "A guy with a leather coat up to his ankles."

  Now they rang the bell.

  "Oh, you mean Neo George!", said the taller one.

  "Neo George?" I echo.

  "Yes, they just mentioned you his leather coat. He looked like Neo from the Matrix movies. He thought it was cool."

  "He was shot near here, then escaped, and then got two more bullets."

  "No wonder," said the smaller one.

  "Why?" I wanted to know.

  "Because he was a bad asshole. He was selling adulterated shit and there was hardly any cocaine left in his crack, but some other stuff that must be pretty unhealthy!"

  "Don't talk so much, Ricky!", the bigger one rebuked him.

  Ricky winceed "Why, everyone knows what was going on with Neo George anyway! The worst rat in the South Bronx! And Carla would still be alive if someone had shown this son of a bitch where the line is!"

  "Do you mean the boundary of the Spiders' gang territory?" I asked.

  That took their breath away for a moment. "In any case, not many people around here regret the death of Neo George," he continued.

  "Who is this Carla?", I checked.

  "Carla McGray, died four weeks ago. I liked her a lot and had something with her once, but when she was on crack, all she had was the stuff in her brain. Then it was inedible."

  "And you're not using?" Milo asked.

  The taller one grinned. "Our drug is called gasoline!"

  8

  We recorded the identities of the two young men. Their names were Ricky Spalding and Jay Beltran.

  "We're supposed to check on Carla McGray," Milo thought. "In the end, we're dealing with a simple revenge drama, not a drug war over distribution networks for crack."

  "You forget the rope they hung around Rizzo's neck," I thought.

  "That was a common rope, Jesse. "There may have been someone attached to this show as a freeloader."

  "Rizzo fits too perfectly into the previous victim profile!"

  "That's why!"

  "But first, we'll ask the lady who sent us out into the yard again."

  "Why?"

  "She lied to us, Milo, and I want to know what comes out of her when we do some reaming."

  "Maybe just that she has so much respect for the ruling gang that she'd rather not talk to anyone who comes from the police or the FBI!"

  "Whatever! Then that says something."

  We returned to the house and searched the ground floor for apartment 1.01. The name Susan Cabanez was written in faded letters on the bell sign.

  Milo rang.

  Initially, there was no reaction.

  "Mrs Cabanez, it's the FBI again. We have a few more questions!"

  Again we waited. On the other side of the door there were now noises. Something that sounded like steps.

  That's when Susan Cabanez appeared in the corridor. Apparently she had left the house in the meantime and now returned. She held a first aid kit in front of her belly.

  Her eyes were widened in horror.

  "Please don't..." she said.

  Milo and I moved away from the front door. Milo positioned himself to the right of it with the gun in his hand. I also pulled out the service weapon and stood up to her. "The guy with the injured leg is in your apartment, isn't he?" I spoke in a muffled voice.

  "He's got my baby!" she whispered. Sirens were heard outside. That had to be the backup Milo called for. But it came at an awkward moment. The noise through the sirens was best suited to panic the perpetrator and trigger a short-circuit action.

  "Don't worry, we won't do anything to endanger your baby," I promised while Susan Cabanez was already in tears.

  Her make-up turned into a watercolor.

  "He waits for me," she whispered trembling. "I should get him some bandages for his leg. That's when I took the first aid pillow out of my car. He's around the corner."

  "Okay."

  I reached for my cell phone.

  I contacted the NYPD officers who were approaching via the appropriate station.

  "We have a kidnapping case involving an infant," I summed up the situation and gave the exact address and apartment number.

  "Best I go in and bandage his gunshot wound," suggested Susan Cabanez.

  "Then the guy has a second hostage!"

  "But he'll think I called the police when I won't show up!"

  The sirens fell silent. The colleagues from the City Police would now ensure that the block was cordoned off over a wide area.

  Now rumbling noises came out of the apartment, as if something had fallen over.

  That baby cried.

  We had no choice but to act, even if the risk was high.

  For us and the baby.

  Milo and I took a look. He nodded. Waiting for b
ackup would have been negligent now.

  Milo kicked down the door. She flew aside. I fell into the apartment with my gun in my hand. The baby was lying in its cradle and was still crying. The fugitive had dragged himself to the window. His injured leg was dark red. The wound bled heavily and had long since penetrated through the light blue fabric of his jeans.

  He stood there with his face distorted with pain, apparently wanted to climb out of the window and now tore up the assault rifle.

  Then he froze.

  He seemed frozen.

  "The game is over," I shouted. "Before you shoot, I'll pull the trigger!"

  He remained motionless for a moment. Sweat beads stood on his forehead. Then he lowered the gun. It slipped to the ground. He slid to the ground on the wall. The face was distorted with pain.

  Milo was with him immediately and took the gun.

  "You're under arrest," I made it clear and explained his rights.

  "Don't bother with your damn speeches!", the guy squeezed his teeth. The wound on his leg seemed to be getting to him.

  9

  The guy in the Hell's Finest leather jacket refused to make any statement. But he loudly demanded a doctor.

  We called the Emergency Service.

  Then we searched him and found an automatic, a switchblade and an electric shock. The driver's license was badly forged and had expired. It was issued in the name of James Myer, but we were pretty sure the name was wrong.

  "I don't know what you're busting around for," Milo said to him. "At least you could tell us your real name. We'll get it out after your fingerprints go through the computer anyway. "Anyway, I can't imagine anyone who cold-bloodedly mights a man with a military weapon has never struck justice before!"

  "Screw all of you!" he growled.

  The colleagues of the City Police finally arrived. A little later also the Emergency Service. The man who called himself James Myer was first cared for and then taken to the prison clinic on Rikers Island.

  Then we ask Susan Cabanez again, who was now much more open to our questions. She held her child in her arms, relieved, and pressed it against her.

  The relief was obvious to her. But Milo and I fell at least as big a stone from our hearts. Kidnapping with an infant is basically a very delicate matter. No matter what you do or don't do, you are always close to contributing to a disaster.