The Midtown Murderer (24 page)

Chapter 57

Radcliff’s answer was brisk and final. “No. I’d be the scapegoat for every unsolved murder in Atlanta.
Including yours. Sorry Palmer, but I’ve got to find those dirty bastards and finish what I started.”

“Well, there’s no reason to wait. I can give you
Triple and his thugs right now. You get Butler and the Apostles as a bonus.”

Radcliff coughed in surprise. “Serious?”

“Dead serious. You can go out in a blaze of glory. First you discovered the MANPADS; then you destroyed the super meth lab and wiped out the gangs. You’ll be an instant hero.”

“How
do we do this?”

“Very carefully.”

“But where do we start?”

Trent explained how he had acquired the Midtown sewer-system blueprints and a
historic house plan of Lynn’s property. “I measured off the length and width of the kennel when I was inside. It’s roughly an eighth of the size of what the basement floor plan shows. So the super meth lab is on the other side of the south kennel wall. Then I laid the floor plan on top of the sewer-system blueprint. A discarded sewer pipe terminates at the lab. I verified it all with Lynn.”

“Call Lynn and see if he answers.”

“He won’t.”

“Why not?”

“He’s tied up.”

Radcliff recoiled in disbelief. “Literally?”

“Yep.”

“You’re a
crafty little bastard. So how do we get in?” he asked, a frown crinkling his forehead.

“We?”

“You have to take me to them. That’s the only way you get Chloe.”

Trent held up a set of keys. “That Freon truck parked across the street is our ticket.”

Radcliff blinked thoughtfully. “That mud-splattered truck with the blue hotdog on top?”

“That blue hotdog is a high-pressure nurse tank. It’s got three hundred gallons of Freon in it
; we’re going to sell it to Triple.”

Radcliff stared blankly past Trent. After a moment he said, “Amigo, you’re dead the second I think you’re screwing with me.”

“Have faith, Radcliff,” Trent said, pulling on his coat. “I’m your only hope to pull this off.”

“
I can’t say that I’m very encouraged.”

#

It was just after midnight on Christmas morning. The streets were deserted. A ghost town, Trent thought, as church bells chimed the late hour. He drove south on Peachtree Street, past Third Street and Lynn’s practice, to First Street.

Trent was staring out the window at the magnificent
Atlanta skyline when the illuminated profile of the Bank of America skyscraper came into view; with its dazzling pointed top of intricate iron work, it looked like an enormous granite missile poised to blast into space.

“What a beautiful sight,” Trent said, downshifting
and braking the big truck for a red light.

Radcliff
grunted. “You mean this Freon truck?” he asked, keeping the plastic funnel pointed at Trent’s head.

“No. The skyscrapers,” he said, shifting
the transmission into first gear when the light changed.

“Yeah, th
ey’re real nice. So what are we going to do, knock on the meth lab door and ask someone to let us in?”

“We hoof it down the sewer
tunnel. That’s how the punks are transporting in the supplies.”

Radcliff’s
eyes narrowed. “Priest is losing his touch; he said you were a dummy.” After a few blocks of silence he said, “Do you really think this will work?”

“As long as you don’t shoot me it will.”

Radcliff wore his cup-shaped ear protectors high on his head. A demented, homicidal grin had formed on his face, and every time a street light slashed inside the cab, Trent thought he looked like some kind of escapee from a mental institution.

An entire city block to the east of First and Peachtree Street had been razed for
the construction of a new skyscraper. The area was illuminated by blazing security lights and a high fence rimmed with razor wire.

Trent turned left and drove slowly down a potholed street. “Here,” he said
, handing Radcliff a legal-size spiral notebook. “Check out the good doctor’s meth-making supply list.”

“
Importing methylamine from China,” Radcliff muttered, running his penlight down the entries. “Looks like thousands of barrels; enough to produce multi-tons of meth. So Lynn runs the underground lab, huh?”

“He’s not the cook
; but Triple’s got him on the hook.”

“Why don’t we go in through the kennel?”

“Dogs; they’d bark. Gangsters would scatter like rats deserting a sinking ship.”

“Yeah. I can see that.”

“You gonna go through with this?” Trent said. “Cut that supply chain?”

“Goddamn right I am.”

Trent had driven three-quarters of the way around the block before he found the entrance that really wasn’t an entrance.

“Check it out,” Trent said.
A bright orange bar was down across a dirt road that was flanked by tall fences. There was a guardshack containing a blue-uniformed guard to the left of the road in front of the fence. The guard, heated within his glass booth, was reading a magazine. A radio played country and western music. Waylon Jennings, it sounded like.

“Midnight watchman
,” Trent said.

“Hit him quick
; don’t give him time to think.”

Chapter 58

The
security guard ambled out. “Evening, boys,” he said good-naturedly. “This here’s restricted property. Besides, the construction site is closed for Christmas. Best be driving someplace else.”

Trent held a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill out the window. “As far as dead presidents go, Franklin seems to speak better than most. Wouldn’t you say?”

“He sure does,” the guard said, pocketing the bill. “What do you boys want?”

“Trying to sell some excess Freon,” Radcliff said, leaning over Trent and giving the man his best fake smile.

“No kidding?” He had a cautious look about him.

“Heard someone was looking to buy.” Trent handed him another Franklin. “It’s choice Freon.”

“Well, I don’t see as how that could hurt,” said the man. “You boys pull through that gate and turn right on the first side road; I’ll radio Frank and he’ll direct ’ya.”

Trent ground the gears, and the truck bumped and bounced over a deeply-rutted road.

“Choice Freon? Palmer, you’re too much.”

“Ready?”

“Good to go.”

A flashlight winked and Trent slowed. “Keep him talking,” Radcliff said, sliding out the door. “I’ll slip around back.”

“Who’s that?” the sentry asked, pointing a wicked-looking automatic weapon at Trent.

“Triple here?”

“Naw. He ain’t.”

“Too bad,” Trent said. “I’ve got three-hundred gallons of choice Freon to sell him.”

“Say what?”

“Triple wasn’t expecting me.”

“Show me your hands. Then get out of the cab real slow like.”

“You and me could do some business,” Trent said.

“I reckon your business is gonna end now.”

“Point your gun away from that nurse tank
; you punch a hole in it we won’t be back until the Second Coming.”

The gangster whirled around. “Hey, fella, you hear that?”

“Must be thunder.”

“No way. Sounds like a freaking leaf blow—”

The thug folded like an accordion. Trent flashed his penlight on his face; the dead man stared back with three eyes, one of them bright red.

Radcliff walked up beside Trent. “You didn’t hear the gunshot, did you?”

“No.”

“I’m getting pretty good at aiming this rig.”

Radcliff covered Trent’s backside with the leaf blower as he worked his way around the construction equipment.

“Find it quick,” Radcliff said. “Before
we freeze to death.”

“I hear that.”

When Trent found the concrete-lined manhole cover that the Outlaws used to access the tunnel he said, “Hand me the bolt cutters.”

“Here you go.”

Trent dropped to his knees and pressed hard on the wide handles. The sharp jaws sliced through a link in the steel chain like licorice. “We’re in,” he said, lifting the heavy steel lid.

Radcliff shined his light in the hole. There was a short metal ladder and several pairs of footprints in the mud below.

“I’ll hold the light,” Radcliff said. “You first.”

Trent squatted and put a hand on either side of the concrete lip. Then he lowered himself into the black hole. “Not bad,” he said, tilting his head back. “I can almost stand up.”

Radcliff held Trent in the beam of his light. “In for a nickel, in for a dime,” he said with a sigh. “Hold the leaf blower.”

“If that isn’t trust, I don’t know what is.”

“Wise-ass.”

They bent at the knees and trudged into a meandering
, narrow pipe that smelled of damp earth and sewage.

Trent swung his penlight on the roof. “They even
strung up lights; there’s the switch.”

“Don’t touch ’em. Apes will know we’re coming.”

“That’s smart.”

“Lead with your flash,”
Radcliff said, the excitement evident in his voice. “I’ll follow.”

“It should be about t
wo hundred yards to Lynn’s,” Trent said, handing Radcliff a Milky Way candy bar. “Don’t want you going hypoglycemic on me.”

“Right thoughtful of you.”

“If anyone comes our way, we’ll have to play it by ear.”

Trent heard the unmistakable slide of a pump shotgun being racked.

“Play it by ear with this,” said Radcliff.

Trent flashed
his penlight on the cut-down, heavy-duty shotgun barrel. He fingered the corrosion-resistant finish and said, “Mossberg?”

“Yeah. Best in the business.”

“A Mossberg and a leaf blower; we can’t lose.”

“
You are a serious smartass.”

Trent pointed the barrel down the dark tunnel and let his penlight guide the way.

“Do it,” Radcliff whispered. “Real stealthily like.”

“Grave-quiet down here,” Trent said, wading through ankle-high dirty water.

Radcliff wiped greasy sweat from his face. “Feel like I’m in a bake oven,” he said, slightly out of breath.

Ten minutes later
they stood at the junction of two pipes. “Should be to the left,” Trent said, sniffing the air. “Jesus what’s that smell?”

“
That’s the smell of crystal meth being cooked. Be damned, Palmer, I was beginning to think you double-crossed me.”

“So little faith
.”

They trudged on for another five minutes
, the noxious smell becoming stronger. Soon they could see a faint glimmer of light.

“Slow down, Palmer. I hear voices.”

Trent crept around a bend in the pipe and knelt. The chemical smell was so horrible that bile rose in his throat. Radcliff joined him, and they peered at a meth lab that was lit brighter than day with arc lights bolted to the roof. The lab was the length and width of a tennis court and had a low ceiling.

Radcliff
gazed at Trent with something like wonder. “The Midtown meth plant,” he whispered.

“The blueprints didn’t lie,” Trent said,
wiping sweat from his face with the front of his shirt. “The city ran that pipe right next to the old morgue.”

“It’s gonna be the new morgue pretty soon.”

A dozen gangsters, working at various stations, were manufacturing meth. Two walls were stacked with fifty-gallon drums of red phosphorous acid. Hundreds of cases of decongestants of every brand were stacked along another wall. Two men at counters were operating industrial blenders and grinding the tablets into powder. Off to one side, a mini forklift sat idle next to wooden pallets full of compressed-gas cylinders.

A
huge, crazy-looking man wearing a red flannel shirt, untucked and unbuttoned, was seated at a metal table stacked with piles of cash. He was bald and had more tattoos than a carnival-ride operator. He sucked up several lines of white powder with a rolled bill, stood, and waved a rifle. “Goddamn, don’t be quittin’ on me,” he screamed at one of the goons. “And don’t do it half-assed!”

Several dogs barked at the commotion. The man pounded his fist on the wall. That silenced the animals.

“Triple?” Trent asked.

“Yeah.”
Radcliff’s voice hardened. “Him and his drugged-out freak show.”

“That’s got to be the super
meth lab the police have been searching for.”