The Midtown Murderer (5 page)

Chapter 13

After
thirty minutes of driving, Trent heard the screeching sound of a commercial aircraft passing low overhead. Atlanta Hartsfield International, he thought as the car came to a stop. He heard a chain rattling and a gate opening. Then they drove on for a few minutes and stopped again.

Trent was rolled in a ball, blinking up when the trunk popped open. “I’m J
ake,” a man said. “This is Elwood. Sorry about the ride.” Both men wore black wraparound sunglasses and black suits with starched white shirts and black ties and black shoes.

It was sunny
out, and in the distance Trent could see two airliners climbing side by side off parallel runways into the cloudless sky. They were in the middle of a vast airport container terminal with no one in sight except themselves and thousands of stacked containers the size of SUV’s.

“Let me give you a hand,”
Jake said.

Trent took his hand and let him help him out.
A gust of cold wind stung his face as he unfolded into the sun.

The
serious-faced men stood still. Jake was short and had shoulders that could block a doorway and a gnarled nose; his blond hair stood up like summer grass. Elwood was tall and had an eagle-eyed face; he sported a high-and-tight fade, distinctive of the corps. The men were wary for a moment, but relaxed as soon as they saw Trent was not armed and he did not act like a maniac.

“
Midtown says you killed a member of the Latin Kings,” Jake said, moving his jacket enough to let Trent see his weapon.

They were standing in a neat triangle by the trunk of the car. Trent was trying to figure out
if they were Federal agents and who was in charge. Maybe neither of them. Maybe they were equals. “It’s public record; I acted in self defense.”

“Mind telling us what you took from the body?”

“Can I see some identification?” Trent asked.

Jake
pushed his wraparounds up his nose. “I don’t think so. No.”

“You’re not the law.”

“Most occasions we’re better than the law,” Elwood said, reaching in his coat and pulling a pearl-handled Colt .45 from a shoulder rig; then he walked around the containers shooting seagulls.

CRACK!

“McClure do that to you?”

“
Huh?”

“
Your face. Heard it was McClure.”

CRACK!

“It was McClure; you know him?”

CRACK!

Jake never looked at Trent, but stared in Elwood’s direction, his eyes hidden by his wraparounds. “We know McClure,” he said, twisting a large gold ring on his index finger with some intricate engraving on its crest. “He’s a mean motherfucker. No doubt.”

Elwood was
out of sight, but every time he shot a seagull, his gun made a firm crack that rippled between the containers; he’d burned through three or four clips and didn’t seem to be getting tired.

“
We know ‘em all at Midtown,” Jake said. “They are the most corrupt, fucked-up cops we’ve ever met.”

“
Your point?”

CRACK!

“Point is this: The guy you knifed had something that’s important to us; we think you took it.”

“
You can search my apartment; pry up the floorboards if you want.”

CRACK!

“Already did that. Where did you stash it?”

“
Didn’t take anything.”

CRACK!

Elwood had returned. He ejected the clip and felt around in his pocket. Not finding what he wanted, he walked back toward the car. Jake reached in the backseat, found a box and tossed it to Elwood. It was filled with loaded clips. Elwood inserted a fresh clip and went back to work.

CRACK!

“You didn’t give it to the Midtown cops?”

CRACK!

“I did not take anything from the crime scene or give anything to the Midtown cops.”

Jake’s face was blank when he looked at Trent.
Trent knew the man was suspicious and he was getting more scared by the minute. “I don’t know how I can help.”

“Oh, you’re gonna help. Or you might end up in one of these containers on a one-way trip.”

“I see.”

Trent felt the
still-warm barrel of Elwood’s gun against the base of his skull. “Give it to us you backstabbing piece of shit! Or we’re gonna kill you! You took it and it’s ours! I’ll blow your fucking brains out!”

“Hey! Hey! Hey!”
Jake screamed, pulling Elwood’s gun arm away from Trent’s skull. “You keep your eyes out; I’ll deal with this.”

Elwood
snapped out of it. Jake let loose of his arm and Elwood turned for the car.

“It’s Trent, right?”

“Yeah.”

“
Trent, when we didn’t get what we needed from Midtown, we decided to take a peek at McClure and see what he’s up to; an’ what he was up to was you; so now you’re important to us.”

“
I see.”

“The thing is, we need that
object. McClure told you he’d do something worse than beat the shit out of you if he doesn’t get it, right?”

“Right.”

“But you get to him; he’ll just leave you alone, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, fuck that. I guarantee you that fucker’s gonna kill you whether he gets the object or not.”

“Sounds about right.”

“So, Elwood and I, this is the deal with us; we don’t get the object you’re gonna end up in a container deader than shit. Got it?”

“
Got it.”

“But get us that
object, not only are we gonna leave you breathing, but we’re gonna get you resituated in a nice sunny clime where no one will ever find you. New identity and plenty of dough to get you started; a new life. Sounds sweet, huh?”

“
Yeah.”

“Know why we’re going to do all that for you?”
Elwood asked, digging in the trunk and coming up with three ice-cold bottles of Heineken.

“
I’m listening.”

“’Cause
in addition to getting us the object, you’re gonna set up McClure and the rest of his fucking freak show. Then you kill ‘em an’ they will never be trouble for you or anyone else ever again.”

“
Excuse me?”

“
You have to make a choice; you can choose to run-to leave Atlanta-and who knows? Maybe you’ll manage to disappear. You can choose to spend the next few days searching for the object. If you’re successful, and you pop those lowlife cops, you have our word no harm will come to you. Or you can choose to do nothing and see how long your luck holds out; it’s up to you.”

Trent was silent
for a while. “Are you going to help me?”

“
Only to the extent that Elwood will be your wheelman. But there will be no redemption or second chances if you fail.”

“And if I succeed, you’ll
let me walk?”

“We’re honorable men,” Jake said. “We’ll keep our word.”

“Do we have a deal?” Elwood asked, popping the tops on the beers and passing them around.

“
We have a deal.”

“
Now take my business card, Mr. Peoplefinder,” Jake said, relief apparent in his tone. “You find the object, wherever it is, and you call us; and do it in a reasonable amount of time. OK?”

“OK.”

Elwood said, “This affair is most confidential, of course.”

“I can see that.”

“Be seeing you around, Trent,” Jake said, tipping his green bottle toward Trent as he slid onto the bench seat next to Elwood.

Trent called after them,
“Hey, how the fuck am I gonna get out of here?”

“Open that blue container,” J
ake said with a twisted smile, as Elwood stomped on the gas.

Trent
turned his head from the scattershot of spewed gravel and looked at the deckle-edged card in his hand:
Jake,
followed by a cell phone number. He downed his Heineken in one long swallow, then pulled on a rusted metal door which screeched like chalk on a blackboard.

The
air was cold and still and stank of blood and gore. Dead center and propped up on a folding chair was the cop with the black goatee who had bashed in his apartment door. The shot had collapsed his left cheek and gone out behind his ear; blood dripped from his nostrils and mouth. The concussion had distorted his skull and dislocated one eye which dangled from its pink socket; his clothes were saturated in blood.

Trent
could feel his heart pounding like a fist on a door. Even in the cold, sweat dripped from his face, and he barely noticed his gleaming red Ducati parked beside the corpse.

#

Trent stopped in Piedmont Park on his way home. The fucking purse, he thought, panicked and frightened. Get it and give it to McClure, he was thinking as he rooted through the trash bin, grateful that it had not been emptied. Because McClure doesn’t scare me half as much as Jake and Elwood who are clearly homicidal maniacs. Give it to McClure, then find Chloe quick and split this fucked up town . . .

Fuck, he
muttered, standing up straight. Fucking motherfucking fuck. The bloodied purse was gone.

Chapter 14

At
half past nine in the morning Trent’s cell phone chimed. “Trent Palmer,” he said cautiously.

“A
tlanta Doors & Frame. Outside your apartment. I’m here to fix the broken door.”

“OK,”
Trent said, pulling the shattered door open. The confident looking man wore bib overalls and an Atlanta Doors & Frame cap worn backwards on his head. He had horns of gray hair that flicked above his ears. He set down a tool box and a length of lumber and shook hands with Trent.

“Can you stiffen up the door
and the frame and install an extra deadbolt?” Trent said, pulling several hundred-dollar bills from his wallet.

“Sure,” the man said. “I can
fortify it like the front door at Fort Knox if you want.”

“Just make it strong,” Trent said,
paying the man then wheeling his Ducati out of the parking lot.

Forty-five minutes later he pulled
onto a crushed gravel lot outside a dingy neighborhood bar in Lawrenceville. The gray sky looked heavy, the woods flanking the road lost in a fog of flurries. Battered pickups and Harley motorcycles were parked outside like horses tied to the post.

Snow curled up the steps and over his boots.
A pine wreath decorated a barred door. Trent wrapped his numb fingers around the handle. He pulled and the door came toward him; slipping inside, he closed it, shutting out the cold.

His
eyes gradually adjusted to the gloom. There was no foyer, and Trent found himself in a combination L-shaped bar/dance floor and band stage lit by weak lamps on bare concrete walls. The slow ticking of a double-pipe cast-iron radiator in the corner seemed the only activity. A strong smell of Pine-sol and stale cigarette smoke lodged in his throat.

Trent
felt pain as his ears and fingers came back to life. He imagined a late-night crowd of rednecks and bikers getting high on gallons of beer and shots. He was immensely glad he wouldn’t be there.

Past the
dance floor, green-shaded lights hung over several felt-covered tables.

Two skinheads
without a legible facial expression between themselves were leaning against a jukebox. The sleeves of their denim jackets were scissored off at the armpits, and the continuous and wildly colored tattoos that wrapped their arms looked like tight fitting sleeves.

Security types
, Trent thought. Hired to do the Apostles strong-arm business. He tried to swallow his fear. Up to this point, he had been riding high and feeling bold; now his confidence was ebbing.

The only other occupants were playing pool
. A skinny, black-eyed man with hollow cheeks and a pockmarked face was chalking his cue. His scraggly moustache was yellowed with nicotine; a red bandana with skull and crossbones was wrapped around his head.

The billiard-playing man was
big and muscular and swaggered around the pool table with a shot glass in his meaty hand. He had a baldhead and a faded-pink scar across his forehead; he wore a black leather vest and dirty blue jeans.

After a moment of icy silence Trent
asked, “Utah?”

“Yeah,”
the man said, downing the amber liquid in one gulp. He tossed the tiny glass to one of the skinheads then racked the pool balls. When he leaned over the table with his cue stick, Trent spotted the Apostles tattoo on his shoulder.

“
Hey, Winston,” Utah said, giving Trent a calculating look, “I think he’s iron.”

“No doubt,”
Winston said, twirling the end of his moustache.

“I’m not a cop,” Trent said, deciding he could never stare down the skinheads. “
My name is Trent Palmer; I find missing people.”

Utah glanced up. Light gray eyes, cold as ice. “What do you want? Exactly?”

“I’m looking to exchange information,” Trent said, browsing Utah’s landscape of crude jailhouse tattoos. “The guy who killed Jack Zimmer in Piedmont Park abducted a little girl. I’m trying to find her.”

Utah didn’t reply
. He took his time controlling the cue ball and sank all the stripes with a variety of touch and trick shots before sending the cue ball the length of the green where it reversed course and tapped the eight ball, almost sinking it into the corner pocket. His voice rose in impatience. “You packing?”

“No,” Trent said. “
Just give me what I need and I’ll go away.”

“Why us?” Bandanna asked.

“Someone cut down your buddy with a half-dozen nine-millimeter slugs. Guess I thought you’d care. If you do, I was hoping we could negotiate.”

“Whaddya got to nee-go-she-ate?” Utah
asked, leaning over the table to sink the eight ball.

Trent glared at Utah so he would know he was dead serious. “For starters,
the Outlaws are shutting down Garcia’s crystal-meth business and monopolizing it with a super pipeline. I’ve got insider information to help Garcia defend himself against the Outlaws and the Latin Kings.”

Utah
paused in mid stroke, frowning, then followed through.

“
I don’t like problems, Palmer. But I’m damn good at solving them,” he said, using his cue to push the balls around. “Are you going to be a problem for me?”

“
I hope not.”

Utah racked the cue
and nodded at the skinheads. “In the bathroom, Palmer,” he snorted, grabbing his cell phone and turning toward the back wall. “Winston, keep an eye out.”

“Sure, boss,” said Winston. “Head on back, dude
. You better have something worthwhile to peddle.”