Lady Justice on the Dark Side (Volume 19) (9 page)

    He gave a low whistle. “Parrish? Ain’t that the commissioner’s young’un?”

    I nodded.

    “Shit! If it’s who I think it is, that little gal has about as much chance as a fart in a whirlwind.”

    “Who? Give me a name.”

    “DeMarcus Tweedy. You shot his cousin, Rashan at that Bodega, and when Rashan’s brother, Deandre came after you, the cops gunned him down. I hear he’s lookin’ to even the score, and any cop will do just fine.”

    “Another Tweedy? How many Tweedies are out there?”

    “A whole bunch. When you don’t have a job, that leaves a lot of time at home to procreate.”

    “Do you have a clue where he might have taken Amanda?”

    “Maybe. I hear his family owns an old house over on St. John. Used to belong to a bootlegger back in the prohibition days. I heard they bought it cause it had some kind of tunnel in the basement that the bootleggers used when the revenuers came callin’. Probably figured it would come in handy, given their line of work.”

    “Got an address?”

    His huge bottom lip curled into a smile. “Does a fat dog fart?”

    I called Ox and shared our conversation with Louie. I gave him the address and headed to St. John.

    By the time I arrived, the street was swarming with cops.

    I had a lump in my throat as I watched my friends from the precinct spread out and surround the house.

    I had been part of many such operations and I wanted to be part of this one, but I knew it just wasn’t possible. I wasn’t a cop anymore and I would just be in the way.

     “Dere’s an alley dat runs behind dese houses,” Willie said. “Let’s go back dere an’ check things out.”

    I circled the block and approached the back of the property from the alley. I could see that blue uniforms had covered every door and window of the old two-story, and any minute they would be breaching the front entrance with a battering ram.

    It was a deep lot, and at the back of the property, adjacent to the alley, was an old carriage house.

    I remembered Louie’s comment about an escape tunnel that ran from the basement of the main house. The tunnel had to come out somewhere and the old carriage house looked like as good a place as any.

    I parked and pointed to the carriage house.

    Willie nodded.

    We quietly slipped out of the car, and as we approached, we heard the squeal of rusty hinges and a wooden door being thrown open.

    I ducked behind an old oak tree and Willie squatted behind a rusty fifty-gallon trash barrel.

    I pulled my revolver from its holster, crouched at the base of the tree and watched the carriage door that opened into the alley.

    A moment later, the door swung open and a hooded figure stuck his head out, looking down the alley in both directions.

    Seeing no one, he ducked back in the carriage house and emerged a moment later pushing a bound and gagged Amanda Parrish.

    She struggled to break free from his grip. In the struggle, the hood slipped off his head, and I could see the pure evil in his eyes as he smashed his fist into the side of her head.

    She fell at his feet, and as he kneeled down to drag her upright, his back side was fully exposed to me.

    I felt the rage building in me as I watched his cowardly blow and saw the blood gushing from the poor girl’s nose.

    I hated DeMarcus Tweedy and everything he represented.

    I pointed my revolver at his back, knowing that one shot would likely put an end to the vendetta that had terrorized so many people. One shot, and the thug would be dead. It would be a good shoot and I would likely be labeled a hero.

    I started to squeeze the trigger and I remembered the Professor’s admonition that acts which originate out of anger, rage and hatred draw men to the dark side.

    Tweedy shook her and slapped her again and the temptation to fire was overwhelming.

    Temptation, the first of the four stages of crossing the line.

    I took a deep breath and tried to remember what the professor said about the light side --- that compassion and mercy should dictate one’s actions.

    As hard as I tried, I could not find an ounce of either in my heart, and I desperately wanted to kill the brute in cold blood, but deep inside, I knew it just wasn’t right.

    I also remembered the storm that swept the city when Ox shot Tyrell Jackson and I shot Rashan Tweedy. Both were justified and had saved lives, but that didn’t seem to matter. Two black men had been gunned down by two white cops. I knew what I wanted to do, but I knew what I had to do.

    I stepped from behind the tree. “Let her go, Tweedy. It’s over.”

    “The hell it is,” he said, pulling his automatic from his waistband.

    I ducked back behind the tree and bark splintered above my head.

    I tried to get off a shot, but each time I peeked around the trunk, he fired another volley. I was pinned down and helpless.

    Suddenly, a voice boomed across the yard. “Police! Put down yo’ gun o’ you is a dead man! You is surrounded!”

    The new voice distracted Tweedy. As he turned toward it, Amanda stomped on his instep and butted him with her head.

    “Bitch!” he muttered, pushing her to the ground.

    In the confusion, I was able to step from behind the tree and get a bead on him.

    “Drop the gun. Don’t make me shoot!”

    He whirled to fire, but I fired first, hitting him in the arm.

    The gun went flying, and seeing he was unarmed, Tweedy took off running, holding his arm.

    By the time I got to Amanda, he was long gone.

    I pulled the tape off of her mouth and untied her hands.

    “Are you okay?”

    “I --- I think so. Thank you, Walt. Ox has told me so many crazy stories about you. I thought he was just pulling my leg, but he wasn’t. You saved my life.”

    Just then Willie strolled up.

    “Police! You’re surrounded! Impersonating a cop! That was quite a bluff.”

    “Yeah, maybe, but Tweedy didn’ know it was. Worked didn’ it?”

    It did this time, but knowing that the creep was still in the wind gave me an uneasy feeling. If I had given in to temptation, this nightmare would be over.

    I had resisted crossing over to the dark side, but I couldn’t help wondering if I had made the right choice.

    Only time would tell.

CHAPTER 11

    Thankfully, Amanda Parrish wasn’t seriously injured.

    I was impressed with the way she had attacked Tweedy when the bullets started flying. After seeing her in action twice, I felt confident that Ox was in good hands with his new partner.

    Imagine the looks of surprise when the boys in blue discovered that Amanda had been rescued by two seventy-year-old civilians.

    A day after the incident reports were logged in, I received a call from Abe Parrish thanking Willie and me for our heroics. It’s always nice to get an ‘atta boy’ from the Police Commissioner, but the thing that meant the most to me was the hug and the ‘thanks, Partner’ from Ox.

    The first few days of my retirement had been a real drag. I had been bored and listless and wondering if I had made the right choice in giving up my badge.

    My new P.I. business was just the tonic I needed to reinforce the notion that I still could make a worthwhile contribution and give Lady Justice a helping hand.

    My first case, compliments of Suzanne Romero, had been a success and given me the confidence that I was on the right track.

    However, it wasn’t long before I discovered that there was a big difference between my days on the force and my new business venture. When I was a cop, I would simply report to the precinct every day, Ox and I would hit the streets and before the day was over we’d be knee deep in some kind of case.

    A week had passed since our run in with Demarcus Tweedy and I was hoping that our involvement in Amanda’s rescue would encourage people to seek the services of a geriatric private eye, but it just wasn’t happening.

    Doubts about the viability of my new career were starting to creep in when the phone rang.

    “Is this Walt Williams, the private investigator?”

    The call I had been anxiously awaiting took me by surprise. “Uhhh, yes. This is Walt Williams. How may I help you?”

    “My name is Dr. Elizabeth Crane and I think someone’s stalking me. I need your help.”

    After setting an appointment with Dr. Crane, my first call was to Kevin, making sure he was available to meet our new client. He was, and arrived a full hour before our scheduled meeting.

    Our office, such as it was, was in my apartment. When Maggie and I were married, we converted the whole top floor of my building into a two bedroom unit with an office where Maggie performed her real estate duties. Since we had no idea how successful my new P.I. business would be, it seemed foolish to start out with the overhead of rental office space, so Maggie agreed to share. It didn’t exactly project an image of professionalism, but it was a start.

    Dr. Crane was right on time.

    I was surprised to see that she was about my age. She wore a grey pant suit that was almost a match to her naturally grey hair that was tied in a bun on the back of her head. She had an air of professionalism, but the laugh lines around her eyes and mouth were a tell-tale sign that she had a lighter side.

    I made the introductions and she handed me her card. It read, ‘Elizabeth Crane, MD, Cardiologist, Mid America Heart Institute.’

    When we were seated, I got right to the point. “How can we help you Dr. Crane?”

    “Actually, I almost called and cancelled our appointment. I feel rather foolish. I just have the feeling that someone is following me --- that I’m being watched. I haven’t actually
seen
anyone --- it’s just a gut feeling.”

    “Have you talked to the police?” I asked.

    “I have, and that’s why I’m here. The officer I spoke with was kind enough, but he pointed out that unless someone had actually threated or assaulted me, there was nothing they could do. That’s when he told me I should see you. I understand you’re a retired policeman.”

    “Yes, Ma’am. Five years on the force, and my partner has thirty years as a private investigator. Do you mind if I ask you some personal questions? It might give us an idea as to why someone would be stalking you.”

    “Certainly. What would you like to know?”

    “Let’s start with your family. Are you married?”

    “I was. My husband passed away three years ago. We were both cardiologists and had our own practice, but when Arthur died I sold out and joined the Mid America Heart Institute. I’m just turning seventy and I only want to work a few days a week. Being one of a couple of dozen cardiologists in our office lets me do just that.”

    “Let’s talk about your work,” I said, examining her card. “What exactly did you and your husband do?”

    “I was the diagnostician and case manager for our office and my husband was the surgeon.”

    “So you and your husband actually performed open heart surgery in your practice?”

    “Yes, Arthur was an excellent surgeon. Angioplasty, bypasses, valve replacements and repair --- he could do it all.”

    Kevin could see where I was going. “I’m sure it was quite rewarding, saving and prolonging lives, but I’m guessing that not everyone could be saved.”

    Dr. Crane could see where this was going as well. “Unfortunately, no, Mr. McBride, but I can assure you that I’m not being stalked by the relative of some patient that lost a loved one.”

    “How can you be so sure?”

    “That’s just not how it works. If I had botched a diagnosis or Arthur had botched a procedure, the first thing a grieving relative would do would be to sue for millions for malpractice. They would exact their revenge in the courtroom.”

    “Did that ever happen to you?”

    “Never!”

    “Okay then,” I interjected. “Let’s move on. What about the rest of your family? Do you have children?”

    “No, career always came first for both of us. My parents are both deceased. I had one brother. He is deceased as well, but we were never close. He had two sons, but I’ve never even met one of them. I don’t even know where they live. Sorry, I know I’m not being much help.”

    “Can you think of ANY other reason why someone would be stalking you?”

    “I really can’t.” She started to get up. “I knew this would be a waste of time. I shouldn’t have come.”

    “Hold on just a moment,” Kevin said. “I’ve been doing this a long time and I’ve learned one thing --- nine times out of ten, if a person, especially a woman, feels like they’re being followed, it’s probably true. We just don’t know the ‘who’ or the ‘why’ yet. That’s where we come in.”

    “What can you do?” she asked, perplexed.

    “We can follow you too. If someone’s stalking you, we’ll find them. ‘Stalking the stalkers’ so to speak. Let’s give it a week. If we don’t come up with anything, you can chalk it up to imagination. But if you’re really being followed, you need to know.”

    She thought for a moment. “What do you need?”

    “Your daily schedule,” Kevin replied. “You can text it to us every morning before you leave your house. Give us a ‘heads up’ if you deviate whatsoever. Wherever you go, we’ll go, but you’ll never know we’re there.”

    “All right then, one week.”

    We negotiated our fee and signed a contract for our services.

    Kevin and Walt, the geriatric gumshoes, had a real paying client and were ready to kick ass.

    Surveillance is a mind-numbing chore.

    After two eight-hour days in the car my butt was getting bedsores.

    “How could you do this for thirty years?” I asked Kevin as we waited outside the gated community where Elizabeth Crane lived.

    “Nobody said it would be glamorous,” Kevin replied. “If you plan to do this very long you might want to buy some stock in Preparation H.”

    “Very funny.”

    Just then, the big iron gate swung open and Dr. Crane’s BMW pulled out into the street. She looked around, hoping to spot us, but Kevin knew just where to park so we wouldn’t be seen.

    I checked her daily schedule. “She’s heading to her office, then has lunch with a colleague at eleven-thirty.”

    We knew the route to her office so Kevin stayed a good two blocks behind her.

    Suddenly, a black Chevy van, pitted with rust spots and dents, pulled out of a side street and fell in behind the doctor.

    “Whoa, that piece of crap certainly doesn’t belong in this neighborhood,” Kevin said.

    “Maybe it’s a gardener or a repairman,” I replied.

    “Maybe, maybe not. We’ll know soon enough.”

    We dropped back another block and followed the van into the medical center parking lot.

    It idled long enough to see the doctor lock her Beemer and enter the building. As soon as she was inside, it pulled out of the lot and headed back along the route we had just traveled.

    “Dollars to donuts they’re going back to her place. They wanted to make sure she was away from home. Bet you a buck they’re going back to case the place.”

    Kevin was right. The van slowed down in front of the big iron gate.

    It was obvious that the folks living inside took their security seriously. The doctor had a control similar to a garage door opener that activated the gate. Two surveillance cameras were perched atop the brick and stone structures that held the gate. A ten foot high brick wall circled the two block perimeter of the compound that held eight houses on estate sized lots.

    The van pulled away and circled the blocks surrounding the walled compound. The houses bordering the compound were as elegant as the ones inside, and from what we could see, each one had security cameras as well.

    “If they’re planning to break in, it can be done, but it won’t be easy,” Kevin observed. “There,” he said, pointing to a vacant lot. “That’s the weak point. No house, no cameras. They can get to the brick wall unobserved, then it’s just a matter of scaling the wall. They could do it with ropes and grappling hooks if they’re any good.”

    After completing the circle around the neighborhood, the van headed toward downtown.

    “Might as well tail ‘em,” Kevin said. “Let’s see where they lite.”

    Twenty minutes later, they pulled up in front of a brick six-plex on Linwood just a few blocks from my Three Trails Hotel.

    We watched as two middle-aged guys parked and went inside.

    “Let’s see who we’re dealing with Kevin said, grabbing a tablet and a pen.

    We entered the foyer of the building and Kevin started writing names from the six mailboxes built into the wall.

    “Time for a pow-pow with the good doctor. Let’s see if any of these names ring a bell.”