Angelfall: Parts 1 to 5 (21 page)
Read Angelfall: Parts 1 to 5 Online
Authors: Conrad Powell
“Well. I’ve got real work to do,” I said as they began to descend the staircase.
“Yeah and I am the President of Mexico,” said Rodriguez. They laughed as they disappeared down the staircase.
I ducked under the tape and entered a pitch black apartment.
I flicked on my pen flashlight and walked into the main passageway. Immediately on the left was a small white bathroom.
I walked past the bathroom into the yellow kitchen and then to the living room. I saw a bright flood light ahead. As I walked into the bedroom, Crime Scene Investigation was busy snapping photos. Cilantro wasted no time.
“About time you got here,” he said above the activity. The cameras flashed. The captain stood filling out a preliminary sheet while negotiating a stubborn booger from his hairy nostril. It refused to yield.
The captain stood next to a well dressed tall skinny black man lying face down on the bed with a gunshot wound to the head and a 45 special in his left hand.
The cameras flashed.
Dried blood leaked from his head soaking the blue sheets.
“It was bumper to bumper downtown,” I said pulling a small notepad and pen from my blazer. “What we got?”
“Suicide. Body has been cold for some time. It was called in a few hours ago by Mrs. Lichtenstein, a little Jewish lady in #3B. Says she smelled an awful odor coming from the apartment and called 911. We broke the door down. It’s a waste talking to her. She’s a flippin’ chatterbox. Anyway I obtained all the information I think she can offer.”
I jotted away as the cameras continued to flash. This explains the smashed door. Suicide. No forced entry.
I wanted to ask him what was so special about this crime, but I didn’t.
“All yours,” he said pointing to the dead man. “Give me a report in a couple of days.” I nodded.
He turned on his flashlight, squeezed past the crime scene officers and headed out the door leaving me with the mess. I donned a pair of latex gloves and went to work. I noticed a piece of paper on the floor and picked it up.
A final flash caught my eye. I recovered and read the note:
Ana,
You hurt. I hurt. They knew. Who is to blame?
My humiliation runs deep.
Next Time,
O.R.
I suffered a squinting aftershock as I flipped the note over. It was written on the back of a blank Bank of Jamaica letterhead.
As I examined it, the Forensic Unit dashed in obviously rushing from their last crime scene. I place the note in a clear plastic bag and deposited it into my evidence knapsack.
The team acknowledged me and got down to work like busy worker ants on a freshly killed bug. They took swabs of the blood around the bed and separate swabs of the blood from the victim.
They collected hair samples and the bullet. When they were complete, they nodded to me and left me alone with O.R.
“Looks like it’s me and you my friend,” I said. I noticed his nails. They were dirty and his body was extra cold.
“Have you had a woman divorce you and take all that you have?” I said softly.
“I suppose that wouldn’t matter now anyway.”
I looked around the room. No blood was splashed on the wall. I engaged my pen light and meandered to the living room.
I picked up a mangled computer and retrieved the hard drive putting it in a clear bag and dropping it into my knapsack. I noticed a little plaque on the wall.
It read:
“Revenge is a soup best served cold.
-Author Unknown”
I wandered into the kitchen and shined the flashlight in the fridge. It was completely empty and frowsy. Not a family guy or a cook. A note was attached with a magnet on the outside of the fridge.
It read: BOJ closes 3PM.
I slipped the note into a clear bag and dropped it into my knapsack.
As I ducked under the police line and walked out of the apartment, the Coroners came up the stairs with stretcher in hand.
I looked at the door marked #3B and gently knocked. No one answered.
I knocked louder. Still no one answered.
As I walked away, I heard the door open behind me.
A short elderly lady peeped through the cracked door latched with a security chain.
“Yes?” she said in a strong voice. “May I help you?”
“I hope so. Mrs. Lichtenstein?” She nodded through the crack.
“I am Detective John Start. My superior spoke to you earlier about the incident next door?” I flashed my new detective badge.
“Yes, he did.”
“May I speak to you for a moment?”
“Sure.” She unhooked the chain and waived me inside. Her hunchback caused her to walk a bit slow but sure. When she reached the couch, I reached out to help her sit but she waived my hand away.
“I’m fine,” she said.
The strange aroma of old coffee grinds mixed with Bendgay, Vicks vapor rub and alcohol stifled my nostrils.
“Mam, how long has O.R. lived next door?” I asked.
“O.R.?”
“Yes. The person next door had the initials O.R.”
“I didn’t know someone lived next door at least not recently. I have not seen or heard anyone in that apartment since the Simpsons moved a years ago. Nice little family. Husband died. Terrible car accident. Wife moved with her two sons to Long Island.”
She hacked an awful cough spitting up yellow mucus into a chamber pot next to the couch. She recovered.
“I haven’t heard from them since.”
“What did you hear next door?”
“I didn’t. Not a peep. Just a smell. An awful odor coming from next door earlier this evening. I called 911 right away.” I jotted away in my notebook.
“Not a peep and you were here all last week?”
“Not a peep and I am always here. My grandson Noel shops for me and gets my medicine.” She pointed to a picture on the living room bookshelf.
It was a photo of a young man with gold plated teeth who looked like he belonged in a Lil’ Wayne rap video instead of a synagogue.
“Mmm. Thank you for your time. Please call me if you see anything strange.” I handed her my new business card.
“Sure,” she said as she escorted me to the door. I exited her door and turned back to her.
“Tell me something. Who lives in this building?”
“Oh let’s see. There is Mr. Bent in #3C. #3D is empty. On the second floor in #2A are The Crenshaws. The Wilsons are in #2B. #2C has old man Smikle. He’s been here the longest probably when the building was first built. #2D is Ronaldo Etienne, the Haitian man. Nice fella - Keeps to himself and works as a janitor downtown. The first floor is empty except Mr. Pilar, the Superintendent who lives in #1A. That’s about it.”
I jotted it all down.
“Thank you.” I rubbed my eyes. I jumped into Bessie and left Willmohr. I became alert again when I stepped out of my car into the underground garage of my apartment building in Flatbush.
I didn’t recall when I had turned onto Linden Boulevard, back on Church Avenue and onto Flatbush Avenue.
I dropped everything on the kitchen table and somehow made it to the bedroom where I fell into a deep sleep.
***
(Detective John Aston Martin Start Thriller Series, Book 1):
By Conrad Powell.
©
Copyright 2008 Conrad Powell.
EXCERPT…
Chapter 17
Downtown Brooklyn.
I was back at the coliseum before the captain could get a chance to yell at me. As I walked in the lobby Greg didn’t miss a beat.
“Bro. I swear we need to switch jobs. I don’t know why they keep payin’ ya. You’re hardly here. Well then again if they didn’t pay you I wouldn’t get the chance to take it from you on poker night. You know you can’t play poker worth crap,” said Gregory.
“I hear you G.”
“Ladies and Gentlemen, the mighty John Start ain’t got a comeback.”
“I’m sorry G. I got this case from Willmohr Street that is beating me silly. I got a guy dead from a gunshot wound in an apartment that’s now burned out only to find out he couldn’t write the letter he did and that he ain’t the banker he appeared to be but a forgotten crack dealer turned crack addict.”
“Well don’t bother tellin’ me. I ain’t gettin’ the big bucks to take on those headaches. All I do is watch ‘em come in and watch ‘em go out.” It was quarter to 4.
“Listen. I better head to this meeting.” I disappeared in the elevator.
My office door was open and I walked inside. A janitor was inside emptying my trash. His back was turned to me and he didn’t stir when I came in.
“Hi there. I wish you guys would clean my blinds. I have been asking you all since I moved in here.”
The janitor did not acknowledge my presence. As I headed to sit at my desk, I caught his line of vision then he finally looked up. I repeated my cleaning request. He pointed to his ears and mouth and shook his head.
The guy was deaf. No wonder he didn’t hear me come in. I motioned him to wait. I did the politically correct thing and wrote my cleaning request on a notepad and tore the sheet and gave it to him. He read it without so much as a smile and walked out with the garbage bag. So much for customer service, even from the disabled.
I rang the captain’s office on my desk phone.
“Cap. I will be twenty minutes late.”
“Whatever,” he said and hung up.
I needed a few more minutes to check Anders in IT. The IT department was on the Third Floor. Anders sat at his cubicle crunching some numbers from the SHIVA network in between bites of what looked like a three hour old tuna fish sandwich.
Anders at 14 years old cracked into the President of the United States’ Pentagon account just so he could show how easy it was.
The Feds didn’t take too kindly to it and arrested him. When he explained how he used variable non-linear algorithms to crack the codes, the Police Department persuaded the Feds to drop the charges and the Brooklyn Precinct offered him a job in the IT Special Task Force under special rules to avoid child labor laws.
Anders was part of an exclusive international team of whiz kids that created the SHIVA Network.
In 1995, the European Union, the Caribbean, North America and the East Asian countries agreed by treaty to share all convict information and ex-con travel details. All ex-cons moving among the member countries had to report their whereabouts and itinerary to the Network or face a five year conviction upon recapture and extradition back to the excon’s member country. In 2010, Anders and his team finally implemented the system which linked all police stations from every member country with each other.
I startled Anders.
“John. Don’t sneak up on me like that. I might be young but I could still suffer a brain aneurism.”
“Kimosabe. You know what I am here for and don’t tell me you didn’t get around to it either.”
“I did it. I did it. Yikes.”
Anders pointed to four boxes on the floor in the corner. I pulled off the tag labeled:
“Start, John – Re: Willmohr Street – Apt#3A – (1) Hard Drive converted to paper files.”
“Ahh. My boy. Thanks much. Looks like I got my night cut out for me.”
“It wasn’t easy.”
“Anders for you everything is easy.”
“No. Really. Someone erased the hard drive, but as you know every hard drive keeps a ghost of all deleted files. I went back and made negatives of the cache and printed hard copies from there.”
“I guess I’ll relieve you of these.” I grabbed a dolly nearby and packed the boxes on it.
“Thanks again. And slow down on the tuna. Looks like its breaking you out.”
I carted the boxes to the elevator and headed for the lobby.
As I exited the elevator I walked past Greg with my load. Greg wasted no time with the jokes.
“I knew it. I knew it. Aston, they finally figured out you weren’t workin’.”
Greg faked like he was crying. “Man. I’m sorry. I’m gonna miss you man.”
Greg pretended to wipe his fake tears. Who will I make fun of now?”
He busted a gut laugh.
“Try makin’ fun of your mama. Your mama so dumb that when they were robbing the liquor store they told her to freeze and she ran in the freezer,” I said.
“Good one. Good one,” said Greg with a chuckle as I filed past him.
***
(Detective John Aston Martin Start Thriller Series, Book 1):
By Conrad Powell.
©
Copyright 2008 Conrad Powell.
EXCERPT…
Chapter 24
Downtown Brooklyn.
This morning I skipped Spinner’s cafe and got to work real early. In fact only the cleaning crew was at work and of course Greg sitting comfortably at the front desk sipping a Caramel Macchiato Latte from Starbucks.
I tiptoed past the cleaning man buffing the lobby floor and walked over to Greg.
“Hold up. Wait a minute. Stop the presses,” said Greg as he shook his head and threw his hands up in the air.
“The great John Start at work and early at that.”
I smirked.
“A little expensive don’t you think on a minimum wage budget,” I said motioning to the Caramel Macchiato in his hand.
Greg did not miss a beat. I knew what was coming.
“Well, I can afford it especially since I got that extra disposable income from whooping your ass at the poker table the last uh, what, 100 times.”
I should have seen that one coming.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”
I might as well face it. Greg out matches me. I have really lost my touch. I ignored a comeback, thou. Truth is I couldn’t engineer one because I was on a mission.
I ran into Captain Cilantro’s office.
The captain, who sat looking intensely at some paperwork on his desk, spoke without even looking up.
“Detective Start, it’s called knocking. You should try it sometime.” The captain continued to focus on his desk work.
“Captain.” The captain finally caved in and looked up at me.
“Start. What the hell is so exciting?”
“Cap. There’s a bank robbery about to happen.”
“Great. Line up the special patrol unit and deal with it.”
“It’s going to happen in Jamaica.”
“Great. Call Jamaica New York Police Department. That’s not our jurisdiction.”
“Cap, Jamaica. Jamaica as in fun, frolic and ganja.”
“No blah blah,” he said now looking up at me. Again I edited out his Cursinese.
“I found documents on the ghost of a hard drive speaking of a plan to rob the Bank of Jamaica.”
“I am requesting permission to go to Jamaica and investigate.”
“Sure Start. We’ll book the ticket right away. Do you prefer kosher or non-kosher? I take it first class will do.”
“Great Cap.”
“Start. Are you seriously losing your mind? Hell no. I can’t let you take a vacation, cause its obvious, that’s what you want. Look don’t you make me regret promoting you.”
The captain paused then put his eyes on his desk.
“Jamaica indeed.” He muttered under his breath.
It was as if I disappeared from the room as stood there in front of his desk. I didn’t give up.
“Cap. I have to go. I am asking you please.” I banged on his desk.
“Cap. Imagine the kudos you will get when your department is recognized as solving and thwarting the commission of a major robbery of an entire country.”
“You want the glory, Start, not I. I don’t need it. I just need to stay Italian and die.”
I stood there in continued shock at my rejection.
“Cap,” I said. Before I could get out the rest, Officer Rodriquez ran into the captain’s office.
“Doesn’t anybody know how to knock around here? Rodriguez. What the hell is it?”
“Captain. We got homicides in the Botanical Gardens six found dead a mysterious circle,” said Rodriquez.
The captain jumped up, grabbed his blazer, and rushed out the door.
I ran after him all the way to the back parking lot. I reached in front of his patrol car as it was driving away with Officer Nesbitt at the wheel. I blocked their path. The captain wound down the window.
“You are a persistent son-uv-a-b. Aren’t you?” said the captain.
“All right. Fine. I will grant you one week. That is all. Have your ass here after that week or it will be hell to pay. Drop the requisition form on my desk in an hour. I’ll be back.”
Officer Nesbitt slowly drove the vehicle past me.
“One week, Start. Just one week. That’s all.” They drove off leaving me standing there.
***
(Detective John Aston Martin Start Thriller Series, Book 1):
By Conrad Powell.
©
Copyright 2008 Conrad Powell.
EXCERPT…
