Death List (13 page)

By now, they must have realized that someone had a list with quite a few of the big shots' names on it. The big boys were walking around in a daze hoping like hell their names weren't on that list. So it wouldn't do, no matter how he toyed with the idea, to let them know that he knew the niggers responsible for the mass murders. He couldn't afford to sell his knowledge. Those people played pretty damn rough. They wouldn't accept his denial that he didn't know anything about the list. No, they wouldn't believe him, not if he gave them even a hint of what he knew.

Next, he considered the possibility of calling the police and leaving a tip. The idea intrigued him. Something had to be done. A mad dog had been turned loose, and no matter how he thought about it, Angelo felt as if he were responsible.

Angelo came out of the bathroom with his mind made up. He picked up the telephone and made his call. He asked for the homicide division and spoke hurriedly when the detective answered.

"If you want to know who's behind these killings, check out some punks that have an organization on Clay Street. Their leader is called Kenyatta. I know from personal experience that Kenyatta's people are responsible for the killings that happened today. I saw the submachine guns when they put them in their car."

He quickly hung up, then wiped the sweat off his brow. He smiled, feeling as if he had done at least one good turn today. What was it Kenyatta called him-a snitch? Well, Kenyatta, old boy, I guess you can really call me a snitch now. I just hope they bust your black ass as soon as possible.

Down at headquarters, Detective Nelson called his partner, Steward, over and whispered the information in his ear. Both men got up and slipped out of the office. This was the break they needed. Nelson held a small piece of paper in his hand. "The caller even gave me this address. It won't take us long to check it out. He says they keep their guns hid there, too."

Steward glanced over at him. "You think we might meet with more than we can handle? Maybe we should take some kind of help along."

"Fuck that shit!" Nelson exploded. "I don't plan on allowing none of those bastards to steal this shit from under our noses. Hell no, we can check it out ourselves, and if we need any help, call in a black-andwhite squad car as a backup. In fact, when we get there, we can call in a couple of squad cars to help us out."

The two detectives grinned at each other and rushed down in the elevator. This was a chance to put a feather in each of their caps-ones they could be proud of. The captain would have to look at them with a little more respect after this, instead of putting all his faith in that black and white team he seemed to favor.

As the two detectives left the elevator downstairs in the basement garage, they met Detectives Malloy and Andrews of Vice. Nelson and Steward stopped and waited for the other young detectives to reach them. Steward leaned back on his heels and opened his suitcoat, revealing the double-harness shoulder holster he wore. The two big forty-fives made his suitcoat lopsided.

"When the hell did you start working with Wild Bill Hickok, Nelson?" Detective Malloy asked as they came up.

Nelson just smiled, then said, "Jack, you know how Steward is. He thinks two of everything is better than one, but I'd be damned if I'd want to lug all that heavy artillery around. This fuckin' thirty-eight I have to carry gets in the way too damn much as it is."

Steward only chuckled. He didn't give a damn what they thought about him wearing two pistols. He liked the idea of himself in his checkered red-and-white sports coat with the two guns underneath.

Malloy ignored the young detective after that and spoke to Nelson. "I think I might have something for you. It's only a small lead, but it might just click. We got a call from this informant of ours at a motel over on Grand River. Now, I don't know if it will help you or not, or even if it's your man, because we got this call and just ran by there and checked the guy's room out. There wasn't nothing there, but one thing kept ringing in my mind. I heard about this description you got from the paperboy on that family killing out in Conant Gardens." Malloy hesitated, then added, "It might be nothing, but it rang this bell with me, you know, with the kid calling the guy he saw leaving the house a creeper. Well, we got the very same description from the motel owner, you know. The only way he can describe this guy is by calling him a creeper. So, like I said, it might not be anything, but it is funny that both people resorted to the same description. I mean, it's different-you don't run into it every day, so he must be a hard-lookin' fucker whoever he is." Jack gestured with his hands. "But like I said, it might be nothing; then again, it might give you guys a lead. From what I hear, you could sure as hell stand a lead right about now."

Malloy's partner, Andrews, spoke up. "I wanted to find Ryan and let him know about this. He digs like a bulldog, so something like this would be right up his line."

"Goddamn it, Andrews, you don't have to tell Ryan shit," Steward said, letting his coat fall back in place as he stopped posing. "Me and Nelson can check it out as good as Ryan and that spade he works with."

Andrews glanced sharply at Steward. "I don't know how you meant that, Steward, but I'll tell you one thing. Benson, that so-called spade, is one of the best detectives you'll ever meet, and you can lay odds to that."

At that moment, Steward snorted through his nose as if he'd just gotten a smell of something bad. "Each man to his own opinion, Tom, but I have my doubts about Mr. Benson. He don't raise no hell in my view. I don't see him bustin' this case we're all workin' like hell to open. Naw, he's just living off of past cases. You guys will see one day, if it weren't for the old boy Ryan, that spade would probably still be in uniform someplace."

"Well, whatever you do," Malloy stated harshly, "don't let Ryan hear you cuttin' his partner up like that, because you'd have one mad-ass officer on your tail!"

"I wouldn't blame him, either," Andrews added. "Benson has saved Ryan's life on more than one occasion, Steward. And Ryan don't forget things like that. Especially when a guy steps in front of you and takes a fuckin' slug from a thirty-eight in his own chest so that you don't get hit."

"That's new shit to me," Nelson said, trying to pull his partner out of the hot water he was getting into.

"Yeah, it probably is, but the old-timers around here know about it," Malloy stated coldly. "It was before you guys' time. Both of you were still in school when it happened. And Ryan is one guy who will never forget it. He looks on his colored partner as a friend, so keep that in mind whenever you're talking about Benson around him. He won't stand for no shit said about his partner, and when I say he won't stand for it, I mean just that. It don't take much to set him off, either." Malloy turned to his partner. "Well, Tom, we gave these guys enough to make them heroes if they follow it up right, so let's get on upstairs and finish our checker game."

Steward laughed. "That's the sweet thing about vice detail. All you guys have to do is bust some sweetass broads and relax the rest of the time."

"Yeah, you hit it right on the head," Malloy answered sharply. "That's all we have to do. But if I were you," and again he turned to Nelson. "I'd approach this guy with a lot of care. We just left the motel and it looks as if he will be coming back there, but we didn't have any jurisdiction, so we left. So we decided to pass the information on to you guys, who get paid for working on this kind of crap."

"Okay, we really appreciate it," Nelson said as the two men started to walk away. "And we'll check it out. You never can tell; it might just be the key we've been looking for."

"I'll just bet it is," the two vice men heard Steward say dryly as the men went off in pairs.

"You know," Malloy said loud enough for Steward and Nelson to hear, "that fuckin' Steward is a smartass bastard. I'd sure in the hell hate to be in Nelson's position and have to work with that smart-ass every day. Jesus Christ, I couldn't wish that on my worst friend, if you know what I mean."

Nelson had to reach out and grab Steward's arm to hold him back. "Don't worry about cracks like that, man. We got more important things on our minds than what some fuckin' frustrated vice squad dick says. Let's get over there and see if we can shed some kind of light on this case, Stew. With both these leads we got, maybe, just maybe one of them might pay off."

"Okay," Steward answered. "I'll say amen to that. But when we get back, I'm going to ask that smart ass just what he meant by that crack, and you can bet on that."

THE CREEPER PEERED OUT of his motel room window. The room he had rented at the Holiday Inn was right across from the one that was still occupied by Angelo. From what he could see through the partially open drapes of Angelo's window, he could tell that the man was getting ready to make his run.

Kenyatta hadn't been wrong about that, he reflected as he watched. The bastard is on his way out as quick as he can go, but ain't he got a surprise coming? He ain't going where he's expectin' to go, the Creeper coldly thought as he watched and waited, trying to make up his mind how to do it. He didn't like to make his hits out in the open, but at the rate Angelo was moving, it looked as if he would have to knock the sucker off out in the parking lot.

Suddenly out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed some movement. It was the maid going into an apartment four doors down from the one that Angelo occupied. It came to him at once. The idea was beautiful. He found himself moving before he had even finished thinking it through. It would work, he was sure of it.

He ran down the stairway and up the steps into the other wing. He slowed down as he approached the open door where the maid was busy making up the bed. The heavyset black woman had her back turned to him as he slipped into the room. She must have sensed his presence because she was turning around when he chopped down on the back of her neck with a judo punch. It was a neck-breaking blow, one that the Creeper knew how to deliver with ease. He was always surprised whenever he used it and killed with just the one blow. It made his pride swell to know that he could take a life with just one simple action.

The dead black woman meant nothing to him. He had no emotional feelings about killing her other than a feeling of pride-pride that he could destroy with just one well-placed blow to the back of the neck. He owed this prowess to what Kenyatta had taught him.

He reached down and took the key ring from the woman's body, examining his work and nodding silently. The bitch never knew what hit her. He chuckled, remembering the long hours he had spent listening to Kenyatta, then doing the things that his leader had instructed him to do. Yeah, thought the Creeper, that's one black man who really knows his shit.

The Creeper moved quietly to the door, took a quick glance outside to make sure the way was clear, and then slipped out, closing the door firmly behind him. It would be a while before anybody found the woman's body; then it would be too late. He would be long gone. The job that was waiting for him was the one he was concerned with, and he only hoped it would go as smoothly as the murder of the maid. If he could kill the fat man with one blow, there would be no noise to give him away. It would be the perfect murder.

He checked the numbers on the key ring until he found the one he wanted. He hesitated outside the door of Angelo's room, listening. He wanted to make sure the man was by himself. He'd hate to bust in and find some cunt lying up on the bed. Quietly he inserted the key in the lock, and removed the pistol from his shoulder holster. He put his shoulder against the door and pushed. He was in the room before the fat man had any idea he was going to have company.

Angelo glanced up sharply as he heard his door open. His jaw dropped in surprise as he saw the tall, baldheaded man step into the room. The big gun in the black man's hand told him it wasn't a friendly visit. Just the sight of the Creeper caused Angelo to feel as if he was about to have a bowel movement.

"What the fuck's going on here?" he managed to say, trying to get up from the edge of the bed. His legs didn't have any strength in them, so he just sat back down.

"Hello, white boy. You didn't think we were goin' let you leave town with all our money, did you?" the Creeper inquired, as his small reddish eyes searched the room, making sure no one else was there. "Naw, man, we couldn't allow no shit like that. So Kenyatta sent me around to collect it. He says you sold him some bullshit information, some shit he can't use. It seems as if every fuckin' body on the list you gave him is dying for some reason or other." The man let out a cold laugh.

The Creeper leaned over towards Angelo, as if he was going to confide in him. "Yeah, Angelo, of boy, as much trouble as we've gone through, it would seem that you would know better than to put shit on my main man like that, so here I am. The collector. I've come to pick up the money you came and collected for a list that wasn't worth a shit."

For a brief second, Angelo felt relief. If it wasn't nothing but a heist, it wouldn't be bad. He could always get some more money, even though he hated the idea of parting with what he had. It was what he had planned to use on his trip, but from the looks of the black man in front of him, this was no time to argue over a few thousand.