Death List (5 page)

CAPTAIN DAVIDSON STARED over his hornrimmed glasses at the two officers in front of him. The stout, graying officer realized that it wasn't their fault that none of the officers in homicide had cracked the case yet. At least these two men had come closer to getting an arrest than any of the others. But he still had to crack the whip over their heads, just as he did with the rest of the men.

"Goddamn it, Ryan, Benson, what the hell are you two guys doing back there in your office? Playing with yourselves?" He waited for a second, then continued in a bullish voice. "I can expect nothing from these young college-ass kids I'm stuck with in this department, but you two guys, shit!" The word came out in a roar. It could be heard out front, where all the junior officers worked.

Ryan shifted nervously on his feet. He couldn't stand being yelled at. It caused his nerves to work overtime, like they were doing now.

Benson only fought down the smile that threatened to come to his lips. He realized how nervous Ryan must be by the loud yelling of their boss. That was the reason Ryan couldn't stand the interviews. The yelling just upset him until he couldn't think straight.

Davidson must have realized that he was overdoing it because he lowered his voice. "Now fellows," he began, trying another approach, "let's try and look at it from my side of the wagon, okay? The fuckin' commissioner is breathing down my neck, cops literally gettin' killed at will. And now this. Two men with their girlfriends murdered in cold blood in broad daylight, yet nobody saw anything. It's unbelievable. I mean it. We're not back in the roaring twenties. These things just don't go on in our day and age without getting solved, so what's the problem? I don't want to hear about won't nobody talk. I gave you guys a free hand, allowing you to work when you wanted to.

He raised his hand to cut off an excuse from Ryan. "Yeah, I know. You boys were going to work on your own time. I appreciate the offer, but what did I do? I said no sirree, not on your own time. Just punch in, and I'd see to it that you're paid for every fuckin' minute you put in down here, didn't I?"

Before the men could reply, he continued, and his voice rose higher. "Now, you can't beat such a boss, can you? I put my fat ass out on the limb for you guys. And now they're trying to cut the fuckin' limb off while I'm out on it. But I promise you guys one thing, if they cut it off on me, I'll make damn sure I fall on somebody's head before I hit the ground. Do I make myself clear?"

Both of the officers shook their heads in agreement, thankful that the interview was over and not really bothered by the threat. Before Davidson got rid of them, a hell of a lot of other officers would feel his heavy hand. They were the closest ones to the case. No other team of detectives was anywhere nearer to solving the murder spree than they were.

"Oh, Benson, Ryan," Davidson called out as the two men neared the door in their rush to get clear of the captain's office, "the next time I send you guys two young detectives to take along, please take them. How the hell else are these guys going to get any experience if they don't go with some of you vets?"

"That was my fault, Captain," Benson said quickly. "I....,,

The captain waved the excuse away. "I didn't ask about whose fault it was; just take them along next time. I don't see how they can get in the way by just riding in the backseat of a fuckin' police car."

"Okay, Captain, we'll take care of it," Benson replied as he opened the door.

Ryan almost ran through the open door in his haste to get away from the captain. As they made their way through the office, Benson noticed the two young detectives sitting at the desk. Both men were grinnin

The captain waved the excuse away. "I didn't ask atain had said. As Benson caught their eyes, the men glanced away, but not before he could see the look of triumph.

"Up your fuckin' ass," Benson said under his breath. He promised himself that it would be a cold day in hell before he'd allow those bastards to follow him along on any case.

"Hey, Ryan," a slim, red-faced detective called out as they passed, "you and Ben had better check and see if you've still got anything back there to sit on."

The other officers sitting nearby broke out laughing. It tickled them to see another man on the carpet, just as long as it wasn't their own asses catching the hell. To get called into the captain's office wasn't anything to be proud of. He very seldom wanted to see an officer unless it was about something important on a new case, or about someone's mistake.

Benson glared around defiantly at the white officers. It didn't take much for him to realize that they enjoyed what they thought was his being put into place. But a hell of a lot of people had been killed lately, and not only hadn't Ryan and Benson had any luck, but neither had any of the other detectives in the room.

"Let's take a quick ride," Ryan said briskly, not even waiting for his partner's answer. He kept walking until they got in the elevator, then pushed the button for the garage.

Both men remained silent, trying to make some kind of sense out of the latest murders. Ryan drove, taking the freeway until he reached the Clay Street exit. He took the ramp that led to the right and made a turn over to Oakland Avenue. He parked behind a moving van, then removed a small slip of paper from his pocket.

"Kenyatta," he said out loud. "I don't know if he's got anything to do with this shit, but everything we've got leads in his direction."

Benson nodded toward the storefront a few cars away. "Well, that's the bastard's funky-ass club. It took a hell of a lot of trouble just to get somebody to have the nerve to tell us where it was located," Benson stated, then continued. "That in itself speaks of the enormous ghetto power. Whenever people fear somebody, as it seems these people fear him, it's time we looked into it."

Ryan nodded his head in agreement. "I can't understand how this guy exploded in our midst without us ever gettin' any kind of wire on him. It's as if he came from another world. Nobody, and I mean nobody, wants to talk about him or his people."

As the two detectives sat watching the front of the club, a small black Ford pulled up. The car was tilted over towards the driver's seat, and when the driver got out, it was easy to see why. A huge, fat, white man got out from the driver's side and waddled around the car, carrying a brown briefcase in his left hand. He glanced down at a piece of paper in his right hand, reading an address as he reached the sidewalk.

The three black men loitering in front of the building stared at him coldly as he pushed past them. He was breathing hard as though he had just run ten miles.

"I wonder who the hell he could be," Benson said quietly.

Ryan lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "He could be the neighborhood's friendly insurance man, you know." Even while he was talking, Ryan was writing down the license number of the late-model car.

As Benson watched his partner write down the number, he couldn't help but think how it would be if the fat white man had been black. His partner probably would have suggested that they pull him over when he came out and shake him down.

For spite, Benson started to make the suggestion himself. Why not, he thought coldly. What's good for a black man should be good for a white one, too. But he knew better. If the white man turned out to be a working businessman going about his business of robbing the black neighborhood and they shook him down, all he'd have to do would be to call downtown and make a complaint about being illegally stopped and searched. Then there would be hell to pay. They would have to come up with some kind of an excuse for why they had detained the man and put him through so much trouble.

Benson had to laugh sardonically as he thought about it: all those black men who were stopped daily, even with their wives along, and searched out on the streets for no other reason than that they were black. The officers who stopped them believed all black men did something wrong, so they had a right to stop and frisk any black man they saw. But it was so different when it came to a white man. Oh God, so much different, he moaned.

"What's wrong?" Ryan inquired slowly, studying his partner closely. "You got an idea or something?"

For just a minute Benson debated with himself on whether or not to let his partner in on his private little joke.

Defiantly he stated, "Oh man, do you really want to know?" He then continued before Ryan could answer, "I was thinking, Ryan, why go through the trouble of writing his number down, then havin' to check it downtown, when more than fuckin' likely it's a rented car in a phony name? To beat all that shit, why don't we just act like he's a black dude when he comes out and lean on him a little. You know what I mean, Ryan? We lean on enough niggers daily for it to be quite easy."

Benson watched his partner's face. It went red, then Ryan rubbed at his chin nervously, trying to make up his mind on how to answer Benson.

"Man, you're really in a hell of a mood today, huh?" Ryan began as he thought over the ticklish question Benson had dropped in his lap. He cursed silently at himself, wishing he had left well enough alone. Now, since he'd asked for it, Benson had really put it in his lap. All of the problems of what could happen flashed through his mind. The last thing he wanted was another meeting with the captain-not anytime soon anyway. If the fat salesman was to do any complaining, that's just what it would add up to. Another fuckin' meeting with the captain. There was something like a tacit agreement among the policemen about white businessmen. You didn't harass them while they were down in the black neighborhoods. A white junkie was something else. He was nothing. But a taxpayer, that was a horse of another color-white color at that.

Benson could read it all in his face. "Don't worry, Ryan, I was just foolin' with you, man. I don't want the trouble it could bring either."

For a minute Ryan couldn't look his partner in the eye. "You make me feel like a three-dollar bill, Ben. If you want to, we can shake him down. I was just thinking, though, if a kickback comes out of this shit, we'll have some tall explaining to do. The fuckin' captain will say, `Why are you guys hustling a white man? Everybody in the city knows it was black gunmen who made the hit, so where's the connection with this white merchant?"'

He didn't have to illustrate too much for Benson to know that his partner was right. "I mean, Ben," Ryan added, "it won't go as hard for me as it could go for you. All I'd have to say was that it was your idea and I just went along with it, even though you know I wouldn't shift the blame on you. But I'm just trying to show you where we'd be. The first thing we'd have to answer is why. Why in the fuck did we bother him? Don't we have enough troublemakers down here to cope with without going out of our way to disturb workin' people?"

The very air in the car seemed to become oppressive to Benson, but what his partner said was true. They would never be able to make their superiors understand. Even as Benson thought about it, it seemed foolish. What would a well-dressed white man want with someone like Kenyatta, except to sell him something that would be junk a month later? They lived in two different worlds; the world of men like Kenyatta was a black world, devoid of whites. Even as Benson thought about it, he remembered that the little he was able to dig up on Kenyatta showed him to be militant, preaching against associating with whites. As he went over the possibilities in his mind, Benson quickly came to the conclusion that the fat white man was probably just the landlord coming to collect his rent.

He put his thoughts into words. "You know, Ryan, I'm grabbing at straws, really. That guy's probably the landlord trying to collect his rent." Benson laughed dryly, then added, "And that's more than likely one hell of a job right there, trying to get his rent out of a bunch of hustlers like them punks hanging out there. Yeah, he's got one hell of a job on his hands, if I know anything about young brothers."

Ryan wasn't fooled by his partner's words. It had hurt Benson to make that small confession. Benson really wanted to shake down the white man. "Now, Ben, don't go against your hunches. If you want to, just give the word, man, and we'll have that fat load of lard jacked up before God gets the news."

"You're a good man, Ryan," Benson said slowly. "Yeah, you're a damn good one to work with. But now that I think about it, I believe I was wrong. I can't picture no reason for there to be any connection between them, other than legal business. Kenyatta hates whites, so they couldn't have much other than business between them. Let's let it pass this time. We can still check out the license number with headquarters."

THE BLACK MEN SHUFFLED reluctantly out of Kenyatta's private office. None of them wanted to leave until they found out what the fat white man wanted. It was the first time any of them had ever seen Kenyatta treat a white man with any kind of respect. When this one entered, Kenyatta had gotten up and walked across the carpeted floor to throw his arm around the fat man's shoulders as if they were old war buddies. After making the man as comfortable as possible, Kenyatta had started ushering the rest of the people out of the office until there wasn't anyone left but him and the white man.