Floaters - A Jack Daniels/Alex Chapa Mystery Page 3

  “I saw something fly out of his mouth, watched the Lieutenant pick it up. Could be a pog.”

  “A what?”

  “Let me see it, and I’ll tell you.”

  Jack thought it over, couldn’t see the harm, and pulled the bag out of her pocket. Chapa held it by the edge, bringing it close.

  “Well, is it a,” Herb hesitated, “pog?”

  Chapa looked up at the four of them and shook his head.

  “It’s not a pog.” He smiled smugly. “It’s a slammer, a member of the pog family.”

  Jack looked down at the small round piece of metal, then back at Chapa with a gaze that was equal parts awe, bemusement, and pity.

  “That’s it,” Jack’s voice was calm and steady. “Officer Gordon, get him out of here and keep him away from normal people until we take his statement, sometime around Labor Day.”

  “Pogs were made of cardboard, this one’s metal, and heavier, that’s what makes it a slammer,” Chapa was talking fast, trying to get the words out before Gordon could grab his shoulders again and drag him away.

  Jack snatched the bag back, returned it to her pocket. “Your turn. What, exactly, is a pog?”

  Chapa folded his arms across his chest and looked like he was getting ready to hold court.

  “They originally came from fruit juice in Hawaii. The treated cardboard milk cap beneath the screw-on bottle top of passion fruit-orange-guava juice. They had different designs, kids began to collect them and trade them by playing a game. You’d pile up a stack of your opponent’s pogs face down, then hit them with a heavier piece called a slammer. The ones that turned face up you got to keep.”

  Herb grunted. “Never heard of it.”

  “Really big, back in the early 90s. Companies made millions of them. They were a fad for a while, some of the rarer ones sold for big bucks, like baseball cards. The one that popped out of Preston features a Bob Kane drawing. Classic Batman, before they turned his cowl from blue to black.”

  “And you know this because…?”

  “I’m a reporter,” Chapa said through a smirk. “That means I’m as close to being omniscient as any human being can possibly get.”

  “If you’re omnipotent you know that if you print any sort of speculation before we release an official statement I’ll come down on you so hard your ears will bleed.”

  Chapa smiled. “You can’t repress the truth, Lieutenant. The people have a right to know.”

  “They also have a right to be safe from murderers, which are a lot harder to catch if crime scene information leaks out. Now go take his statement, Gordon, and if he gets away from you again you’re going to wish you didn’t come to work today and instead stayed home and licked all the hair off of a monkey.”

  Chapa laughed, then said, “Don’t knock what you haven’t tried, Lieutenant,” forcing Jack to suppress a smile of her own.

  Gordon nodded, grabbed Chapa more firmly than possibly necessary, and pulled him off the scene.

  “Want to get a smoothie?” Herb asked. “I’ve got a sudden urge for passion fruit-orange-guava juice.”

  Jack didn’t answer. She watched Chapa leave. While shooing away reporters was second nature to her, this one wasn’t as annoying as most, and it seemed like he might have had more to offer. It didn’t matter really. Gordon would do a decent interview, and if there was a follow-up needed Jack could always do it herself. Besides, real murders weren’t like TV or books where the crime was solved an hour after it happened. It often took days, weeks, months, before an arrest was made.

  Still, watching Chapa walk away left her with a nagging doubt that perhaps she should have pressed the man further.

  3 | CHAPA

  “Hey, Alex, that deal we have, it’s still on, right?”

  I hesitated just long enough to put some doubt in Jimmy Gordon’s mind. We were almost to the sidewalk, beyond that was the row of parked squad cars. I kept looking back over my shoulder at Lieutenant Daniels.

  “Sure, Jimmy. I’ll write a really nice piece about your brother.”

  Jimmy smiled and wrote his brother’s business number on the back of a bar and grill takeout menu, which he then handed to me.

  “But let’s get this statement thing done quickly so I can get out of here ahead of the rest of rush hour traffic.”

  “It’ll take as long as it’ll take, Alex.”

  “C’mon Jimmy, if I don’t get back to the office soon my editor will be seriously pissed, and it could be weeks before I get a shot at doing that story you want.” I gave him a regular guy smack on the arm. “You know, behind the badge and the by-line you and me are just a couple of blue collar guys.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “We’re the ones in the trenches, doing the grunt work.” I tilted my head toward the river where Daniels was still talking to the examiner, “Not like some overpaid glory hounds.”

  He nodded like I’d just preached the gospel. “I guess I can take your statement in my squad car.”

  Fifteen minutes later I was back in my car, driving as fast as traffic would allow back to Sam Preston’s store in the hope that Daniels hadn’t already dispatched a unit to check it out.

  I drove by and saw no sign that the cops had already been there, then parked a block away and around the corner. I dug through my car’s ashtray, filled with the usual pennies, discarded pen caps, and the occasional mint, until my fingers landed on a large, thick paperclip. Then I scrounged through the ocean of pens in my glove compartment until I found one that had a metal ink cartridge. I unscrewed the pen, and slipped the cartridge and paperclip into my shirt pocket.

  Looking at my watch as I walked through the dark purple door of Strange Brews, the coffee shop next to the collectibles store, I figured I had twenty, maybe thirty minutes max before Daniels and her rotund partner showed up. The place didn’t have that good solid coffee shop smell, but instead offered a confused combination of scents that reminded me a bit of an old head shop.

  A couple of goths were sitting at a table in the back corner. Both of them furiously thumbing the keys on their cellphones, probably texting each other. The only other customer was a thin, middle-aged guy who was quietly drinking his cup of coffee and staring out the front windows as though it was the only thing he needed to be doing at that moment.

  I did my best to act as though the woman behind the counter looked pretty much like anyone else. A tattoo of a fist clutching a length of chain adorned her shaved head. The flimsy black tank top she was wearing clung to her shoulders like old skin that she might shed at any moment.

  “Yeah?” she said through a heavily pierced lower lip.

  “I just need a cup of coffee.”

  She flashed a look of tired disgust, then turned and pointed to the board behind her listing every crime against coffee they were willing to perpetrate for a price. It reminded me of trying to decipher the arrivals and departures board at O’Hare.

  “I just want a basic coffee. Something strong that’ll put hair on your—,” I stopped for fear her fist tattoo might spring to life.

  ”You could try our Strange Brew house coffee.”

  “That’ll work,” I said, feigning optimism, then asked where the restrooms were. She pointed to a hall at the back of the shop.

  I walked past the end of the counter, and the texters, and into a narrow hallway that was partially blocked by a stack of boxes. Four feet beyond the stack I saw what I was actually there for, the connecting door to Sam Preston’s shop.

  Taking a quick look back to make sure no one was watching, I walked over to the door and tried the knob. It didn’t budge, no surprise. I squatted, and using the boxes to shield what I was doing, pulled out the paperclip and ink cartridge from my pocket.

  You do enough interviews, meet enough people, ask enough questions, you learn stuff. It was a simple lock, the kind you find on bathroom doors in cheap suburban apartment buildings. As I worked on it I listened for any movement coming from the coffee counter, but all I heard was s
ome tepid new age jazz.

  A firm twist with one hand, then a quick snap with the other, and I felt the cheap mechanism give. I turned the knob slowly, then opened the door about an inch or so, just enough to confirm that there wasn’t a second door. I stood and looked over the boxes to see if I was being watched, but the tattooed barista had her back turned as she conjured up my cup of black coffee.

  I opened the door no wider than necessary and slipped through. The lights in the store were turned off, other than that it all looked exactly as it had when Sam Preston was still alive.

  Moving through the cluttered rows of collectibles I spotted the security camera and stopped to examine it. The small device was mounted on a wall, about eight feet off the floor. There were no wires attached to it. A fake, the type you can buy online for under twenty bucks.

  A heavy blue curtain that probably hadn’t been washed since the last century separated a back room from the rest of the store. I pushed it aside and flipped on a light.

  I was hoping to see a file cabinet or business desk, but all I found was a microwave oven, a futon with a bare mattress on it that was torn and stained, and a toilet that needed a good sandblasting. There was a roll of paper towels sitting on top of the microwave, I tore off a couple of sheets and headed back into the store and over to the counter.

  Fifteen minutes more, tops—that’s all I figured it would take for the cops to get here. I was searching for some sort of lock box, something that Preston’s key would’ve opened. I found it behind the counter.

  Beneath shelves cluttered with sports cards, loose action figures, and old postcards, and behind a stack of Cracked magazines sat a drawer with a keyhole that seemed about right. I slid the magazines aside and tried the drawer. Locked—but that wouldn’t be a problem.

  It took me half as long to pop this one as it had the door. Inside I found miscellaneous receipts and printed documents, some emails with what appeared to be coded numbers, and a small spiral notebook. I used the ink cartridge to flip through the notebook. It was empty except for two pages, filled with names and corresponding sets of numbers. Sixteen digits, followed by three in parentheses, plus a date, a name, and a dollar amount.

  I didn’t see Emil’s name but I did recognize three of the others. They’d all been in the news recently. I shut the drawer, used the paper towels to wipe off any fingerprints I might’ve left, and returned to the coffee shop. Miss Fisthead placed my cup of coffee on the counter as I walked up.

  “That’ll be four-fifty-five.”

  I pulled out my credit card, watched her swipe it through the machine, and a light went on in my head. I suddenly knew the reason behind the floater murders.

  After signing and writing a generous tip I briskly walked to my car. I had just sat down and locked the door when I saw a pair of squad cars speed down Clark. Right on time.

  This wasn’t about the story anymore. Maybe it never was. This was about that sweet old woman sitting in her tired chair and sipping tea while anxiously waiting for the love of her life to return home, the man who still made her heart jump after forty years of marriage.

  I waited a moment to give the cops a chance to get in the store, then pulled out of the parking space. Turning left on LaSalle, I headed north, toward the warehouse. I was certain this was all linked together, and considered how Emil fit in.

  The building looked the same as I’d left it, just a few hours older. I drove down the same narrow street as before, and noticed the Vette was gone, then turned and began searching for a back way in. I passed a set of doors big enough to drive a semi through, then spotted what I was looking for.

  I parked in front of an adjacent building, locked up, and checked to make sure no one was around. No cars for two blocks. Then I slid along the brick wall of the warehouse, peeking in each window as I passed. There were no signs of life inside, only the silhouettes of large machinery. A dozen or so yards shy of the giant doors I found the window I’d seen when I drove past, the one that had been left half open.

  I pulled myself up, then wedged my left foot between two cracked bricks. Swinging my right leg through the opening, I found footing on the other side. Once I’d shimmied all the way in I realized I was standing on a workbench. The equipment that filled the enormous room was old and heavy, and I was careful to avoid slamming into any of it.

  There was a light beyond a door at the other end, and through its grease-caked window I could see an empty office and a well-lit hallway. I leaned against the door and listened for a moment. Quiet. I walked through the office and into the hall. A dead end one way, a curve to the left the other. Rounding the corner I sensed it wasn’t far to the front of the building. Not far from that room where the shadows had drawn my interest earlier.

  A series of standard service lights were on throughout the place. Just enough to help me see where I was going, but also little enough to offer cover to anyone who might see me coming. I walked into what had once been a break room, but was now a makeshift work space with two computers, several elaborate printing machines, and a few other pieces of equipment I did not recognize but could easily guess their purpose.

  As I turned to leave, something caught my attention. A white plastic rectangle, maybe two inches by three inches. I squatted and picked it up by its thin edges, flipping it over. Blank on both sides.

  I was putting it back down, leaving it for Joseph Andrews and the Feds to find thanks to a tip from a friendly reporter, when I heard a sound coming from behind me. I spun, senses on high alert.

  The sound repeated.

  THUMP!

  THUMP! THUMP!

  It was coming from behind a closed door in the corner of the next room. Maybe it was Emil behind that door, trying to get my attention. Or maybe it was a gang of bikers, the sort that hated Cuban reporters.

  Walking in I realized this was the room where I’d seen the shadows moving around earlier. A table along the near wall was cluttered with computer monitors, keyboards, and printers. All sorts of decade old computer equipment, none of it hooked up to anything. There was a gray office chair with minimal padding in the middle of the room, and a closed closet door at the far end.

  THUMP!

  I took a deep, steadying breath, then walked up to the door, reached for the handle, and slowly, ever so slowly, turned it.

  THUMP!

  That was the loudest so far, but I managed to keep my grip, then tugged the door open, revealing a small man dangling from a wooden clothes hanger.

  Emil Candrolini, alone in the closet. He’d been completely bound, toes to shoulders, with duct tape. Several more pieces covered his mouth. A hanger had been tapped to his back, between his shoulder blades, then they’d hoisted Emil onto the rod. He regarded me with fear and exhaustion.

  “Mr. Candrolini, I’m a reporter. Your wife sent me to find you.”

  I pried at the pieces on his face, got my fingernails under an edge and began to pull. He moaned. I yanked harder, watching the tears streak down his cheeks, but managed to remove enough tape to allow him to breathe through his mouth.

  “Help me.” His voice quiet, pained.

  “I will, Mr. Candrolini. Let me get you down from there, first.”

  I wrapped my arms around Emil and lifted just enough to unhook the hanger. Then I leaned him against the back wall of the closet so I could work on removing the multiple layers of duct tape circling his upper body.

  That’s when I noticed someone out of the corner of my eye. I spun around, and sure enough, it was just the person I didn’t want to see—the little shit with the tazer from earlier today. I turned to face him square, feet spread apart, hands forming fists. I’d dealt with him before, and saw no reason why I couldn’t repeat the experience. I prepared to deliver an ass kicking.

  “Okay, fucker,” Tiny Tim said, rolling and flexing like some asshole in front of the workout gym mirror. “It’s on.”

  “Buddy, who ever told you size doesn’t matter, lied.”

  And then his pals walked int
o the room. Like Junior, they spent too much time in the gym, pumping iron and injecting each other with illegal performance enhancers. Unlike Junior, they each stood well over six feet.

  On more than a few occasions I’d been the recipient of a fist to the face or a kick in the gut. Once, I’d been beaten bloody. But even in that case, I knew it was only a fight, and I would heal and live to see another day.

  This wasn’t going to be a fight. This was going to be murder.

  I backpedaled, grabbing a computer keyboard on a nearby desk, throwing it at one of the muscle mountains. It bounced off a chest wider than Nebraska, and he smirked at me.

  Then I heaved a computer monitor at his head, and he lost the smirk. This was an older model, big and clunky and a good fifteen pounds. Mr. Olympia managed to dodge most of it, but the corner caught his chin and spun him to his knees.