Boomtown, p.11
Boomtown, page 11
“And you see no solution?”
“Not as long as Boomtown remains off-limits.”
We observe a moment of silence as images of open gun battles, maybe on the streets of Baxter, but surely in Boomtown, dance through our heads. For me, it’s innocent victims, passersby, who wander into the line of fire. In truth, I don’t think these New York gangsters operate that way. But the Horde surely does. With no presence in Baxter outside of the occasional pimp or dealer, they have no choice.
“What do you suggest, Vern?” Gloria Meacham asks.
Gloria’s family arrived in Baxter about the time the map on the wall was printed. As a young mother, she worked the family farm while her husband drove an eighteen-wheeler from city to city. Often gone for weeks, he nevertheless managed to father six children. Her own rise was station to station, beginning with election to her local schoolboard.
“Patrol Boomtown. Drive the prostitutes off the streets. Arrest the drunk and disorderly. Every bar has its own dealer, its own bookie, its own loan shark. Drive them underground. Primary responsibility belongs to Sheriff Fletcher. But if he won’t or can’t handle that responsibility, let the Sprague County Board of Supervisors hand authority to us. If they refuse, turn to the governor and the state police.” Vern brings his hands together. “Without order, there’s no hope. Even if we close all three murder investigations by arrest, the crime rate will continue to explode. In Baxter and in Boomtown.”
Mayor Venn looks down before shaking his head. A great little speech, yes, and obviously true, but it won’t fly.
“If the City of Baxter were to somehow gain jurisdiction over that strip of land in Sprague County,” our mayor explains, “we’d have to enforce city building codes. In which case, not a single existing structure could remain occupied. I don’t exaggerate, Vern.” Always heavy, our mayor has grown more and more portly over the years. Now he fills his chair, virtually immobile except for his mouth. “From basic electricity, to buildings foundations that don’t exist, to the unlicensed stores and bars, to third-world sewage systems. If we accept responsibility, it has to go, all of it. Displacing several thousand workers in the process. Vital workers, Vern. As in, we gotta have ’em. And face it, there’s not enough housing in Baxter to shelter half of them.”
I’m not surprised when Gloria Meacham turns to me. We’re both women, right? Just like several billion other human beings. I try for a look that demonstrates independence, yet still encourages.
“As Chairwoman of the Construction Committee, I meet regularly with Nissan representatives. They bring three concerns to every discussion. Is the construction on schedule? Are to-date costs in line with the projected budget? Will the walls be up and the roof installed before it gets too cold to work outside? As to Boomtown and the crime, even the murders? Not one word. Not one.” She rubs her hands together. “The fate of this city depends on getting the factory up and running. The fate, Delia. Baxter’s very existence. I think your personal involvement in the homicide cases would be appropriate. A quick arrest will buy us time.”
This is the moment when I’m supposed to climb onto my white horse, don my white hat, toss my badge onto the coffee table, and ride into the sunset. Even though it’s eight o’clock in the morning. Instead, I nod dutifully.
“If I’m going to run Baxter’s police department,” Vern says, “I need to know the rules. And without disrespecting you, Mayor, let me repeat myself. If Boomtown is left to itself, the homicide rate won’t be dropping anytime soon.”
“I understand your dilemma, Vern, and I’m sympathetic, but Gloria’s right. The plant must be built. Bear in mind, these workers have come a long way and they’re going to find . . . find distractions no matter what we do. Now, I’ve straightened things out with Sherriff Fletcher. No more restrictions on your investigations. Go where you want, speak to anyone you want. Follow the evidence. Patrolling, on the other hand, is simply not our problem.”
Gloria Meacham lifts her chin. Her face is heavily weathered, her cheeks lined with parallel rows of very fine wrinkles. They make her appear older and wiser. Me, on the other hand, I look into her pale eyes and see only cunning.
“I don’t know if you’ll find this useful, and I admit that it’s mainly based on rumor,” she tells me. “The strip of land called Boomtown is owned by the Shearson Investment Group, an LLC with headquarters in Panama. I’ve been told by a man I dearly trust that the majority shareholder in this LLC is known to both of us. That would be Zack Butler.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
DELIA
As per my instructions, Stanton Jarret has been located and detained. By Cade Barrow, as it turned out. Jarret was first arrested almost a year ago when a search warrant turned up enough coke, two ounces, to send him up for the next six to eight years. No fan of prison, Jarret agreed to inform on a regular basis, to become a kind of undercover cop. And he came through, pinpointing the smash-and-grab bandits most recent project. At the same time, he set us up. Us being the Baxter Police Department. Busy apprehending the bandits, most of the city was unpatrolled for several hours, during which a drug dealer named Stitch Kreuter was beaten to death in the home of another dealer named Heyman Weymouth.
Not that I can prove it. Not yet, anyway.
Jarret’s seated when I come into the box, one wrist handcuffed to a metal ring bolted to the table. He starts to rise, his customary shit-eating grin on display, but resumes his seat when I smack him on the top of the head.
“Given your rap sheet,” I tell him, “you’d be lookin’ at six to eight years for the coke found in your home. And while I admit that your double cross can’t be used against you at trial, it can and will be included in the probation report sent to the judge before sentencing. How do you think a sentencing judge will react to your treachery resulting in a murder? Remember, I don’t have to prove anything, not in a probation report. Remember this, too: you could receive up to ten years.” I give it a moment to sink in before continuing. “There’s somewhere I have to be and I’m already late. That’ll give you plenty of time to think about what you’re gonna say next.”
The place I need to be is at Stitch Kreuter’s autopsy. Gloria Meacham made the administration’s wishes clear. There were three murders to be investigated and she wanted me personally involved. Danny will not be happy.
When I enter Baxter Medical Center’s autopsy room, Arshan Rishnavata’s bundling into a hospital gown that’s much too big for his frame. Short and slim, he owns a quick smile that somehow amplifies a basic insecurity. He wants cops to respect him, even like him, and they do. But it’s not enough.
“Captain Delia,” he calls out as I cross the room. “I’m honored.”
“You were expecting who?”
“A minion.” He slides a mask over his nose and mouth, then pulls down a face shield that’s been sitting on top of his head. “I don’t believe you will find here anything useful, but we shall see.”
Stitch Kreuter’s lying on an autopsy table at the other end of the room. He’s naked except for two clear plastic bags that enclose his hands. I had high hopes as I made my way to the autopsy room. Hope that Stitch had fought back, that he’d drawn blood, or scraped his attacker with his nails. That seems unlikely. Both of Stitch’s hands are broken, his fingers as well, bent back or to the side. One finger is dislocated so badly it lies against the back of his wrist.
I’m looking at defensive wounds. The man saw it coming, but could do nothing about it beyond raising his hands. Average in height and weight, Stitch Kreuter would have had no chance against Heyman Weymouth. According to an extensive rap sheet, Weymouth, at six-three, weighs two hundred and sixty pounds.
The front of Kreuter’s body is covered with bruises, from his shins to his throat. The savagery of the attack indicates a mindless rage that I associate with biker culture. So what? The blood found in Weymouth’s home has already been typed. It matches Kreuter’s blood type. But the rest of the trace evidence recovered in the house, everything from hair and fibers to saliva on the rim of a glass, awaits analysis in the state’s lab.
I’m not squeamish, but there’s something about witnessing a human being reduced to a simple machine that makes my skin crawl. And that’s what Stitch Kreuter becomes on Arshan’s autopsy table. Find the loose gear, the broken connection, the burnt transistor. Remove all the parts that make the machine run. Brain, heart, lungs, spleen, on and on. Examine, measure, weigh. There seems no point, the cause of death here obvious, but Arshan observes the protocol. I have to wonder what he’s searching for? Pancreatic cancer? Inflammatory bowel disease? COPD?
I’m glad when it’s finally over, but still defeated. Arshan’s found nothing to link Kreuter’s death to his killer.
Like I said, I’m not squeamish. I head directly for Lena’s Luncheonette. Jarret’s been stewing for several hours and it won’t hurt to let him stew for a while longer. Lena’s kept a promise made to me last fall. She’s gone upscale, her restaurant now dominated by gleaming chrome fixtures and startlingly detailed photos of various dishes. I find a seat beneath a celadon platter holding a selection of Thai spices. At least that’s what the legend on the frame declares. I have no reason to doubt the claim, but Lena, for all the upscaling, has stayed with the basics. She’s still closing the restaurant at four in the afternoon, still in the kitchen at four o’clock in the morning. Frying the doughnuts that made her restaurant profitable from the day she opened the door.
“I’m waitin’ on a liquor license,” she tells me as she takes my order. “Then I’m gonna find me a chef. I’m thinkin’ Tex-Mex-Asian. Fusion’s the big thing now. Globalization for the taste buds.”
I don’t know if she’s disappointed when I order a burger with a small garden salad and a side of onion rings. The diet will have to wait another day. Or week, or month.
Lena slides a mug of coffee in front of me a moment later and I take a few minutes to text Danny, who’s in class. The message is simple. I’ll probably be late getting home, in which case I’ll miss Danny’s game this afternoon. For now, though, Heyman Weymouth is priority number one. He’s probably in the wind, returned to his biker pals, but if he’s still in Baxter, or Boomtown, I intend to run him down. If he didn’t kill Stitch Kreuter, he surely knows who did.
I’m not at all surprised when Vern walks into the restaurant as I’m about to start on my lunch. We’re in this together. It’s our job, which seems nearly impossible at the moment, to guide Baxter through the construction period. Mayor Venn and Councilwoman Meacham made that much clear, as they also made clear that any failure to accomplish that end would fall back on the Baxter PD and its leadership.
“I don’t have a lot of time.” Vern waves Lena away and I can see he’s pissed off. For all his easy charm, Vern’s a law-and-order type. Looking the other way has never been part of his game plan. “I have to give a speech to the Baxter Better Business Commission in a half hour, but I want to make something clear. Let’s say we isolate major criminal activity in Boomtown, say a high-end dealer. If I can’t convince Sherriff Fletcher to act, we’re gonna close it down ourselves. Our beloved mayor and the City Council can scream bloody murder, but the people of this city will back us if we put on a show. You understand what I’m saying?”
“A press conference with the confiscated goodies displayed on a table?” I can easily visualize the scene, having participated in similar scenes many times in the past. Kilos of drugs. Pistols, rifles, shotguns lined up. The optics are way too good for the press to ignore and they scream victory.
“Exactly. But know this, if we charge into Boomtown and there’s nothing to find, we’ll be hung out to dry. Now, I’ll leave you to your lunch.”
I lift my burger and take a bite. I appreciate Vern’s attitude. What cop wouldn’t? But Gloria Meacham and the mayor weren’t wrong either. The Nissan plant must be finished and the workers in Boomtown are the ones who have to finish it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
DELIA
Stanton Jarret’s where I left him, sitting behind a small table, his right wrist cuffed to an iron ring bolted to the tabletop. He seems relieved, but apprehensive as well. I smacked him once. Maybe I’ll smack him again.
“You been thinking about what I said, Stanton? About spending the next ten years in a cage?”
Jarret’s a soft man functioning in a might-makes-right world. Credit where it’s due, he’s dipped and dodged his way through that world with a degree of success. But there’s no dipping and dodging in prison. The cons will eat him for breakfast.
“There’s nothing else to think about,” he admits.
“Except how to talk your way out of it.”
“Yeah, except that.”
I sit down at the other side of the table. “You understand, everything we do and say here is being recorded. Video and audio. You won’t be able to deny anything later. I’m gonna read your rights to you now.” I run them off quickly, assuming he already knows them word for word.
“Okay, I got it.”
“Great. Now, do you need to use the bathroom? Are you comfortable?”
“I went a half hour ago. Had something to eat too. I’m okay.”
He offers a forced smile and raises his eyebrows expectantly. Ready for question number one, but I’m not gonna help him out. I lean back and wait for him to speak first.
“Look, Captain, you asked me, and directly, to identify the smash-and-grab crew. You asked me to pinpoint their next operation. And that’s what I did.”
He again stops, and this time I ask a question. “We’re you there when Stitch Kreuter was murdered?”
“No, I swear.”
“Then you’ve got nothing to tell me.” I rise to my feet, pleased to note Jarret’s stricken expression. I’m the top of the food chain. If I walk out, he’s finished. He’s already copped to ownership of the cocaine found in his house.
“Okay, okay, I get it.” He waits for me to sit, then opens up. “Boomtown came out of nowhere, Captain, and likewise for these New York mob guys. I been livin’ in Baxter my whole life and I didn’t see it comin’. Nobody I know did. But you gotta adjust. You gotta be flexible.” Jarret spreads his hands, palms up, as if we’re buddies sharing a basic truth. But I already know that he’s an opportunistic type. Whatever he stumbles into. Weed, meth, dope, coke, even the odd burglary.
“I’m sayin’ it all happened fast, especially with the New York crew. They’ve got their fingers into everything that happens in Boomtown and they’ve only been here for a few months. So, you gotta ask yourself. How could they pull it off this fast unless they planned it out before they arrived? Like carefully. I mean, think about it. A double wide showed up almost as soon as there was room for it. Two days later, there’s maybe nine or ten girls at work. That’s the Paradise Inn. And think about the Lucky Tavern. How’d the craps tables and the roulette wheels get in there so fast? These ain’t things you buy at your local Walmart.”
I wave him to a halt. I’m not here for a history lesson, but Jarret raises some interesting questions and they all point to Zack Butler.
“Fast-forward, Jarret. To how and when you set us up. No bullshit, now.”
“Hey, you asked me specifically about the smash-and-grab crew. And if you remember, I offered to give you names, but you said that wasn’t enough. You wanted to know where and when they’d hit next. That info I got from the man runnin’ the show for the mob. Guy named Charlie, and don’t ask me for his last name because I don’t know and I wasn’t about to ask. See, Charlie had a project he wanted to pull off, only it was in Baxter proper and he was nervous about random patrols because he was gonna be personally involved. Now everybody knows how much you wanted the smash-and-grab burglars, including Charlie. But Charlie? He also knew the crew was about to pull off a job because they were into him for a few hundred dollars of fronted dope. See, when they asked for the front, they promised to pay him back when they sold whatever they managed to steal.”
I chime in with the obvious. “So, Charlie put two and two together. If we knew where the bandits would strike, we’d pull units from every corner of the city. And there wouldn’t be all that many if the burglary took place late at night. So, how to convey the info to the Baxter police? That’s where you came in.”
“Yeah, I volunteered to play the snitch.”
Play the snitch? There’s no playing in Jarret’s survival strategy. “In return for what, Jarret?”
Jarret’s eyes widen. This is not where he wanted to go, but he can’t just clam up. Not now. “A piece of whatever they took off Heyman,” he finally admits.
“And what would that be?”
“Whatever he was holdin’. Coke, in this case.”
“Where does Stitch Kreuter fit into the picture?”
“Stitch was one of Heyman’s customers. He was gonna get them through the door.”
“Who is them?”
“Charlie, Dominick, and Bruce. Dominick’s muscle, and believe me, this is a man you don’t wanna fuck with. Bruce manages the Paradise Inn. You know, the whorehouse.”
“I wanna make sure I have this right. Charlie’s running the whole operation, but he personally took part in this robbery?”
“Crazy, right? But that’s Charlie. He loves the action. He didn’t kill Stitch, though, and I don’t think he expected Heyman to kill him. The way I heard it, Charlie didn’t give a damn about the coke. He only wanted to get the Horde’s attention. So, yeah, he ripped Heyman off, but he left Stitch.”
“Why?”
