Blast

“Plastic explosives? Oh, mama!” Hash shook his head with a smirk, but then grew serious. “People don’t bring that kind of shit to me. I’m a peaceful dude. You know that, boss.”

“You only have your peace because you have me, Hash,” Brown reminded him.

Hash’s real name was Tommy, but the nickname had stuck to him back in high school, where he started his street career selling weed. Tommy quit school, figuring that the main thing is to go into business and make money, and he knew how to do it. Also, there were rumors buzzing around school, and Tommy was afraid that he would end up in handcuffs. Almost immediately Hash switched to trading in harder stuff, pushing only to people he knew. His clientele at first was mostly former classmates and their friends. But this simple precaution did not help him, and before long one of his new customers turned out to be an undercover police officer. When he was arrested, Hash displayed unusual dexterity dumping the goodies. They had to let him go, but Hash still found his way into someone’s Rolodex at the Police Department.

That was when he met Brown, who had an interest in an acquaintance of Hash’s, another drug dealer. The pusher had decided to make himself a reputation for harshly punishing his debtors: He broke their arms. Brown arrested Hash with dope in hand, and offered him a choice: Go to prison for at least ten years or help catch the dealer. Of course, Hash chose the latter.

That was almost ten years ago. Now Hash himself had become a boss, king of the neighborhood between Griffin Road and Thurmont Street. His runners stood on the street corners selling meth, with secret caches and drop-boxes. Over the years, Brown had accumulated enough dirt on Hash to put him away for twenty years. But Hash turned out to be more valuable as an informer. “Use you brain, Hash, this is important. Ask around. Pretend you are just thinking about whether you should try dealing in something besides meth. Know what I mean? Check out carefully how much it might cost, whether you can actually buy C—4 in town. And if the answer is yes, find out who to contact.”

“Listen, boss, I try not to get involved in this kind of stuff.” Hash said. “I do business in my neighborhood and don’t poke my nose into other people’s shit. Boss, dope is one thing, or even guns. But explosives… Those guys, they really mean business, you savvy?”

“And I want to know who they are. Hash, they nabbed the director of the company when there was cash in the office. That means they have informants. So I think it’s someone local.”

Hash was skeptical.

“I’ve never heard of a crew like that. There’s been no buzz on the street about anyone out there about to hit the jackpot, nothing. And I’ve been on the street for fifteen years.”

“They don’t seem like some new guys in town.” After a pause, Brown decided to try another angle: “Hash, I’m moving to another city. If the gang continues to operate, the Feds will come in, and the cops will shake up the whole city to find these suckers. Businesses like yours will suffer. But I won’t be around, you’ll have no one to cover for you. So it’s in your interests too.”

“I’ll give it a try,” said Hash reluctantly.

“Get me the information, and you’ll be completely clean before the law. I’ll destroy all your files. Does that sound like a good deal to you?”

Grinning and slapping Hash on the shoulder, Brown got behind the wheel and started the engine. But he couldn’t resist saying, before driving off:

“And tell those three sleeping beauties of yours that a reconnaissance detail should stand watch on the perimeter, not smack in the middle of the neighborhood. Your pusher noticed me before they did. You are getting too soft, man.”

The explosives expert in the city Police Department’s forensic laboratory was a cheerful fellow by the name of Holtz. Despite his rather advanced age, Holtz adored gadgets and gizmos. That’s why he had stayed late in the lab. He was almost ecstatic.

“Just look at this! A hollow aluminum tube two inches thick. It had compartments separated by a partition. So far I’ve counted ten segments. A portion of the explosives was in each of them.”

Fragments of the explosive were lying on Holtz’s table: blackened bits of aluminum, burnt-out wiring, a scorched chip, and other bits and pieces of the device. Brown picked up one of them, trying to figure out what it was. “What kind of explosive?

“Plastic, C—4.”

“You sure?” Brown frowned.

“One hundred percent, Troy. Although I haven’t seen any C—4 for 10 years. Where did someone get an explosive like that in our sleepy town? And the most interesting thing is that they weren’t exactly stingy: There was about a pound of C—4 in the collar.”

“Is that a lot?”

“Let’s just say this collar would be the envy of any suicide bomber. If the explosion had occurred in a crowd, our morgue would have had nowhere to put all the corpses.”

“That’s just great,” Brown commented glumly. “Have you figured out how it worked?”

“Oh, that’s the most interesting part of all. Hell, it’s a real gem! These guys knew their business, Troy. Look here.” Holtz took one of the fragments of aluminum with partitions. “A web camera is attached to the front of the segmented tube packed with C—4, and there’s a cell phone on the side. This is a chip you see here, from the phone. The phone was for transmission. And the camera on the front transmitted the image in front of it to the phone and from there it went to someone on the other end, via a wifi connection. That is, the criminals saw everything that was happening to the victim and around him. What he did, where he was going, what he picked up – everything.”

“Now I see,” Brown nodded. “That’s why Pickman didn’t even try to call the police. He just did what they wanted. He gave them the money. But they still pushed the button.”

“In all the years I’ve worked in the police force, Troy, I’ve never seen anything like this! Don’t hold back,” said Holtz cheerfully. “This case is going straight into the textbook!”

Brown has already started to think along the same lines, but with much less enthusiasm.

The story of the explosion on the outskirts of the city got top billing on the 10:00 evening news. Half of the split screen image showed a picture taken by a cameraman at the crime scene: the cordon, a hearse from the city morgue, patrolmen. The anchorwoman, looking at the audience from the other side of the screen, announced:

“According to the Police Department, the victim, Eric Pickman, was the owner of Plate Build Construction. The criminals made off with $100,000 which was in the construction company office.”

But in the Browns” apartment, nobody was looking at the TV screen. Shelley, combing her hair in front of the mirror, indignantly snapped at her husband:

“I knew this would happen! I knew it!”

“I wonder how you knew, if even I didn’t,” muttered Brown in reply, flopping on the bed with a bottle of beer in his hand.

“Oh, don’t give me that!! You and I made an agreement!”

“What can I do about it? I’m the head of the homicide division, not a traveling salesman. They ordered me to do it, so I’m doing it.”

“You’ve been making such excuses your whole life!”

“It’s not an excuse, it’s an oath!”

“Oh yes, of course!”

Carol appeared in the doorway, with interest and timid hope in her eyes.

“Mom, we’re not going?”

“We’re going! Carol, go to your room. Or go look at cartoons, whatever!”

Not accustomed to people raising their voices, Carol ran off.

And immediately, as was usual with her, Shelley was ashamed. Sighing deeply, she went over to Brown and put her arms around his shoulders. “We had agreed on everything. On Monday they’re expecting me at my new job. They’re also waiting for you at the department in Perte. Don’t forget that in a couple of years the captain there will be retiring, and there are no candidates to replace him. Troy, that means a career for you.”

“Don’t worry.” Brown hugged his wife and drew her close. “There’s almost a week to go. I’ll do what I can, and on Friday I’ll turn in my badge. And on the weekend we’ll be setting up our new house.”

“Promise?”

Brown wanted to believe it, but to avoid answering, he raised the bottle: “How about a beer?”

But at the morning briefing, Brown realized that they were almost at an impasse. Porras had checked out the employees at Plate Build Construction, but a full day’s work had yielded nothing. No suspicious phone calls or suspicious conflicts with Pickman or suspicious movements in their bank accounts.

“The key thing is the cash,” Porras added. “So they can keep the money to themselves. But all the banks have been warned. If someone brings in a large sum for deposit, we will be immediately notified.”

The company that paid Pickman for the motel was clean, according to both the police and the IRS. Detectives visited Rentier Bank, but with no results there either. The branch of the bank where the accountant of Plate Build Construction cashed the check employed about 30 people.

“And what about the Feds?”

“Nothing about any explosives, Troy,” said Chambers. “Or they just don’t want to share it.”

“This case sucks, big time,” Brown admitted. “If Tierney finds out that we have no leads, he will rip me apart. So let’s do something.”

“I suggest we go through the archives and files,” said DiMaggio, after some hesitation.

“Archives and agents – that’s all that we’ve got. Go talk to your informants. You can offer a reward, more than usual, for any information; if need be, we’ll get more money. And then get on the databases. We’re interested in all extortionists, arms dealers, people recently released from prison – any clues at all.”

Brown’s cell phone rang. “Brown here,” he barked in his usual brusque manner. He heard Hash’s voice:

“Under the overpass in an hour.”

Between the pillars of the overpass, there was a vacant lot that served as a nighttime refuge for junkies looking to shoot up. It was one of Hash’s and Brown’s regular meeting places. Hash never asked Brown to come to his own neighborhood, so as not to scare away potential customers with the type of person that every addict, with an unerring instinct, recognized as a cop. After the briefing with the detectives, Brown dropped in on Captain Tierney, assuring him that the investigation was moving ahead, and then went to the rendezvous. Hash arrived with what was, for him, amazing punctuality. He was accompanied by Bosso, who stayed in the car.

“Last night I was at the club at Nash,” said the informant. “I chatted with a couple of guys about this little thing of ours. Both said pretty much the same thing. Deuce.”

“King,” Brown parried. “What are we playing?”

“That’s the moniker the guy who can get it all goes by. From any kind of piece to fragmentation grenades.”

“How about C—4?”

“I’m not sure about explosives. But the guys said that if there’s anyone in town who can get that stuff, it’s gotta be Deuce.’” “The men guys…,” Brown repeated sourly. “Okay, Hash, let’s suppose it’s true. So who is he?”

“That’s the problem, boss. Nobody knows.”

“Hold on,” Brown frowned. “You give me a nickname, which could belong to fifty people in the city, which would take me a couple of years to check out, and the best you can do on top of that is “nobody knows”? Hash, we don’t work that way, and you know it. This is not enough.”

“I don’t know who he is,” Hash repeated emphatically but nervously. “And nobody knows. Boss, I’ve heard that nickname a couple of times before. They say that Deuce is a tough customer. And very careful, you know what I mean? Very. Even more than us. He never attracts attention and does not work with strangers. And nobody knows who he is. But if you want someone who can get C—4, it’s Deuce.”

That was the information that was going to lead to a slaughter that would shake the Police Department to the core. But Brown didn’t know that yet.

Chapter 2

In the evening, Brown and Chambers met at a bar two blocks from police headquarters on Main Street – a favored watering hole where cops often gathered in the evenings to quaff a few beers or maybe something stronger. Chambers grinned, pulling out some papers from his bag and watching Brown put two mugs of lager on their table:

“What’s up, Troy, don’t feel like going home?”

“Drop dead!” said Brown half-heartedly, lighting up a cigarette.

“Shelley?”

“She’s called me five times. There’s always a different reason, but all the calls boil down to: ‘We’re leaving on Friday, it’s decided.” “She’s called me five times. There’s always a different reason, but all the calls boil down to: ‘We’re leaving on Friday, it’s decided.”

“Have you changed your mind?”

“Of course not. I’ve had it up to here with our hot weather.”

“Does Shelley have relatives in Perte?”

“Yeah, they helped her find a job,” Brown nodded. “An aunt or a cousin, God knows who. It’s all very complicated. Anyway, to hell with it. What have you dug up?”

“There’s nothing on Deuce. We’ve never arrested a man by that nickname on weapons charges. Just in case, I sent an inquiry to the state police, but I doubt they’ll have anything. It seems he is really a very cautious fellow.”

“If he exists.”

“Oh yes he does, Troy. Look here.”

Chambers opened a folder and handed Brown a police file. Brown looked at a photo of a dark-haired, grim-looking fellow.

“Peter Adamidi,” he read. “And who’s that?”

“His nickname is “Greek.’ He’s in jail now. The guys from the 13th Precinct brought him in a month ago. Do you remember the shooting on Ross Avenue?”

Brown remembered. About three months ago, several guys got into a fight at night at a gas station. One started threatening another with a pistol. His opponent, in a rage, snatched an AK-47 from the trunk and went postal.

“Smashed up the gas station,” Brown recalled. “The bozo opened fire with a Kalashnikov and wounded two people.”

While the guys from the 13th Precinct were looking for the shooter, they squeezed his broad to find Greek, who had sold him the gun. Under the guise of being customers, they met Greek and nabbed him when he tried to sell them three banana clips for a Kalashnikov.”

“And what does Deuce have to do with all this?”

“I called the guys at the 13th Precinct. They recorded all their conversations with Greek. He boasted that he works for Deuce. And since he works for Deuce, that means his goods are top quality.”

“Really?” Brown was surprised. “How is it that Deuce’s weapons are now a top brand on the street, and we know nothing about it?

Well, better late than never. So on Wednesday morning, Brown went straight to the city jail. He turned in his pistol and knife at the entrance and was led to the interrogation room. The guard brought in Greek, wearing an orange jumpsuit. The prisoner gave Brown a long, penetrating look.

“What do you want?”

“I am Lieutenant Brown, homicide division.”

“And?”

Greek was clearly not eager to cooperate and tried to take the initiative in the conversation. Brown offered him a cigarette to loosen him up, even though smoking was forbidden within these walls. He looked Greek in the eye, but the con man didn’t flinch, answering with a calm and composed demeanor.

“Greek, who’s Deuce?”

“A card. Lower than a three. Anything else?”

“Very funny,” Brown snorted. “Several times you’ve mentioned a man named Deuce. We’ve got it on tape.”

“Listen to the recording again, carefully. Maybe I also mentioned little green men. So what?”

Brown paused. “Could Deuce get C—4?” He kept watching Greek closely and saw him tense up. Smiling at his own thoughts, Greek drawled: “I heard the news. Some guy got his head blown off. That’s what we’re talking about, right?”

“Do you know anything about it?”

Greek put out his cigarette. Apparently, he was not inclined to beat around the bush. “Maybe, lieutenant, and maybe not. Why should I talk to you? What’s in it for me?”

“What do you want?”

“Deuce might be able to get C—4,” said Greek, after a pause. “He knows a lot of important people in different states. Do you need him? Fine, I’ll give him to you. No problem. But only if you get me out of here.”

Brown frowned. “We can discuss it.”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” said Greek firmly, seeing his opportunity. “I’ll get you Deuce, and you get out me out of here. They’ve got me in here for arms trading. That’s not a serious crime, and I know that you can spring me out. I want a deal, and that’s all there is to it. I’m not interested in anything else.”

Negotiations with the 13th Precinct and the prosecutor’s office presented no problems, and after dinner, accompanied by detectives Gilan and Porras, Brown returned to the jail with signed papers which stated that Greek would be set free until his trial. On the way out, Brown watched Greek collect his belongings with obvious satisfaction – keys, watch, wallet. He led him to the parking lot. Then all of them, including the other two detectives, got into two cars for the ride back to the city.

“I’ve done my part,” Brown began. “Now it’s your turn, Greek. Who is he?”

“Where are we going?”

“To a motel. Until we get Deuce, you’ll be staying with my detectives.”

“That wasn’t part of the deal,” said Greek apprehensively.

Brown cut him off: “I’m not going to risk you suddenly backing out. Or warning your buddy that the cops are hunting for him. I will only let you go when I have Deuce. Then you can go do what you want. But for the time being, I too need guarantees. If you’re not happy with it, you can go back where you came from.”

This was clearly not what Greek had in mind, but he just nodded sullenly. “Whatever you say, boss.”

“Great. Who is he?”

“His name is Matt Highley.”

“How do we contact him?”

“You don’t. I know his phone number, but he will only speak on the phone to people he knows personally.”

“Fine. Clear your throat before you dial the number. Is Deuce connected or something? I mean, if they learn you sold them down the river, would it come back to you?”

“I’ll take care of my own business, thank you,” Greek said drily, and turned away, looking out the window as the suburbs flew by.

Brown didn’t like him. There was something not quite kosher about him, but what exactly it was, Brown didn’t know. Anyway every criminal had his own fish to fry. Brown was interested in only one thing: that the conversation with Deuce would be a slam dunk. On the Department’s tab, they checked in to a room at the back of a quiet motel on the outskirts of town. They decided to use the phone in the room to make the call. A technician came down from the Department with the recording equipment they needed. When everything was ready, Brown instructed Greek how to behave, and handed him the phone.

After three rings, Brown heard, through the headphones, a cautious male voice:

“Yeah.”

“Deuce, it’s me.”

There was a pause. “Where are you?” the voice asked.

“They let me out. I was lucky with my lawyer. It’s a long story, I can tell you when we meet.”

“How long ago?”

“A couple of days.”

“Why are you calling?” Deuce clearly was not dying to buy his good friend a brewskie.

“Deuce, I’ve got a buddy,” Greek said, exchanging glances with Brown, who nodded to him, “go ahead.” “He needs some wheels.”

“Who is he?”

“A good buddy. You know, we got it all figured, but then the cops grabbed me, and the deal fell through. Yesterday I saw the guy, and he still needs the cars.”

“Why don’t you get them yourself?” There was a hint of malice in Deuce’s voice. “You’re a real bad-ass businessman. You’ve got everything under control.”

“I just got out of the slammer,” Greek blurted out. “I haven’t even washed off the prison stink yet! I’m not such a moron as to draw attention to myself right away. I don’t want to go back there. But I don’t want to lose a client either. Deuce, it’s a piece of cake, I tell you.”

Deuce paused, as if listening to his instincts. Brown also sensed, judging from the silence, that Deuce was gauging the chances that this was a setup.

“I don’t work with people I don’t know.”

“I’m telling you, his creds are rock solid. I’ve known him for a couple of years, and I did business with him twice. High-end wheels both times. Spare parts too. Deuce, have I ever let you down?”

The code they used was simple. “Cars” were weapons, and “spare parts” parts were ammunition. Not the most powerful cryptography, but criminals always feel more comfortable talking in code. Over the years, Brown had heard many epithets used by crooks over the telephone to refer to their goods: weapons, drugs, whatever. Anything from “cactuses” to “workers.”

“What kind of cars are you talking about?” asked Deuce, after another pause. Brown exchanged glances with DiMaggio: Looks like he’s rising to the bait.

“Ten sedans. Not used; nice and clean, you got it? If it comes together, my buddy will be ready to talk trucks.”

Trucks were full auto rifles.

“Where is he going to drive them?”

“Not here,” Greek hastened to reply, taking the hint. “He needs them to work in another state. No sweat.”

Another pause. Then Deuce finally said what they had been waiting for: “Write down this number. He should call at exactly 2:00. Exactly. If he calls earlier or later, no deal.”

Brown was standing at the curb in front of the supermarket. The large parking lot in front of the building was full, with cars pulling in and out all the time, parading before Brown’s eyes in one incessant flow. Deuce had picked a good meeting place: It’s a simple matter to lose oneself in a crowd here. Brown was holding an ice cream cone, the signal that Deuce had chosen during their conversation, which took place at exactly 2:00 p.m.

One of the cars crawling past, a used and battered Toyota, suddenly stopped, and the rear door swung open. A tough-looking guy barked from the back seat: “Get in.”

Glancing around, Brown dropped his ice cream and climbed in. The car instantly took off, drove past the parking lot, and headed for the street. Picking up speed, the Toyota sped toward the city center.

Behind the wheel was a scrawny, middle-aged fellow with a sharp, piercing look about him. He glanced at the rearview mirror every other second. Making sure there’s no tail, thought Brown. The goon cornered Brown on the far right of the seat and began to quickly and professionally search his pockets and tap his clothes, feeling for a wire.

“Take it easy,” Brown growled.

“Gotta check you out, bud. We don’t know you.”

“Are you Deuce?”

“No, “said the goon tersely, fishing out the knife mounted on Brown’s belt. Turning it over, he handed it to Brown, then curtly told the driver, “Clean.”

“I don’t know you either,” Brown remarked. “I agreed to meet with Deuce.”

“You’ll meet him,” said the goon, and gave Brown a tablet computer.

“What’s this for?”

“What guns do you need? Take your pick.”

Brown was amazed, the more so when he turned on the tablet. Before him was an already opened photo gallery, showing dozens of photographs of pistols, which could be enlarged for close inspection.

“A catalog? What’s on sale today? Any house specials?”

The goon grimaced and said nothing. The driver kept looking in the rearview mirror. The car raced along the busy street at high speed, weaving from lane to lane.

They did not realize that all the available cops in the city police force were taking part in the operation. Five carloads of detectives were following right behind them, switching every half mile. Ten more cars had scattered throughout the area at the start of the operation and were listening in on the police wave. As soon as the Toyota left the supermarket, unmarked police cars started moving on parallel streets, so they could all converge at the right moment. A police helicopter coordinated the surveillance, with a cop on board carefully watching through binoculars as the subject sped along the streets.

“Attention everybody, subject is merging into the far left lane. Turning onto Duval Street.”

“Car 10—15. Copy that.”

“11—8 and 10—12, proceed along Junior Street.”

“Subject is moving east toward Walton Street. Over.”

“10—16, don’t get so close to him, move over one lane.”

And in the Toyota, which dozens of policemen were following in person and via the airwaves, Brown handed the tablet back to the goon. The screen had a Sig P210 on it, magnified to the actual size.