Black Lotus Page 6

  * * *

  Only a few moments had passed, but it felt like an eternity before the teenager was able to finally find her voice and scream for help. Within minutes the local authorities had swooped in on the van. When they busted the window and pulled the doors open, none of them were prepared for what they found. The van was covered in so much blood that it looked like a butcher shop. On the floor of the front seat of the van, curled into the fetal position, they spotted the teenage girl, covered in blood and clutching a black flower.

  CHAPTER 7

  Detective Wolf had a backlog of cases that needed tending to, but Father Fleming’s murder nagged at him. He’d already had his suspicions about a few things, but the deeper he dug, the closer his suspicions danced to facts.

  Scott throwing him the bone about the grabby priest could’ve just been the spite of a damaged kid, but Wolf didn’t feel like it was. There was no mistaking Scott’s disgust for Father Fleming, and it made too much sense for him to write it off as something fabricated by an angry teenager. Father Fleming was dead so there was nothing to gain from slandering him. Whether Scott’s claims were fact or fiction, the teen believed every word he’d said.

  Wolf decided to follow up on the address he’d found pressed into the receipt and it took him to Court Street in Downtown Brooklyn. He parked his truck in the taxi lane and hopped out, looking for the correct number, and found himself in front of a tall office building. In the lobby there was a newsstand and a bank of elevators that led to the offices on the upper floors. From the size of the building it would likely take him all night to find what he was looking for and he didn’t have that kind of time. It was already after five o’clock and everything was shutting down.

  Trying to figure out what to do next, Wolf stepped over to the newsstand to get a pack of cigarettes. He was all out and felt like he would be doing quite a bit of smoking while working this case. While he waited for the vendor to give him his change, a man came through the revolving doors. He was over six feet tall and powerfully built. In each hand he carried two large stacks of rope-bound magazines as easily as if they weighed little more than a carton of eggs. His strength was impressive, but Wolf was more interested in what he was wearing, a green army jacket with a patch over the breast: a stork holding a machine gun, with the letters B.T.K. beneath it . . . just like the patch Scott had described.

  “Evening, Roger. Is that the new issue?” the vendor greeted the man.

  “Yes sir, Mr. Suah. Fresh off the press.” Roger smiled much like a child looking for his parent’s approval. You could tell from the vacant expression in his eyes that he was missing a few cards from his deck. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here earlier, but I had some other stops I had to make.”

  “No problem, Roger. I wasn’t worried about it—you’ve never missed a weekly drop. Ms. El-Amin is lucky to have you.”

  “Nah, I’m the lucky one. She treats me real good,” Roger said. He and Mr. Suah continued to make small talk, but Roger noticed that the man with the braids was watching him. “Something I can help you with?” he asked Wolf.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. I was just admiring your jacket,” Wolf said. “You a veteran?”

  “Yes sir. Did a tour in Iraq.”

  Wolf stood straight up and saluted Roger. “Let me say that my family and I appreciate all that you troops do to keep our country safe.”

  “Thanks,” Roger said, though clearly he was getting uncomfortable. “You want me to put these in the back for you, Mr. Suah? I gotta go.”

  “Sure thing, Roger. And thanks again,” Mr. Suah replied.

  “Hey, before you go, I’d like to ask you a question about your patch,” Wolf interjected. “It means you served in some kind of special unit, doesn’t it?”

  “Something like that,” Roger said in a dismissive tone.

  “I figured as much. The only reason I asked is because I’ve been looking for a similar patch, in connection with a case I’m working on.” He pulled out his badge. “Detective James Wolf—” he started, but never got to finish his sentence.

  The man known as Roger swung one of the magazine stacks like a mighty hammer and caught Wolf square in the chin. Wolf felt the world spin, followed by his skull bouncing off the floor when he fell. Through dazed eyes, he saw the bottoms of Roger’s sneakers as he made his escape. Then everything went black.

  * * *

  “Detective Wolf . . . Detective Wolf . . .”

  When he opened his eyes, he found two uniformed officers and a paramedic standing over him. A small crowd had gathered around them, curious about what had happened.

  “Are you okay, detective?” one of the uniformed officers asked.

  “Yeah, I think so,” Wolf said, rubbing his chin. From the way it throbbed he could tell without seeing it that it was swollen. He only hoped it didn’t have too bad of a bruise.

  “Do you think you need medical assistance, detective?” the paramedic asked.

  “No, the only thing hurt right now is my pride.” Wolf began climbing to his feet.

  “You’ve taken a nasty blow to the head. Maybe you should lie down for a minute.” The paramedic tried to ease Wolf back down, but the detective pushed him away.

  “If you don’t quit trying to put me on the ground, you’re gonna get a nasty blow to the head. I said I’m fine.” At the newsstand, another uniformed officer was taking a statement from the vendor, Mr. Suah. “Who was that guy?” Wolf interrupted.

  “It’s like I was saying, his name is Roger. He delivers magazines for the company I order from. He’s always very polite and I’m not sure what you said to him to set him off.”

  “What company does he work for? I need a name and address,” Wolf demanded.

  “I don’t want any trouble. It’s all right here.” Mr. Suah handed him the invoice Roger had dropped off with the magazines.

  “Real Talk,” Detective Wolf read the name out loud. He’d never heard of it, but from the mailing address listed he could see it was located in Harlem. He planned to pay them a visit and see about going another round with Roger, but his ringing cell phone said it would have to wait. “Detective Wolf,” he answered.

  “He’s struck again,” Captain Marx’s nervous voice came over the phone.

  “Damn, when?”

  “About an hour ago, give or take. The ME says the body—well, what was left of it—was still warm when they arrived. This one is bad . . . real bad. How soon can you get to the crime scene?”

  “Give me the address and I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Wolf listened as Captain Marx relayed the location. It was at a rest stop just across the George Washington Bridge. From the time of death Wolf was able to scratch Roger off the list of murder suspects. There was no way he could’ve killed someone then made it to Brooklyn to kick Wolf’s ass in that amount of time. Still, he might not have been the killer but he was definitely connected in some way. When he found out how, he was going to nail Roger’s ass, as well as everyone else connected with the murders, to the wall.

  Wolf made hurried steps back to his SUV, which now had an orange parking ticket stuck to the window. It seemed like his day just kept getting worse. He tossed the ticket to the ground and jumped behind the wheel. As he was about pull out into traffic, he saw the familiar flash of a camera. He glanced around, expecting to see another nosy reporter trying to get pictures of him in a compromising position, but there was only a girl standing on the sidewalk, taking pictures of the park in front of the Supreme Court building. She was wearing a kebaya over dark jeans and her head was wrapped in a colorful scarf. Her big brown eyes stared at the building in amazement like she had just landed in Brooklyn from another planet.

  “Fucking tourists,” Wolf spat before merging with the traffic and heading to the crime scene.

  * * *

  By the time Detective Wolf arrived at the rest stop, it was already a media circus. Reporters hovered along the outskirts of the police barrier, buzzing and waiting for someone to let
them in on what had happened. Between the media and the people who had been passing through the rest stop, it took the combined efforts of the state police and the local security to keep the crowd at bay.

  He found Captain Marx standing just outside the police tape, talking to Detectives Brown and Alvarez. They were the last two people Wolf wanted to see. He was in no mood for their bullshit and had already decided that if Brown came at him sideways again, he was going to make him regret it.

  “Captain,” Detective Wolf greeted him with a nod. He didn’t bother to acknowledge Brown or Alvarez, but he could feel their eyes on him.

  “Thanks for getting here so quick, Wolf.” Captain Marx shook his hand. He then turned to Brown and Alvarez. “You guys can go do what you gotta do. I need to talk to Wolf for a minute, but call me as soon as you turn something up.”

  “Whatever you say, sir,” Detective Brown capped before leaving with Alvarez.

  “I’d hate to be that sour muthafucka’s partner,” Wolf said once the detectives were out of earshot.

  “I didn’t call you here for your opinion of Detective Brown; I called you because there’s another dead body lying at my feet.”

  “I’ll be sure to shoot the killer a memo and ask if he wouldn’t mind slowing down until I can catch up a bit,” Wolf said.

  Captain Marx’s face turned beet red. “Let’s see if you’re still laughing when you see the size of the shit Black Lotus took in my lap.” He ducked under the police tape, and motioned for Wolf to follow him.

  Wolf had initially thought the minimart itself was the crime scene, but it was a van parked behind it. There were several medical examiners crawling in and out of the van wearing protective suits and carrying coolers. That was a bad sign. Captain Marx led Wolf around to the back of the vehicle where the doors were wide open. He smelled it before he even saw it. Not the smell of the decomposing corpse, but the blood.

  Captain Marx had been spot-on when he said butchered. Chains with hooked ends hung from the ceiling all through the van. On the ends of the hooks were body parts . . . an arm here . . . a foot there . . . The killer had hacked his victim to pieces and left him on display like a butcher’s window.

  “Who was this lucky bastard?” Detective Wolf asked.

  Captain Marx gave him a look, but didn’t feel like wasting his time reminding Wolf not to speak ill of the dead. “Delivery guy who worked for a private company in the Bronx. His name was Miguel Nunez, but they called him Poncho.”

  “Nunez? I know that name.”

  There was a visible twitch in Captain Marx’s face. “You might. Before he drove a delivery truck he worked at the city morgue.”

  Wolf remembered now. Nunez was the creepy guy who handled the corpses before they made it up to the examiner’s table. He had met the guy a time or two because he also handled the paperwork.

  “So what makes you think it was our guy? I don’t see any flowers,” Wolf pointed out.

  Captain Marx gave him another look.

  “More misplaced evidence, huh?” Wolf shook his head. First a priest, and now a former morgue creep turned delivery boy, both dusted by a trained assassin. There was no way this was a coincidence. “Captain, was Nunez working in the morgue when Johnny Gooden’s body was brought in?”

  “Detective, I need to keep your head in the present, not the past. This isn’t about Johnny Gooden.”

  “Wrong. You made it about Johnny Gooden when you sent me to speak to his parents about Father Fleming. I think you knew that talking to them would reopen old wounds and light a fire under my ass to bust your little secret case wide open!” Detective Wolf said heatedly.

  “If I were you, I’d watch your tone. I’m still your superior,” Captain Marx shot back.

  “Bullshit, this ain’t about rank and respect, it’s about truths, and I’m going to need some truth from you instead of the half lies you’ve been telling me since I signed up for this dummy mission,” Detective Wolf barked.

  Their raised voices were starting to draw attention.

  “This was a bad idea,” Captain Marx said, shaking his head. “That cold case was too personal to you and it’s clouding your judgment about this live murder. I gotta pull you off this one.”

  “The hell you will!” Wolf shouted.

  “Disobeying a direct order from a captain will be the nail in the coffin on your already shaky career, Wolf. Don’t force my hand,” Captain Marx threatened.

  Wolf laughed. “You ain’t gonna put me on the books for this one, Captain Marx, because if you do you’ll have to explain to the brass why you’ve got a narcotics detective running a backdoor investigation on a homicide case. We both know you don’t want that. You’re not calling the shots on this one anymore, Marx.”

  “What are you saying to me, Wolf?”

  “I’m saying that I’m going to solve these Black Lotus murders and finally give Johnny Gooden’s parents some closure in the process.” Wolf started for his truck. He stopped short with a few parting words for his old friend and mentor: “And captain, when I find out the truth I’m going to make sure all parties involved burn for it, regardless of which side of the badge they happen to fall on.”

  * * *

  Captain Marx stood there, jaw clenched and fists balled angrily. When he had come to Wolf it had been out of desperation. He was the best tracker Marx knew, on or off the force, and would do the dirty deed with no questions asked. Or so Captain Marx had thought. He needed the Black Lotus stopped before he could finish his to-do list, and the Goodens were the only card he’d had to play without exposing his entire hand. But Wolf was a man who worked based on what he could gain, and there was nothing to be gained from reexamining the Gooden case. It was catching the Black Lotus that would make all his troubles go away, but obviously he had underestimated his former pupil’s dedication to doing good police work.

  Captain Marx went to his car and pulled a cell phone from the trunk. He punched in a number and waited for the person on the other end to pick up. “It’s me,” he said abruptly. “We might have a small problem.”

  * * *

  Wolf was furious when he parted company with Captain Marx. He stormed through the throng of reporters, pushing, shoving, and in some cases snarling, as they tried to invade his personal space. The wise ones got out of his way and the foolish received elbows and trampled feet as he broke the media circle. He thought he had finally shaken all the vultures, until he got to his car and found one more waiting for him, leaning on the hood. This particular vulture he had seen before. She was still wearing the kebaya and jeans, but had shed the head scarf, letting her thick black hair hang free. When he’d first spotted her, he guessed her ethnicity as Middle Eastern, but now that he was getting an unobscured look at her face, he placed her as black or a dark Latina. It was the same girl Wolf had seen on Court Street in Brooklyn taking pictures.

  “What are you, following me or something?” Detective Wolf asked in a less-than-friendly tone.

  “Actually, I’m following a story and you just happen to be a part of it.” She raised her camera and snapped a picture of him.

  “Taking pictures of people uninvited can be bad for your health.” Wolf gently pushed the camera away.

  “And so can secrets,” she countered.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” Wolf asked, not liking what she was insinuating.

  “My name is Kahllah. I’m a freelance journalist for Essence magazine,” the lie rolled offer her tongue effortlessly. “What I want to know is, why is it that a narcotics detective is sniffing around a string of homicide cases?”

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I’m not working the homicides. I’m just visiting a friend on the scene.”

  “A likely story, but at least you’re not denying the homicides like everyone else.” Kahllah smirked, tapping something on her iPad. “So, is it true that the recent string of murders are connected?”

  “I don’t know what you’re fishing for, but you won’t get it from me.” Detect
ive Wolf started walking around to the driver’s side of his truck.

  “Okay, if you can’t tell me about these homicides, maybe you can help me fill in some of the blanks on another one. What happened the night Richie Dutton was killed?”

  Detective Wolf’s eyes darkened.

  “I see that question got a reaction out of you,” Kahllah said.

  Wolf stalked back around the truck, nostrils flaring, and got in Kahllah’s face. “Little girl, you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  Kahllah was unmoved by his display of hostility. “You’re right, I don’t know what I’m talking about, but like any good journalist, I’m trying to educate myself. There are a few variations of the story, but in each of them you are fingered as the murderer of your partner. Care to comment?”

  “Yeah, go fuck yourself.” Wolf snatched her iPad and smashed it on the ground. As soon as he did so, he immediately regretted it. Some of the other reporters standing nearby quickly snapped pictures of the confrontation.

  “Now that’s going to make a nasty headline in some tabloid,” Kahllah taunted him. “You can huff and puff like the big bad wolf all you want, but if there’s a story here, I’m going to crack it. So you can talk to me willingly and put some truth on the table, or I can keep digging and feed the public whatever I find.”

  “Little girl, you are skating on thin ice. If I were you, I’d be careful that it doesn’t crack under your feet and land you in the deep end,” Wolf threatened, before jumping into his truck. He peeled out of the parking lot, almost mowing down several reporters.

  Kahllah stood there, smiling devilishly. Audrey had been right when she said an interesting story would come out of looking into Detective Wolf. He was volatile and rude, typical of a cop who was starting to crack under the stress of the job. With the right amount of pressure, he eventually would crack, and when he did, she’d be there to write about it—and whatever dirty little secrets he was trying to keep hidden.