Neighbors and Other Strangers

  Neighbors and

  Other Strangers

  The Threat of the Criminal Alliance—

  Crime, Corruption, Assassination

  Gordon Parker

  Tales of Crime and Corruption Creator

  PO Box 221974 Anchorage, Alaska 99522-1974

  books@publicationconsultants.com www.publicationconsultants.com

  ISBN Number: 978-1-59433-833-5

  eBook ISBN Number: 978-1-59433-834-2

  Library of Congress Number: 2018961909

  Copyright 2018 Gordon Parker

  —First Edition—

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in any form, or by any mechanical or electronic means including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, in whole or in part in any form, and in any case not without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Table of Contents

  July

  Tuesday, April 26th

  Wednesday, April 27th

  Friday, April 29th

  Saturday, April 30th

  Sunday, May 1st

  Saturday, June 25th

  Sunday, June 26th

  Monday, June 27th

  Sunday, July 3rd

  Saturday, July 16th

  Wednesday, July 20th

  Friday, July 22nd

  Monday, July 25th

  Wednesday, July 27th

  Thursday, July 28th

  Friday, July 29th

  Saturday, July 30th

  Sunday, July 31st

  Monday, August 1st

  Tuesday, August 2nd

  Wednesday, August 3rd

  Thursday, August 4th

  Friday, August 5th

  Saturday, August 6th

  Sunday, August 7th

  Monday, August 8th

  Tuesday, August 9th

  Wednesday, August 10th

  Thursday, August 11th

  Friday, August 12th

  Friday, August 19th

  Saturday, August 20th

  Sunday, August 21st

  Saturday, September 26th

  July

  The stench of rotten food wafting from the dumpster filled the darkened alley. Steve Burgess pressed himself against the brick wall of a building. He tried to believe he was invisible. He was in a bad part of the city in the middle of the night. He felt nauseous. He was sweating. It was a warm New Orleans night. That had nothing to do with it. He would have been sweating if it was snowing. He would have been nauseous without the dumpster.

  The door was opened by a blonde man so large as to occupy the frame. With close cropped hair and no noticeable neck, he was a mass of muscle. Burgess was a big man, too. But unlike the young giant filling the doorway, he was an overweight, out of shape cop on the down side of middle age. At least he had been a cop. Now he wasn’t. Now he was nothing. A frightened man hiding in an alley.

  Trent Marshall, a Pulitzer Prize winning investigative reporter, almost got Burgess sent to prison a few years ago. Three of Burgess’ colleagues did go to jail. Six others were fired. Burgess didn’t get indicted or lose his job, but he was demoted. More recently Marshall humiliated Burgess in front of his boss, Detective Lieutenant Jordan Baron.

  After that incident, Burgess went to a bar and got drunk. He was still on duty. He didn’t care.

  Late that afternoon he found himself stumbling down the sidewalk across the street from Marshall’s house in the Vieux Carre’. He had intended to do nothing but shout a curse and raise a middle finger. But just at that moment the pedestrian gate in the brick wall enclosing the old house and its courtyard opened. Marshall and his girlfriend stepped into view. Something came over Burgess. Something he could not control. Without really knowing how it got there, he found a revolver in his hand. He fired two shots across the street, narrowly missing them. As they ducked back through the gate seeking the protection of the bricks, he staggered out of sight as quickly as he could.

  He didn’t use his service weapon. He used the hideout most officers carried. His was a snub nose .32. Baron made him turn over both weapons for ballistics testing. Knowing what the results would be, Burgess said he was going to the men’s room. He didn’t go to the men’s room. He walked down the hall and out the back door. He didn’t go to his apartment. He did his best to disappear. Now he was a former cop on the run. He needed help. He came to the only place he knew.

  “He’ll see you now,” the young man said. His voice was surprisingly soft. Burgess was certain that was the only thing about him that was.

  “Thanks,” Burgess said as he moved to the door.

  The young man turned and walked away. Burgess hurried to follow him, already out of breath. He was led to a private dining room off the kitchen. A well-dressed, older man sat at a table dining alone. A simple meal. Bratwurst on a bun with Creole mustard accompanied by potato salad.

  “Thank you, Gart,” the man said.

  Gart didn’t leave. He stood near the door. Behind Burgess.

  The older man took the last bite of bratwurst. He wiped a bit of mustard off his lips with a white cloth napkin. Only then did he look at Burgess.

  “I hear you’re in trouble, Steve,” he said. “Big trouble this time.”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied politely. He clearly knew the older man was the alpha male.

  “And now you come to me.”

  “Yes, sir,” the former cop replied. “You always treated me good.”

  “What do you need from me now?”

  “I have to get out of town,” Burgess said. “I need money and a place to go where there might be a friend.”

  “Why shouldn’t I just have Gart break your neck and toss your body in the river?” the older man asked.

  “You could do that,” Burgess replied nervously, beginning to sweat again. “But that could bring complications. You never know when a mistake might be made. A mistake that could lead cops in the wrong direction.”

  “You know better than to threaten me, Steve.”

  “I would never threaten you, sir,” the former cop said. “I’m just pointing out that it’s less complicated to help me relocate. A small amount of cash and a suggestion about where I might go. Nothing that would ever connect us.”

  “Is that all?”

  “I would ask one more small favor, sir,” Burgess said. “And again this is something that could never lead back to you.”

  The older man raised his eyebrows. “Yes?”

  “I’d like to get in touch with Jimmy Shadow.”

  The older man was surprised by that request though he didn’t let it show on his face. He didn’t know if Jimmy Shadow was still working. He was seventy-five himself and Jimmy had to be at least his age. He was one of the best hit men in the business in his day. It was his talent for accomplishing a hit using methods that made it difficult, often impossible, to figure out the cause of death that earned him his pseudonym.

  That and the fact that he was never seen. No one knew what he looked like. No one knew what he sounded like. No one knew his real name. No one knew for sure whether Jimmy Shadow was a man or a woman. Communication with Jimmy Shadow was done in the old days with dead drops. The last the man heard Jimmy still used dead drops but in the age of computers had added burst transmissions. Small packets of information sent quickly. Too quickly to be traced by the cops, most of whom didn’t have access to the necessary sophisticated computers.

  “That could be asking a lot, Steve,” the older man said. “It could even be dangerous for you. Jimmy was never patient. If Jimmy doesn’t want to be found, you might disappear.”

  “Believe me, I know that,�
� Burgess said.

  “You’re not going to give up on this thing are you? You’re going to try again, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir, I am going to try again.”

  The older man considered that. He didn’t want to have Burgess killed. It was never smart to kill a cop. Even a crooked cop. He wouldn’t be sad to see Trent Marshall done in. The investigative reporter had cost the older man money a few times. He had even come close to exposing the man’s power in the city. No, he wouldn’t mind seeing Marshall receive what was due him for the trouble he had caused.

  If Burgess was going to try again to kill Marshall, the older man would rather it be somewhere other than New Orleans.

  “Where would you like to go, Steve?”

  “Marshall has a girlfriend who lives in San Francisco. I wouldn’t mind tracking him down there.”

  The man motioned to Gart who moved close to him and leaned over. The man whispered instructions.

  “Gart will take care of you, Steve,” the older man said. “I don’t want to see you or hear that you’re in New Orleans ever again.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Burgess said nervously, not sure what was meant by Gart taking care of him.

  He followed the young man out of the room. Gart told him to wait in the alley. He was gone for ten minutes. When he returned he gave Burgess an envelope containing $15,000 in cash and a slip of paper with a name and phone number. A San Francisco area code.

  In the private dining room, the older man made a phone call. When the call was answered, the man’s message was concise.

  “A former cop named Steve Burgess will be calling. He has been of some service to me in the past. I would consider it a favor if you will take his call and assist him if, in your judgment, you think it possible without endangering yourself. He can be useful if you’re inclined to give him a little work from time to time. If you don’t care for what he has to say or what he asks of you, do as you will. I don’t need to know.”

  He gave the mobile phone to Gart with instructions to throw it in the river.

  Tuesday, April 26th

  Trent Marshall steered the sleek black sedan into the below ground parking garage. The car pulsed like a leashed lion struggling against its restraint. Its engine emitting a low, barely audible roar. Powerful. Eager to be set free.

  “Welcome back, Trent,” the slim young man in the uniform said.

  “Thanks, Bat,” Marshall responded. “You keeping everything under control around here?”

  The young man laughed. His name wasn’t Bat. Marshall had taken to calling him that because he knew about the baton the young man kept out of sight. It looked like nothing more than a cane an old man might use. Trent happened to know it had a lead core that converted it into a potentially lethal weapon.

  To Marshall’s knowledge Bat had never used the weighted stick. If the time ever came, he was confident the young man would emerge unscathed. They had spent a couple of hours one lazy afternoon practicing maneuvers with the stick as a weapon. Bat had some tricks of his own. Trent taught him a few more. Bat was a security guard. Not a cop. He wasn’t allowed to be armed. But he had no intention of going down in a fight if he could help it.

  “It’s all good here,” the young man said. “The thugs steer clear of my building.”

  “Good job.”

  “Hey, that’s a new car, isn’t it?” Bat asked. “What happened to the Caddy?”

  “It’s in New Orleans,” Trent said, referring to his Cadillac CTS-V, the fastest car ever built by General Motors. “This is a Bentley Continental GT Speed. Six liter. V 12. 626 horsepower. Faster than the Caddy.”

  Bat whistled.

  “How fast?” the young security guard asked.

  “Top speed…204 miles per hour.”

  “Did you hit it on this trip?”

  “Came close out in west Texas,” Trent called over his shoulder as he steered the powerful vehicle into the garage.

  He pulled into his assigned parking space. The Bentley cost almost twice as much as the house Trent lived in as a teenager with his father. As an adult he had lived paycheck to paycheck, like his parents before him. His life changed forever when his last living relative, his mother’s elderly aunt, died leaving him a thousand acres across the Mississippi River from Baton Rouge. Land that once had been planted in sugar cane. He formed a partnership with a builder. Together they built a world class golf course. They surrounded it with more than a hundred houses. Big houses. Expensive houses. $1 million would barely cover the price of a guest house. The partners each walked away with an immense fortune.

  The parking space was assigned to him by Darcey Anderson. Two parking slots came with the condo she purchased as revenues at her firm, DJA Designs, soared. One space sat unused until Trent’s first visit the previous August. Darcey’s white BMW X-5 was in the other slot. Trent knew she might or might not be home. The condo was only a short walk from her small office building on California Street. Unless she had business outside the office, she usually walked to work.

  The Bentley’s trunk held only two items. A large black duffel bag. Very heavy. It was one reason that Trent preferred to drive rather than fly. The other item was a standard small, soft-sided roller bag. It contained only what he needed for the drive from his home in New Orleans. Four to five days for most drivers. Fewer for Trent.

  Lifting the duffel to his shoulder he pulled the roller bag toward the elevator, reaching it just before the door closed. He forced the door open with his foot, causing the elderly woman inside to scream with fright.

  She pressed herself into a rear corner of the elevator.

  “Stay away from me, young, man,” she demanded, her voice quivering. “Why are you following me?”

  Trent spoke calmly. “I’m not following you, Ma’am,” he said.

  He saw she had already pressed the button for the 15th floor, one of the three top floors requiring a security key for access. He had his own key but since she had already used hers there was no need for him to repeat the process.

  “You are following me!” the woman screeched. “You don’t live on the 15th floor. You’re following me!”

  “No, ma’am,” Trent said, doing his best to remain calm. “When I’m in San Francisco I live on the 15th floor. I’m not following you.”

  “I don’t believe you. I’m calling 9-1-1 just as soon as I get into my condo.”

  “Lady, believe me. I’m not following you,” Trent said, his patience wearing thin. “If I was following you I would certainly be regretting it by now.”

  Trent stood still, staring straight ahead. The woman remained pressed into the rear corner. Finally the elevator reached the 15th floor. The doors opened. Most of the condos on the lower floors were smaller. Those on the three top floors were large. There were only four units each on the 15th and 16th floors. The 17th floor held two penthouses. Trent knew how much Darcey’s 15th floor unit cost. He figured the price of the penthouses would be more than the Gross Domestic Product of several countries admitted to membership in the United Nations.

  Trying to do the gentlemanly thing, Trent held the elevator door open so the lady could exit. She squeezed past him hurriedly and rushed down the hall.

  “Don’t you dare follow me,” she shouted. “I’m calling 9-1-1. You just stay away from me.”

  The door to one of the condos at the far end of the hall opened. An elderly man stepped into the frame.

  “What’s all the fuss about out here?”

  “This man is following me,” the woman said. “I don’t know why. He doesn’t belong on this floor. He leaped onto the elevator before the doors could close. I’m calling 9-1-1.”

  “Oh, shut your trap, Jean,” the man said. “I hope he is following you. And I hope he does something terrible to you!”

  “I see it all now,” the woman said as she fumbled to unlock her door. “You put him up to it, James Williams. You’re trying to make me pay for my sins. Well, you have to pay for your sins as well. I’m calling 9
-1-1 right now. Both of you will be spending the night in jail.”

  She finally got her door open. After she slammed the door, Trent heard at least four locks slide into place.

  He turned to the elderly man. “I’m very sorry about all that, sir. I don’t know why she got so upset.”

  “She does it nearly every day. That’s the widow Philby. She’s always complaining about something or someone.”

  “Well, I’m sorry you were disturbed.”

  “No need to apologize,” the old man said, with a nasty laugh. “Watching her running scared is the most fun I have all day.” He ducked back inside his own condo and slammed the door.

  Trent was left standing in the hall alone. He didn’t know which of the two was most unpleasant. The old woman who suffered from abnormal fear of strangers, perhaps fueled by something in her past for which she felt guilt, or the old man who seemed to enjoy her fear.

  It wasn’t a hard decision. The old woman was irritating. The old man was cold-hearted.

  He used his own key to open the door to Darcey’s condo. It occurred to him that if the woman did call 9-1-1 there were some things he didn’t want to have to explain to the police. He took his bags to the master bedroom and stowed them in his closet. As a precaution he called Bat and told him about the unfortunate incident with Mrs. Philby.

  Bat laughed. “Don’t worry about it, Trent. She calls 9-1-1 all the time. They have to respond, but they’ll talk to me first. They won’t bother you.”

  Twenty minutes later Darcey was home and sitting on the edge of the bed. Trent was in the bed. His upper body was naked. The bedclothes covered him from the waist down. An open bottle of Mumm’s Napa Brut Prestige sat in an ice bucket on the bedside table. They each had a flute from which they were sipping.

  “What? No gun?” she queried, knowing Trent’s tendency to be armed at all times. Even when it was less than convenient.

  “I have all the weapon I need,” he said, flashing her a devilish grin, as he took the champagne flute from her and set it with his beside the ice bucket.