Chapter 2
Whistler was in the foyer of the Dixon estate, watching for the two screw-ups to arrive, and when they did, he escorted them to the library, knocked, then opened the door and stepped inside.
“Garza and Letourneau are here.”
Dixon was standing with his back to the windows when they walked in. Whistler started to leave when Dixon stopped him. “Whistler. You wait in here with me.”
“Yes, sir,” Whistler said and shut the door, then leaned against it.
Garza and Letourneau suddenly realized they were in trouble, but weren’t sure why.
Dixon took a deep breath and then unloaded. “What did I tell you to do last night?”
“Pick up a body and dump it,” Garza said.
“No. That’s not what I said. My instructions were specific. I said, pick up a body and bury it where it’ll never be found.”
Letourneau shifted nervously. “It was storming when you called. Raining like hell and lightning zapping all around us. The road to the gravel pit was underwater. We did a dump in an abandoned warehouse instead. Hell, by the time the body is found, decomp and rats will have obliterated it.”
Dixon crossed the room, stopping directly in front of them, and slapped Letourneau across the face so hard it knocked him off his feet.
Garza gasped and started whining. “We were high when you called, Boss. We weren’t cognizant enough to make good decisions. We’ll go back today, pick the body up, and do the job right. Give us a second chance.”
Dixon shook his head. “There are no second chances in this business. Someone saw you make the dump and called the police. The Feds already have the body, and it’s been identified.
Your only saving grace is that it was too dark for the witness to identify anyone.
Now, here’s what I need you to do. The witness was a homeless man who goes by the name Yankee Dan.
He’s staying at a shelter run by a man named Wilson Trainer.
Find Yankee Dan and make sure he becomes the victim of a hit and run.
And then both of you head for the border, and don’t come back.
If I see either of you again, I’ll kill you myself. Understood?”
“Yes, Boss. Understood,” Garza said and dragged Letourneau to his feet and out of the mansion as fast as they could move. He shoved his partner into their car and left rubber on the pavement behind them as they drove away, with Burgess Dixon watching their exit from the same library windows.
“What do you want me to do, Boss?” Whistler asked.
“The only reason they’re still breathing now is because I didn’t want their blood and brains on my floor.
Make them disappear, and you do the witness.
I don’t know what he looks like. Homeless people are victims of something every day.
A hit and run won’t be looked at as an actual hit.
And I’m going to have to think about that cop.
I don’t need the Feds and the State Attorney General’s office on my heels.
Heist a car to do the job. Make sure whatever you use is untraceable. ”
Whistler nodded and walked out of the library, quietly closing the door behind him.
* * *
Cliff and Gunner arrived on the scene of their next call to see a man’s body hanging by his neck out of the fourth-floor window of an apartment building.
The officers first on the scene had assumed it was a suicide until forensics showed up and found scratch marks in the paint on the windowsill, and the same paint beneath the victim’s fingernails.
It was obvious the young man had not committed suicide, but someone had wanted it to look that way, which is why Homicide caught the case.
Within moments of their arrival, Gunner and Cliff began interviewing witnesses, and when other detectives arrived, they sent them door to door to interview residents in the apartment building and gather footage from security cameras in the surrounding area.
* * *
Across town, Whistler had followed Garza and Letourneau straight back to their apartment building, which showed him they weren’t in any big rush to carry out Dixon’s orders.
He pulled around back and parked, gloved up, and pulled a burner gun out of a bag, attached a silencer to the weapon, and went inside.
He already knew the place didn’t have security cameras, but he had a medical mask over his face anyway.
Ever since that Covid outbreak a couple of years ago, it was no longer unusual to still see people walking around in public wearing masks, so no one was going to pay attention to him.
He went to Garza’s apartment first, saw a few drops of blood in front of the door, and guessed he’d taken his partner inside to clean him up before they went out looking for Yankee Dan. He had part of a plan, but it all depended upon how they reacted to his arrival as he knocked.
* * *
Letourneau was sitting on the sofa with an unopened bottle of cold beer in his hands, holding it onto the bruised side of his face when they heard the knock. “Are you expecting anyone?”
“I owe the landlord,” Garza said. He pulled a handful of hundred-dollar bills out of his wallet and went to the door.
The moment the door swung open, Whistler kicked Garza in the balls. The money in his hand went everywhere as he fell backward, clutching his crotch in utter agony. Money was still floating down as the door swung shut.
Whistler was inside. Garza was doubled over, holding his balls with both hands, groaning and cursing, and Letourneau was on his feet and coming at Whistler with his fists doubled.
Whistler waited until Letourneau was only a few feet away and then shot him between the eyes. The sound was little more than a pop, and Garza was on his feet and coming at him from behind. Whistler pulled a knife and, as he spun, stabbed the knife into Garza’s throat.
Garza’s eyes widened in disbelief. The last thing he saw was Whistler’s eyes above the mask he was wearing, and then cognizance for Garza no longer existed. He fell forward on top of Letourneau. The deed was done; now to set the stage.
Whistler picked up Letourneau’s lifeless hand, cupped it around the knife hasp, and squeezed it to imprint DNA and fingerprints in the right position, making it appear as if he’d been the one to stab Garza in the neck.
Then he shoved the gun with the silencer into Garza’s left hand.
A dying reflex was the squeeze he needed as he watched Garza’s fingers curl around the grip.
At that point, Whistler added to the pressure and squeezed off one more shot that went into the sofa, making sure gunshot residue would be on Garza’s clothes and skin, and making sure his fingerprints and DNA were all over it, then stepped back, watching the blood beginning to pool beneath the bodies.
He glanced at his watch and grunted in satisfaction. Seventy seconds.
He was eyeing the scene as he backed toward the door—bodies entangled, the rent money scattered beneath and around them, the gun, the knife—knowing the cops would assume they’d had a fight over the money.
As he was leaving, he picked up the car keys on the table by the door and left the door unlocked.
When he got to the parking lot, he unlocked the door to Garza’s car, left the keys in the ignition and the door ajar, and drove away. It wouldn’t take long for someone to heist the car. The more confusion to a crime scene, the better.
His next stop was to steal a vehicle to do the hit and run.
He knew Wilson Trainer by name, and knew where the shelter was.
As he was driving, his phone dinged. When he stopped for a red light, he opened the message.
It was two words. Yankee Dan. And a photo.
The boss was nothing if not thorough. Now he had a face to go with the name, but he had his own crime scene to scrub first.
He went home, stripped and bagged up the clothes he’d been wearing, stowed them in his closet, and went to shower. Afterward, he removed the tags from new clothes he kept on hand for days like this, then dressed and left his apartment.
Next stop was to heist a car, and he drove straight to a convention center and began cruising the massive parking lot filled with vehicles belonging to the current attendees.
He found a big newer model black Dodge truck with tinted windows parked at the far end of one lot and grabbed his Slim Jim and a paintball gun as he got out.
He shot black paint balls at the nearest security cameras, then tossed the paint gun in the back of the truck and popped the lock.
A set of car keys fell into his lap as he pulled down the visor.
Score. He wouldn’t even have to hot-wire this one, he thought, and drove out of the lot.
With the tinted windows for cover, he didn’t have to worry about being seen.
And if they did, they would assume it was the owner, which was even better.
If they ever tied the truck to a hit and run, the owner would take the fall.
It was time to head to the other side of the city, to Wilson Trainer’s homeless shelter.
* * *
For the first time in years, Yankee Dan had taken a hot shower, shampooed his hair and beard, and been given clean clothes.
He had food in his belly, his foot had been treated and dressed again, and the day wasn’t over.
The money Detective Kingston gave him was burning a hole in his pocket.
Get a shave and a haircut, the detective said, and by God, he was going to go do it while he was still full of resolve.
This was a new chance. Not his second chance, or even his third, but it was a new chance.
He stopped by the front desk to ask where the nearest barber shop was located, then signed out and left the building.
It was nearing dusk. The people who lived on the streets were already sheltering in place. Most of the storefronts in the area were vacant, so once it began to get dark, the streets cleared of heavy traffic.