 
Hard to Kill

A Jessica Snow, Undercover Cop, Novel

By Darryl Matter

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2019 by Darryl Matter

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

Hard to Kill

A Jessica Snow, Undercover Cop, Novel

This is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

* * * * *

Chapter 1

A hush fell over the packed courtroom and the people assembled there quietly took their seats as the judge entered from his chamber. It was time to learn the verdict of the trial that had lasted for almost a month.

"Has the jury reached a verdict?" the judge asked.

"Yes, we have," replied the lead juror.

No one in that courtroom was more anxious to hear that verdict than I was. I'd spent the past two years working undercover to gather information that would put Senator Shawn Holland away for a long time, possibly for the rest of his life. I'd not only gathered information linking Holland to Roger Hentz, reputed head of a drug importing and murder-for-hire empire that worked the entire west coast, but I'd gathered video recordings of Holland accepting massive illegal campaign contributions and granting favors accordingly. Furthermore, one of his strongest opponents in the past senatorial election race had been murdered, and I'd uncovered evidence of Holland ordering that hit. It would be my testimony that would put Holland away--assuming that the jury believed me.

"How does the jury find the defendant?" the judge asked.

"We the jury," the lead juror began.

This was the moment that would mean everything to me. My undercover infiltration of Senator Holland's staff, the stake outs, the recordings, the disappointment of having to deal with a corrupt cop who almost sold me out to Roger Hentz--all would have been for nothing if the jury wouldn't convict Holland.

"We the jury," the lead juror began again, "find the defendant guilty on all charges."

The courtroom erupted in noise as the judge called for order. I felt like cheering myself. Instead, I stood up and took a last look at Shawn Holland.

Holland looked back at me, his eyes ablaze with rage and hate. His career as a senator was over, and he'd likely be out of circulation for some time.

Cynthia Holland, Shawn's current wife and a sister of Roger Hentz, was in the courtroom as well. Her social world had obviously crashed hard along with her husband's conviction. She, too, glared at me, her eyes filled with hate. Frankly, I wasn't sure which one of them would be the most dangerous.

There would be no appeal of the conviction. I knew that. Holland could and did hire the best attorneys in the business, and they'd gone after every bit of information I and the other witnesses had given the jury. The guilty verdict would stand.

Well, I'd done what I'd been assigned to do. It was time to get on with my life.

Getting on with my life wasn't going to be easy, not for awhile, at least. Holland or Hentz would have a contract out on me soon, if they didn't already, and my boss, Captain David Barkley, had made arrangements for me to move into one of the safe-houses maintained by the police department. "The minute that damned trial is over, I want you on your way to a safe-house," Barkley had told me. "Sam Knight will be waiting for you in an unmarked car behind the courthouse."

Captain Barkley had not wanted me to testify in person at the trial. Holland's legal defense team had insisted that I do so, and the judge agreed with them. That didn't surprise me because I suspected that the judge and Holland were, well, shall we say "connected," politically speaking. Not that it made much difference in the trial's outcome, but it surely set me up for revenge by Holland.

Of course, both Captain Barkley and I knew that neither Holland nor Hentz would be satisfied with someone simply putting a bullet in my head. I can easily imagine what all they'd want to do with me before they killed me--and I suspected that a gang-rape and a fierce beating would only be the beginning.

Well, I'd do the best I could to watch where I walked and keep an eye on my surroundings. Furthermore, I'd prepared myself for the likelihood that Holland or Hentz would want me dead--and I intended to make it very hard for anyone to kill me.

For one thing, I'd tried out a variety of concealed-carry holsters for my favorite pistols and gotten advice from a number of cops. Did I ever get the advice about concealed carry! One of the older cops even tried to fit me into a shoulder holster. That was a laugh! No gal with breasts the size of mine could comfortably wear a shoulder holster rig--at least not the kind the cop tried on me.

Instead, I settled on a holster that would carry a small pistol in the small of my back. That would be easily concealed under the light jacket I usually wore. A two-shot derringer would ride in my left boot. (Yeah, I wear Western-style boots.) Two shots would be better than none, and I could get it into action with my left hand. And, of course, I carried a Beretta 9 mm in my purse, that is, when I carry a full-sized purse, which isn't too often. Well, like I said, if they're out to kill me, and I'm sure they will be, I'm gonna make their job just as hard as I can.

In addition to being well-armed, I have another self-defense thing going for me. My dad taught hand-to-hand combat for the United States Army for twenty-some years. When he learned that I was joining the police force, he gave me a whole lot of instruction--for which I've been grateful, considering I didn't get much hand-to-hand or street-fighting instruction from the police.

Did I mention that I also carry the switch-blade knife my dad gave me? Yep, I sure do--and it's razor-sharp. And he taught me how to get it into action fast--maybe faster than some guys can draw a gun. Hoped I never had to use it in self-defense, but it was there if I needed it.

Sam Knight, the cop who was taking me straight from the courthouse to a safe-house that day is a good friend of mine, a young cop just a little older than me who'd served two tours in the army and graduated from the police academy a year after I did. He'd helped me out a few times over the past two years when I'd needed serious back-up. I trusted him.

Sam's a tough, but good looking, guy. He's about six-two and muscular, with a way of carrying himself that says, "Don't give me any trouble." His years in the military toughened him. Well, I'll be honest, I really like that guy. He's the kind of guy I could go for in a serious way.

His military training included serious hand-to-hand combat training. He and I used to square off in the gym and practice some of the moves that might keep us alive in a street fight or a back-alley brawl.

It was practice that served Sam well, I might add. He'd found himself in a situation where he was confronted by three armed punks who'd just robbed a liquor store at gunpoint and were high on drugs. Although that confrontation was two weeks ago, two of those punks are still in the hospital and the other is recovering in jail.

The moment I stepped out the back door of that courthouse, I heard Sam call, "Hey, Jessica, over here." He was holding the car door open for me. My suitcases were in the trunk. Moments later we were on our way to the safe-house.

I'd used the name "Annette Smith" while I was on the last assignment--but I was back to my real name now. I'd get my hair cut differently and colored dark instead of my original blonde before getting on with my next assignment. Not that those changes would keep me from being recognized for too long by anyone seriously looking for me, but they might slow down my being recognized.

With all of the smart-phone cameras around these days I was sure that my photo would have been taken by at least some of Holland's staff. They'd no doubt share it with Roger Hemtz and anyone else who might be interested in collecting the bounty on my head. We'd be wary, Sam and I would. We'd better be.

Both Sam and I kept a sharp eye out for any indications that we were being followed as we left the courthouse. We couldn't be absolutely certain, of course, but we didn't see any vehicles following us, not right away. But then, as Sam did a counter-surveillance circle around the block as we neared the safe-house, we both spotted a blue Cadillac that we'd seen parked a few blocks from the courthouse.

The windows were mirrored, preventing us from seeing anyone inside the Cadillac, but knowing we'd seen that car parked near the courthouse made us both jumpy. Sam immediately turned a corner and drove down a street that took us away from the safe-house. A few more turns and we seemed to have lost the Cadillac. Or, could it be that whoever was in that car had an idea of which safe-house we were headed for? After all, it wouldn't come as a surprise to anyone that I'd be staying at a safe-house for a time, and any government official could find out where the safe-houses were located. Holland or one of his aids could easily find out where they were if they didn't already know.

Sam and I debated about trying to locate the Cadillac and get its tag number, but we decided against it. Maybe it would show up again. I'd almost bet that it would.

"Watch your back, Jessica, and keep in touch," Sam told me as he helped me carry my suitcases into the safe-house. I thanked him for his concern, gave him a quick hug, and assured him I would keep in touch.

"By the way," Sam said, before he left, "I'm going to keep an eye on things around the safe-house, and I'm going to keep an eye out for that blue Cadillac--all unofficially, of course. I'll let you know if I learn anything of interest."

Sam was involved for a time with a military intelligence unit, and the things he learned there have proved invaluable in his work as a cop. It seems to me as if he's very suspicious of anything that seems a little out of the ordinary, things like seeing that blue Cadillac twice, and he knows how to check things out with other cops.

At any rate, I certainly did appreciate Sam keeping watch over me. I'd sleep better at night, knowing he was out there--and near by. There was no doubt in my mind as to what Shawn and Cynthia Holland had in mind for me. And wouldn't Roger Hemtz's outlaw motorcycle gang just love to get their hands on an abducted lady-cop with a hefty price on her head. They'd have a lot of "fun" with her before they collected the bounty.
Chapter 2

That evening I got a call from Captain Barkley. "Sam Knight and I had a serious conversation regarding a blue Cadillac and some other things," he began, "and I'm checking to see if such a vehicle might belong to Shawn Holland or any of his associates. Regardless, Jessica, I want you to know that we haven't abandoned you. I've assigned extra cops to keep an eye on that safe-house where you're staying." Then, as he was about to conclude our conversation, he said, "I've got another undercover assignment for you that should provide you with some cover. We'll talk about it in another day or so. Perhaps tomorrow."

Another undercover assignment? Maybe that would be the best thing for me, I thought. At least it would get my mind off people like Shawn and Cynthia Holland and Roger Hemtz and what they might be planning for me. With that thought in mind, I shoved my pistol under my pillow, just as I had every night for over two years, and went to sleep.

* * * * *

Sam picked me up the following morning and drove me to the Police Station. "Chief Barkley wants to talk with you," he told me. I had a good idea of what we'd be talking about, and I hoped Sam would be a part of the assignment.

On the way to the Police Station, Sam and I kept an eye out for a blue Cadillac. We didn't spot it, but that didn't mean someone wasn't watching for us. Or maybe they knew where I was living and didn't have to watch for us. Let things settle down a little so I'd be less cautious--and then strike.

Chief Barkley doesn't waste much time with chit-chat. The moment I was seated in his office, he told me that he'd located the ownership of a blue Cadillac that just might have been the one that shadowed Sam and me from the courthouse to the vicinity of the safe-house. It was owned by one of Shawn Holland's bodyguards. "We're going to get you into another safe-house right away," Barkley told me, "and then I've got another undercover assignment for you that'll take you some distance from the political figures you've been working with."

"Okay."

"We'll move you out of the safe-houses and into an apartment soon," Barkley told me. "You can work from it on your new assignment. Maybe we can keep Hemtz's crew guessing."

Maybe such a move would keep Holland's crew guessing as to where I was. I wouldn't count on that, no way, not with their resources, but it wasn't my call. "What's the new assignment?"

"There's a bar over on the corner of Ninth Street and Riverton Avenue called The Tiger's Lounge," Chief Barkley began. "We've got reports for several years of illegal gambling taking place there, and I don't mean little nickel and dime bets. We're talking thousands and thousands of dollars changing hands. And a share of that money goes to finance drug smuggling and to keep the right politicians in power.

"There's some other dirty work coming out of that place, as well," he added. "We'll work out the details, but we're going to send you in posing as representing someone with a lot of money to bet on professional sporting events, someone who might be willing to kick back part of any winnings to finance other illegal activity."

I knew just a little about The Tiger's Lounge, well, I knew its reputation, anyway. I'd been by the place a few times, but I'd never been inside. After we discussed the assignment and I'd been assured that Sam would be one of the officers providing me with backup, Barkley raised a question. "Have you ever ridden double on a motorcycle, Jessica?"

"Yes, in the past, but not very often recently. Why do you ask?"

Barkley smiled. "Your partner is going to be a cop by the name of James Morris. He's going to take you to The Tiger's Lounge the first time you go, and probably every time, at least for awhile, because he's well known there. He looks like a hard-core outlaw biker, tattoos, scars, and all, and he rides a big ol' Harley-Davidson," Chief Barkley grinned as he explained. "You'll be riding behind him."

"Okay." I could go with that. I'd ridden a motorcycle--a "bike," we called 'em--ever since I was eighteen, but I'd seldom ridden double. And I hadn't ridden one recently. Well, the clothing I'd be wearing as a biker would provide cover for some weapons I'd be carrying as well as a miniature microphone.

"You'll ride in there with Morris tomorrow evening about nine o'clock. That's when things seem to get going at that particular bar."

"You say James Morris is well known at The Tiger's Lounge?"

Chief Barkley chuckled. "Yep, but not as a cop. He's been undercover there for about a year now--just building recognition--listening and gathering information. He knows the people you'll want to meet, the ones who place the gambling bets, and he's picked up on some other activities originating out of that bar."

"Like what?"

"Loan-sharking and extortion. Maybe trafficking in stolen goods, including stolen motorcycles."

Barkley called James Morris into his office, and we discussed my assignment for some time, working out details. Then Chief Barkley made arrangements with Sam to take me to a different safe-house for the night.

It was while he was driving me to the safe-house that Sam raised a question. "How well do you know Chief Barkley?" he asked. Something told me there was something unusual behind that question.

"I've worked with him as an undercover cop for the past three years now," I told Sam. And then I had to ask, "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious."

That remark puzzled me. "Just curious?"

"Yeah, but I gather that you trust him?"

I had to know what he was thinking. "Sam, we don't have secrets between us. What's going on? What are you thinking?"

Sam smiled. "Okay. I talked with Barkley about that blue Cadillac the other night right after I took you to the safe-house. It didn't take him long to discover that it was owned by one of Shawn Holland's bodyguards. It seemed to me that he got that information awfully fast--that's all. Considering that we didn't give him a license plate number, and that there's probably more than one blue Cadillac in the city."

* * * * *

Chief Barkley was right about James Morris. He looks like a hard-core biker, a big beefy man with tattoos on his arms and several scars on his face. On Friday night around nine o'clock I rode into The Tiger's Lounge parking lot on the back of his Harley.

Although The Tiger's Lounge isn't known as a biker's bar, the parking lot was crackling with biker's activity. Not only was the parking lot about half full of motorcycles, but there were biker guys and gals all over the place--some of them apparently high on drugs or alcohol. Some of the gals were topless, or almost so, and a few of them were "dressed" in body-paint instead of clothing.

The rest of the parking lot seemed to be filled with expensive vehicles--Cadillacs, Lincolns, and a few expensive foreign makes. The owners of those vehicles were likely inside the bar.

Seeing those bikers reminded me that Roger Hemtz is reputed to rely on a motorcycle gang to distribute drugs as well as collect and extort money. They hadn't likely had time to focus on the undercover cop who brought down Shawn Holland--but something told me Hemtz's gang just might be looking for me in the near future. Not that the bikers at The Tiger's Lounge were likely to be Hemtz's associates, but I couldn't rule that out either.

I didn't see any sign of Sam, but he, along with at least one other back-up cop, was there on a nearby street or in the parking lot somewhere--getting acquainted with the local action and listening to the little microphones Morris and I wore. Not that James or I expected any trouble that night, but I was glad to know that Sam was near--just in case. Besides, I hadn't forgotten the looks Shawn Holland or his wife Cynthia gave me after Holland's trial and conviction. If those looks could have killed, I'd be dead--or worse. Much worse.

Things were much more calm inside The Tiger's Lounge. In fact, there were a number of well-dressed men and women inside the bar and only a few bikers. The couples were in a party mood, allright, but mostly just drinking, talking, dancing, and watching the television screens.

The man I wanted to meet in The Tiger's Lounge was Harry Craftsman. At least that was the name he went by. Once we were inside, Morris pointed him out to me from across the room. Told me Craftsman would be "around" to see me later--and he was right. He came around and spoke to James about ten o'clock, and that's when James introduced me to him.

Let me tell you, this Harry Craftsman is one creepy character--for sure one guy I wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley. He looked me up and down, and his eyes undressed me on the spot. No way was I going to discuss "business" with him that night, of course, but I assured him that I was enjoying myself and would be back. Gave him the word that I wanted to talk some business with him before long.

"Come back tomorrow night," Craftsman invited me. "We'll all be watching the big football game between the Steelers and the Broncos on the televisions, and I'll personally buy you a drink." He flashed a good-sized diamond on his finger as well as a grin, then added, "We'll talk a little business then, too."

I told him I'd take him up on that drink, and assured him that my client was looking forward to some serious gaming. He seemed pleased with that.

"He likes you," Morris told me after Craftsman left. Whether that was good or bad I didn't know.

"Yeah," I countered, "did you see the looks he gave me? Like he'd undressed me with his eyes, liked what he saw--and wanted to get his hands all over me."

"Jessica, you'll get used to guys like Craftsman in here," Morris countered. "Take their looking you over as a compliment. You're a beautiful girl, and you know exactly what's on their minds.

"Tomorrow night," Morris continued, changing the subject, "we'll connect you with the gaming business. "Craftsman will check you out to see if you're a cop and--"

"Wait a minute," I interrupted. "How's he going to check me out?"

Morris smiled. "He's going to take you to his office and--"

"Is this guy expecting me to have sex with him? Is that how he's going to check me out?" I had to know.

Morris laughed. "No, I don't think so. Captain Barkley fixed you up with a good story to tell him about the man you're working for, the one who wants in on the gambling and maybe some sideline business as well. Once Craftsman hears your story, I think you'll be ready to get in on the action."

I didn't pursue it with Morris, but his statement about my getting "in on the action" with Craftsman gave me pause. After all, I'd seen Craftsman's leer as he'd looked me over. Morris was right; I knew exactly what Craftsman wanted. From the looks I got from some of the patrons, Craftsman wasn't the only one. The Tiger's Lounge was alive and hot with the sexual desires of both the men and the women. Well, that is its reputation.

It's not that I'm a prude. I've got a good figure, and I can turn men's heads just about anywhere. It's just that I've got to be careful and not lead on guys like Harry Craftsman--guys I don't want to have sex with. Now guys like Sam; when Sam looks at me--wow! I can go for him! One of these days . . . .

James Morris took me uptown to a shopping mall late that night after the bar closed. We kept an eye out to see if we were being tailed, and didn't see anyone follow us. Sam picked me up there and drove me to the safe-house where I'd spend the night. He assured me that he and another cop would be keeping an eye on the safe-house--and me. That made me feel a lot better.

Just after I got to sleep, I was awakened by the rumbling roar of motorcycles out on the street. There must have been at least fifty of them, that's what it sounded like anyway, and they were running flat out through the neighborhood. I couldn't help but wonder if they were there to intimidate me.

* * * * *

Sam had some more unpleasant news for me the following day. After we'd talked over my experiences in The Tiger's Lounge, he told me that he'd checked some records regarding that bar. "About three years ago," he told me, "the cops sent a young woman named Sara Colwich in there as an undercover cop. This didn't have to do with the gambling. They were looking at the bar selling hard booze to underaged adolescents. This was after some kids got drunk there and caused a huge pile-up on the interstate that killed three or four people. Well, to make the story short, about a week later they found the undercover cop in a dumpster clear across town. She'd been beaten and raped and strangled. Her murder was never solved."

* * * * *

Saturday night. Once again, I rode down to The Tiger's Lounge with James Morris. I made sure the tiny microphone I was wearing was working perfectly and that Sam was somewhere in the parking lot before we went in.

There weren't as many bikers in the parking lot that night; maybe because we were earlier. Inside, though, there was a lot more action. People were gathered where they could watch the football games on one of four large-screen television screens. From some of the things I overheard, my guess was that some of those people had a pile of money riding on the outcome of those games.

Harry Craftsman came over the moment Morris and I were seated at a table. He must have pre-arranged that meeting because moments after he joined us, one of the waitresses brought drinks for the three of us.

"You said you had something you wanted to talk with me about in private," he said to me, his hard eyes dancing over my body as he spoke, focusing on my neckline.

I ignored his eyes. "Yes."

"Things are going to get a lot busier once the games start," he told me, "so let's go talk for a few minutes now." Craftsman turned to Morris. "We'll be right back."

I'd expected Craftsman to ask a lot of questions about me and the gambler I was representing. Captain Barkley had prepared me to answer those questions. To my surprise, however, Craftsman had little to ask. Instead, he explained to me the need to keep the operation "under our hats" and how I'd go about placing bets and delivering or receiving cash. I told him I'd be in touch, and he led me back to the table I was sharing with Morris.

The miniature microphone I was wearing should have picked up the entire conversation; Sam should have been able to monitor and record everything.

Although it seemed to have gone smoothly, the whole visit with Craftsman left a bad taste in my mouth. You see, there's an old military saying to the effect that if your advance is going smoothly, you'd better watch out, because you're likely walking straight into an ambush. I'd get Sam's take on things tomorrow. Maybe get Chief Barkley's take on things as well.

Or maybe I was just jittery, given the trial I'd just been through. Sam's telling me about the girl who'd been working undercover at The Tiger's Lounge and ended up dead in a dumpster hadn't helped me feel all that secure either.

Well, I'd seen Craftsman's office where the gambling money changed hands, and I had some ideas about getting a listening device planted there on my next visit. That would be my next task.

Early the next morning, well before I was awake, my phone rang. Sam Knight was calling.

"Hello, Sam?"

"Sorry to wake you, Jessica," he began, "but we've got to talk." Sam's voice was hard.

"Okay. What's up?"

"Not on the phone. How about if I pick you up and we go get some breakfast?"

"Okay. Give me half an hour." Whatever Sam had that he wanted to talk about must be important or he'd never have got me up that early. Something must be wrong. Had I walked into that ambush I was thinking about?
Chapter 3

Sam picked me up and we ate breakfast together at a small cafe not far from my safe-house. Once we'd finished eating and were back in Sam's car, he turned to me. "I had a visit with Tim Woolworth. Do you know him?"

"Yes, well, I know who he is. He's with Internal Affairs, isn't he?"

"Yep."

"So, what's going on?"

"A couple of things concerned me about you working The Tiger's Lounge. Your discussion last night with Harry Craftsman was a little too pat, and I kept thinking about that girl who ended up dead and in the dumpster. So, I went to have a little talk with Tim. Got him to help me do some thinking about your situation."

"You know him well, Sam?"

"Yep. Tim and I go back a long way. We were in the service together. He's the man who encouraged me to join the police force when I got out of the army."

"Okay."

"So Tim tells me a couple of things I didn't know about The Tiger's Lounge, and I'm guessing you didn't know either. First, would you care to guess who owns a major share of the place?"

"Who, Sam?"

"Roger Hemtz."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. According to Tim, Hemtz gets a cut of the illegal gambling income and in the unlikely event that they need a lot of cash to pay off a debt, Hemtz comes up with it."

"Do you think there's a connetion between Hemtz owning that bar and my being assigned to work the gambling angle? And, Sam, is somebody out to get Hemtz, or at least cut into his gambling income, or is somebody setting me up to--" I could think of all sorts of possibilities, and none of them cheered me.

Sam grimaced. "I can't be sure what's going on, not yet anyway, but there's still more you gotta know."

"More?"

"Yep." Sam looked at me hard. "This has gotta stay under our hats, but Tim knows a lot of stuff he can't, well, prove. Or at least he can't prove without causing a real uproar. Okay?"

"Yeah. I hear ya."

"Tim's got some heavy stuff on a lot of people--"

"Sam," I interrupted, "tell me what it is that's bothering you."

"Okay. How's this? Captain David Barkley ain't the cleanest of cops. It's been quite a while ago, but Barkley got a real bump up in his career from none other than Senator Shawn Holland."

Wow! That was a shocker. "Are you sure, Sam?"

"Yep. Tim's sure, anyway, and I trust him. Holland wasn't a senator at the time, but he was deeply involved in politics, and a rising super-star, supported by big money from Roger Hemtz and a few other similar sources.

"You remember the corrupt cop that almost sold you out when you were working on Holland's case, don't you? Sam continued."

"Yes."

"Well, he was being paid big money by Hemtz and Holland. It was Chief Barkley who took him down, shut him up, and kept him from informing Holland about you. Got him out of the way so he couldn't interfere with your investigation of Holland. In fact, I think his career as a cop is over."

I couldn't quite believe all of this, and especially where this conversation was going. "Tim knows all this?" I questioned.

"Yep. He had a a tap on Hemtz's telephone back early on in his career, and he's got the recordings of three-way conversations between Hemtz and Barkley and Holland." Sam hesitated. "You wantta hear some more?"

"About Barkley? I sure do."

"Okay."

"Tim's has had a telephone tap on one of the call-girl services that operates in the city. Maybe he still does. He's got recordings of Barkley and half a dozen other top cops calling that service. Oh, and Roger Hemtz and Shawn Holland also have used that service, not for themselves, but for friends. Like when they throw a party. Tim thinks Hemtz has funds invested in the call-girl service, too, and we think the manager there has provided him with blackmail information, stuff for him to use on some of the clients. Hemtz is into extortion, you know."

I nodded.

Sam hesitated only a moment, then continued. "Over the years, Holland has pulled some strings to keep the cops from shutting down that call-girl service. As best as Tim could tell, Holland paid off the cops, probably including Barkley, over and over again--big time."

"So why did Barkley support me in getting the information that would ruin Shawn Holland's career and put him in the pen? What did he have to gain by that?"

"Tim thinks that someone higher up the police chain-of-command told him to get Holland--or else."

"Who?"

"Tim doesn't know, but he's working on that."

"What's the chance that Barkley simply got tired of being told what to do by Holland and took care of him?"

"Tim and I talked about that. It may be that Barkley doesn't need Holland any more, that he was getting to be a liability on Barkley's career, and so he found a way to take him down and put him away where he couldn't cause trouble."

"As I see Barkley, though," I told Sam, "I don't see him getting an undercover cop killed, like the one you told me about who worked at The Tiger's Lounge."

Sam didn't say anything for a moment. "Tim ain't so sure about that."

That was a shocker! "Where does that leave my operation?"

"Tim says that we should keep working as we have been. He says that James Morris is okay, that he'll do his job. So we're going to keep you doing your thing with Harry Craftsman, but we're all going to be especially alert for any trouble we can't account for."

* * * * *

The next day Sam helped me move out of that safe-house and into a small, second-floor apartment in an apartment building owned by the city and used by the cops. It's over on the corner of Oak Street and 16th Avenue, and Sam said he figured I'd be as safe there as anywhere. It's no great shakes as an apartment, but it looked to be clean, and comfortable. Furthermore, it was situated so that I had corner windows and could look out over the streets as well as the parking areas. It would certainly do for a short-term stay. At least, I hoped my stay there would be short-term. In my business, nobody knows for sure.

Although few people know that this apartment building is owned by the city and used by the cops, I was sure that the people who hated me would know--or could find out. It probably wouldn't take them long to locate me there. I'd park my car out of sight, of course, but I'd keep it where a security camera could keep an eye on it--just in case somebody messed with it.

Of course, the entire apartment building is bristling with security cameras. If anyone came around, they'd likely leave a photographic record on those cameras.

The cops set me up with a phone that my back-up guys have tapped. They could listen in on my conversations. Of course, I still had a smart-phone that I could carry with me, one that was clean and didn't have my real-life contacts in it--in case it was stolen or taken away from me. The back-ups have that phone tapped as well.

"Barkley thinks Harry Craftsman will be calling you," Sam told me.

"Why? What'll he want?"

"He's going to test you by getting you involved in something illegal. Maybe have you make a delivery of some sort for him--or for Hemtz. Maybe something else. See how you respond."

"He wants to test me, right?"

"Yep. But not to worry. We'll be monitoring your phone, well both of them, actually, and we'll back you up all the way."

I'd used the name "Annette Smith" while I was working for Shawn Holland; now I was back to using my real name with Craftsman and his people. I'd thought about going with another name, but that gets confusing--so I'd been advised to stick with Jessica Snow.

* * * * *

James Morris and I spent the evening at The Tiger's Lounge, looking things over and getting acquainted with some of the clientele. I didn't see anything of Harry Craftsman that night, but then there wasn't another big game on television until the following Saturday.

I'd become fairly well acquainted with Shawn Holland's staff, including his bodyguards, and I looked over the patrons and the staff at The Tiger's Lounge to see if I recognized any of them. Holland's conviction had likely cost some if not most of his staff members their jobs, or would soon, and I figured that was enough incentive for them to seek revenge on me. Some of them might look for employment at the Lounge as well.

Morris pointed out several men in the Lounge he thought were a part of Roger Hemtz's organization. They were rough-looking men and I guessed their more or less official duties centered on keeping order. Maybe that's why the bikers who wanted to rough-house and fight seemed to keep to the parking lot.

There didn't seem to be any news from Tim Woolworth during the next day. Maybe no news is good news? At any rate, Morris and I rode out to the Lounge again Thursday night. Craftsman was there and he greeted us with a big grin on his face. I couldn't be sure what that meant. "I got a couple of guys I want you to meet later on tonight," he told me.

I told him my client wanted to bet on Saturday's game between the Panthers and the Raiders, and that I'd bring him the cash the following night. He seemed pleased with that.

It was just after Morris and I had seated outselves at a table that Morris's phone vibrated. He stepped outside to answer it. When he came back in, he looked at me and said, "Shit!" under his breath. I knew that something was wrong.

The call was from Sam who was in his car in the parking lot. He'd just seen a van drive up into one of the reserved parking spaces near the side door of the Lounge. Three men got out. The well-dressed man Sam recognized as Roger Hemtz; the other two were obviously body guards. One of them was carrying a briefcase. "They're coming inside," Sam had relayed, "but they're going in through a side door."

"Let's get you out of here," Morris whispered. We walked to the door, trying to remain as out of sight as we could. Once outside, we climbed on Morris's motorcycle and got out of there.

Morris called Craftsman later and told him we'd had to leave early, that we'd see him the following night. He didn't seem concerned. Said that was okay. He'd see us then.

"Does Roger Hemtz know you on sight?" Morris asked, once we were seated in another bar about two miles from The Tiger's Lounge.

"I don't think so," I told him. In fact, I don't think I'd ever actually seen Hemtz in person. I've seen pictures of him, but not him in real life. Of course, all that doesn't mean he hasn't seen pictures of me--and to be on the safe side, I'd have to assume he has.

"So he probably won't recognize you the moment he sees you?"

"I can't be certain, but I don't think so. Not with my new hair-do."

Sam had taken video of Hemtz and his two body guards as they got out of the van and walked into the Lounge, but about all we could see was their backs and the manner in which they walked and looked around. Still, it was enough that we'd have a good chance of spotting them if we saw them again.

Friday night found us in the Lounge once more. This time I had a handbag full of cash for a bet on Saturday's game. Although we looked carefully, there was no sign of Roger Hemtz or his two thugs or the vehicle they arrived in--a white Ford van.

Sam had run the tag on that van. It was registered to Roger Hemtz, all right.

Craftsman invited me to his office and showed me a little bit of how he placed the bets. He was all business. Although he looked me over while I was in his office, the leer wasn't there. Before I left his office, though, Craftsman cocked his head and looked at me. There was something on his mind.

"Whatcha thinkin?" I asked.

"I'm looking for someone to run a few errands for me," he replied. "The pay's good. How would you like to make some extra cash one of these afternoons or evenings?"

Right then I was thinking about that undercover cop Sam was telling me about, the one who ended up in the dumpster. "This gonna get me in trouble with anybody?"

Craftsman shook his head. "No trouble."

"Okay. So how does this work?"

"Where can I call you?" Craftsman asked, not answering my question.

I gave him my new telephone numbers. Craftsman wrote them down on a pad on his desk.

"It may be that one of my friends will call you," he said, "so I'll give you their names. One is Charles Topac and the other is Mike Tannis. They're okay, and they work some for me."

Morris took me back to my apartment not long after I'd placed the bet and talked to Craftsman a little. Now to wait for that call I was sure I'd get from Craftsman or one of his men--hoping it wouldn't result in a one-way ride for me to a cross-town dumpster.
Chapter 4

It was the following Tuesday night when Morris took me back to the Lounge. Harry Craftsman came over to our table within a few minutes, smiled broadly, and said he'd like to see me in his office. "Got some winnings to pass on to you," he told me.

Craftsman had other things on his mind as well. Once he'd handed me the cash from the bet I'd placed with him, he motioned to a chair and asked me to sit down. Said he wanted to talk to me for a few minutes.

"Okay." I sat down.

"You ride out here with James Morris, don't you?" he asked.

"Yep."

"Do you ride a bike yourself?"

"Sometimes. I used to ride regularly, but I don't have a bike right now."

"You can ride one, though?"

"Yep."

"And you're okay with a big Harley-Davidson?"

"Yep."

"I can get you some good money, just for riding a few bikes. Short rides in town. Maybe at night. Interested?"

"I'm always interested in money. What's the deal?"

Craftsman smiled. "There's a guy I want you to meet."

"Okay, but first tell me more about what I'd have to do to make the good money you're talking about."

"I'll let the guy tell you, okay?"

"Does this guy have a name?"

"Yep. I'll let him tell you that, too, okay?"

"It's not Charles Topac or Mike Tannis?"

"No."

"Okay." What else could I say. I could hope that Sam was picking up this conversation, and I hoped Craftsman wasn't bringing Roger Hemtz and his biker buddies in to talk to me--or take me on a one-way trip across town.

Craftsman smiled and said, "I'll be right back." He got up from behind his desk and exited his office through a side door. I got my hand close to the pistol I was carrying in the small of my back--just in case.

I'd never seen the man who followed Craftsman into his office. He grinned at me as he dropped into a chair beside me. "Hi babe," he said.

"Hi," I returned his greeting. I wouldn't push the 'babe' stuff, not just then, anyway.

"I'm Allen Coster."

I introduced myself.

"Harry tells me you're a biker," Coster began.

I nodded but didn't say anything, waiting for him to tell me what this was all about.

Coster sat there, looking me over. "He didn't tell me you were one helluva good lookin' babe."

"Thanks. Now, what's this all about?"

"I need somebody to ride a bike every now and then," Coster began. There was just the hint of a smile on his lips as he spoke.

"And?"

"I pay good because it's mostly a night-job. We go pick up a bike, you ride it to my shop. Maybe takes a half-hour at most. Then I'll take you wherever you want to go, or better yet, we party for the rest of the night."

These bikes I'm going to be riding are hot, right?" I asked, ignoring the 'party' idea.

Both Coster and Craftsman smiled. "Harry told me you were one smart girl," Coster said. "'Smart as you are good lookin' is the way he put it." That answer told me what I wanted to know.

"How often do you pick up a bike?" I asked, ignoring his comment.

"One a week or so. Maybe more often if I've got a hot chick like you ridin' 'em for me."

"Let me think about this," I said.

"I need to know by tomorrow noon, 'cause, if you're game, we ride one tomorrow night."

"Okay. So how do I get in touch with you? Let you know I'm cool, and work out the details?"

Coster stood up. "Talk to Harry, here. You call him, and he'll get right with me."

"Okay."

"Gotta hear from you by noon tomorrow, babe," Coster repeated, "so we can get on with tomorrow night's ride, ya hear?"

"Yep, I hear ya. I'll call Harry by noon tomorrow."

"Thanks, babe." Coster smiled at me as he got to his feet and walked out of Craftsman's office.

I rejoined Morris at the table we'd shared earlier. There was another couple with him, and he introduced them as Sara and Jason Jackson.

Jason's a young guy who's a junior executive with a local bank. He's also--and this is my interpretation--addicted to very high living. My one thought as I listened to him tell about his "investments" was that I hoped he wasn't gambling away a lot of money that wasn't his.

Oh, yes. Jason has serious political aspirations, too. Seems as if one of his uncles is a member of the county commission and is encouraging Jason to get into politics. Jason thinks he'll consider a run for a political office in the next election. He's already set up a campaign fund, and apparently has several backers with a lot of cash.

Sara seemed to have about the same general mind-set. She told us about the new house she and Jason had recently purchased and how she was furnishing it with the finest antique furniture she could buy. She and Jason were going to have a party at their house just as soon as they'd done a little more work on it, and she promised me that James and I would be invited.

The four of us chatted for awhile, and then Morris took me back to my apartment.

* * * * *

Sam called me early the next morning and invited me to have breakfast with him. Once we finished eating and were back in his car, he told me that he'd reviewed my evening activities with both Captain Barkley and Tim Woolworth.

"What do they think about the developments?" I asked.

Sam shrugged. "They think Craftsman is testing you?"

"Testing me?"

"Yep. They want to see if they can involve you with some shady activities."

"They want to see if I'm a cop, don't they?" I had to ask.

"Yep. Even though James Morris is pretty much a part of the gang, they aren't quite sure about you. Not yet, anyway."

"So, I'm going to give Craftsman a call later this morning," I told Sam, "and see what they've got going for me to do tonight."

"Okay. Our best guess is they'll want you to ride a stolen motorcycle from wherever they stashed it to Coster's garage. One of them will take you back to The Tiger's Lounge. Morris will be there waiting for you. There shouldn't be any problems of any kind for you."

"This man Coster, Allen Coster's his name. Any information on him?"

Sam laughed. "Yeah. He's got a motorcycle repair shop, and he exports a lot of motorcycles. Ships 'em all over the world. The cops suspect that more than a few of them are stolen. Maybe you can help out that investigation, too."

"Well, we'll see what I can do along those lines, Sam," I told him, "but there's no way I can easily get serial numbers and things like that and not get caught at it."

"No. Barkley doesn't expect you to do anything like that, not right now anyway." Sam turned to me. "To change the subject, these friends of Craftsman, Charles Topac and Mike Tannis, are on Barkley's radar. Both of them might be in prison right now if a chief witness against them hadn't ended up dead--or maybe not. Hard to say. Maybe they weren't involved at all with the murder he'd like to tie them to. It's a case of some cops think 'yes' and others say 'no way'."

"So tell me about Topac and Tannis and their activities. What do they do for a living besides work part time for Craftsman?"

"They run a pawn shop, and they're loan sharks--among other things. Maybe do a little bail-bonding."

"What got them in trouble with the law?"

"They like to loan money to young couples who are already deep in debt. Like they need money to pay for a house they can't afford. Or maybe for a very expensive automobile. These kind of people can't get a loan from any banker who checks their credit rating, but Topac and Tannis will loan almost any amount--at a tremendous rate of interest, of course. They'll loan against the title on a guy's car, and they'll pick up the car real fast if the guy can't make payments--things like that. There's some people think their lending activities are backed by someone at The Tiger's Lounge. Maybe so, maybe not.

"Well, to go back to the case I was telling you about, they loaned money to a young couple, this was three or four years ago. When they couldn't pay it back, thugs kidnapped the couple, beat up the husband and threatened to do the same thing and more with the wife. Now, I'm talking as if Topac and Tannis were involved, but maybe they weren't. It seems as if this young couple also had dealings with a known drug dealer and were way behind on their payments to him. So they had different people breathing down their necks.

"Anyway, the couple was afraid to go to the cops, but one day the husband came home from work and found his wife missing. He got a call from somebody saying that if he wanted her back, he'd better come up with something like $25,000 by the end of the week--and the rest of what he owed, something like $350,000 soon. He went to the cops and they tried to set things up to catch the kidnappers--but then he got scared and wouldn't cooperate."

"Do you think these kidnappers were Topac and Tannis?" I had to ask.

"Some of the cops think so, but they disguised their voices on the phone calls to the husband so the cops can't be absolutely sure. It's the way they operate, though. Of course, they've probably got several thugs around to do the really dirty work for them. And it may not have been Topac or Tannis at all."

"So what happened?"

"Simple. The husband didn't show up with the $25,000 and the wife never returned. Somebody found her body several weeks later, floating in the river. She'd been worked over good, too. Sent a signal to anyone who owed them money. That's what people thought, anyway.

"The husband left town real fast. Walked out of his job and all. Never told anybody where he was going. Never paid another cent to the loan sharks, either, but Topac and Tannis had the loan on his house. They foreclosed, of course. Sold the house and everything in it to recover their loan. Made a killing on it."

"Do the cops really think Topac and Tannis killed the wife?"

"Some do. Some don't. Nobody knows for sure. Both Topac and Tannis had witnesses that placed them elsewhere at the time. So it could have been someone who worked for them. Or it might have been the drug dealer who ordered the murder. Nobody knows."

"No DNA evidence?"

"Nothing. Just another unsolved case." Sam was quiet for a moment. "But then, there was this other angle to that case," he mused, "another angle you'll find very interesting."

"Another angle?"

"Yeah. While he was being hounded by Topac and Tannis and maybe a drug dealer, it seems as if the husband had a run-in with a second drug dealer. Between you and me, that dealer was probably Roger Hemtz. Anyway, there was some indication that the husband owed Hemtz a lot of money, and Hemtz's gang went to collect it. That's what some of the cops thought, anyway."

I couldn't help thinking about the couple Morris and I met at The Tiger's Lounge, Sara and Jason Jackson. They were building up a tremendous debt, what with a big new house and automobiles and all the rest, and I hoped they weren't dealing with loan sharks like this Topac and Tannis crew. My best guess was that they were. Where else would they get the money?

"So, Sam," I asked, "what do you think Topac and Tannis will want from me?"

"They'll want to test you. Make sure you're not a cop. Barkley thinks they'll ask you to deliver some papers for them or maybe they'll let you witness them roughing up some guy who can't pay his debts. Or roughing up his wife. Something like that."

* * * * *

I called Harry Craftsman later that morning--and he put me in touch with Allen Coster right away. Sam had been right. Coster would be picking me up about nine o'clock that night at my apartment. We'd pick up a bike at someone's storage shed and I'd ride it over to Coster's garage. I'd follow him, and he'd give me a ride back to The Tiger's Lounge where Morris would be waiting for me. Simple enough, right?

Well, Allen Coster picked me up out in front of my apartment as he said he would--and he was all business. He drove me to a self-pay storage unit, unlocked the door, and showed me the almost new, beautiful Harley-Davidson motorcycle sitting there. I had it going a few minutes later, and I followed Coster across town to his garage. There was a large rental truck waiting there, and my guess was that that bike was going for a long ride in that truck--probably with a bunch of others.

I said I hadn't ridden a bike in some time, and that's so. Getting to ride the big Harley that night brought back a lot of good memories. Made me think seriously about getting another bike for myself.

While I waited for Coster to take me to The Tiger's Lounge, I saw three more bikes arrive. One of the fellows working at Coster's garage helped load the bikes into that truck. The driver of that truck handed Coster a duffle bag, climbed into the cab, and drove away.

"Wait out in my car for me," Coster had told me. I did so, and ten minutes later, he came out of his garage, got into the driver's seat--and handed me two crisp fifty dollar bills. "We'll do this again, one of these nights real soon," he told me. We thanked each other.

* * * * *

Sara and Jason Jackson, the couple visiting with Morris at The Tiger's Lounge a few days ago, were of interest to Sam as well. He'd run their names past Tim Woolworth in Internal Affairs.

It seems as if Jason is, indeed, a junior executive with one of the local banks. Sara is on the mayor's staff. That's all the information that was immediately available about them, but Tim promised to check their backgrounds further. Morris was thinking the same thing I was about the couple spending much more that they were earning.

Morris told me that he'd met them over a year ago at The Tiger's Lounge, and they'd been friendly ever since. Jason and Sara are members of a local motorcycle club, and talked over some of their adventures with him. "Jason spends money well above the income of a junior bank executive," Morris told me, "and I'm interested in learning where his extra cash is coming from."

* * * * *

It was mid-morning on the day following my delivering the motorcycle for Coster, and I was in my apartment when the telephone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hi, babe. It's Charles Topac. Remember who I am?"
Chapter 5

I resisted the urge to tell Charles Topac that I wasn't his "babe." Instead, I told him that I did indeed remember his name, and then added, "Harry Craftsman said you might call me."

"You're absolutely right, Jessica--and you'd better believe I never miss a chance to call a hot babe like you. Harry pointed you out to me a few nights ago--and you're the hottest chick I've seen for years. Honest, with my hand up!"

I had to smile to myself, but I managed to ignore the compliment. "What can I help you with, Charles?"

"What I'd really like to ask you for is a date, but Harry said he thought you and James Morris were an item. Is that right, babe?"

Morris and I had agreed that we'd assume that role because it might keep the guys from asking me out. "Yes, Charles, James and I are in a relationship." Just what kind of relationship, he didn't need to know.

"Crap! I was afraid of that," Topac said, "but if you ever want to dump him, you remember that I'm available--and I'm damned interested in you, okay, babe?"

"I'll keep that in mind," I told him, "and if there are some things I can help you with, I'll be available when you need me. Okay?"

"Thank you. I'll be callin' ya, babe," Topac said, the grin on his face almost visible over the phone, "'cause I'm gonna work real hard at findin' somethin' for you to help me with, ya hear?"

"Why don't you come by and introduce yourself when you see me and James out at The Tiger's Lounge?" I invited. "Bring your partner, Mike Tannis, and introduce him, too. Have a drink with us. Okay?"

"Great idea! We'll do that, and me and Mike are gonna find some things for you to help us with. Talk to ya later."

We said goodbyes. I wasn't quite sure what to think of that conversation.

* * * * *

That night found me and Morris back at The Tiger's Lounge. I'd expected that Topac or Tannis or both of them would drop by our table, but they didn't. Sara and Jason Jackson dropped by to visit for a few minutes, but otherwise there wasn't much action. Things were going smoothly--too smoothly. Much too smoothly.

It was shortly after Morris dropped me off at my apartment later that night that my telephone rang. It was Sam. "I want to come up to your apartment for a few minutes," he told me.

"Okay."

"I've got something for you, and then we need to talk," Sam said, once he was inside my apartment. He was carrying a small duffle bag.

"Okay. Whatcha got there?"

"Gotta lot of stuff for you," Sam replied, as he pulled out a little black box with several wires attached to it. "This is for your land-line phone," he said.

While I watched, he went to work connecting the little box to the phone, and then showed me how it worked. "See this little green light?" he asked.

"Yes."

"While it's glowing, your phone should be okay. It knows that us cops have it tapped so we can listen in on your calls, but if anybody else attempts to tap your phone, this little red light will come on." He pointed out the little red light.

"Okay. I'll watch it," I told him.

"You do that, and you call me the minute that little light turns red, 'cause that means things aren't right, okay?"

"Yes."

"Now," Sam continued, "here's something else." He opened a little box and handed me a small pen-like gadget. "You know what this is, don't you?"

"Yes. It's a bug-detector. Right?"

"Right. You know how to use it?"

"Yes. Well, that is, I've been trained in how to use it, but I haven't had much practice."

"You need to be using this regularly. Let's check your apartment for bugs right now."

Sam and I walked through the apartment with the detector, checking carefully for bugs, but not finding any.

"Good," Sam said, "but I want you to keep the detector and use it regularly."

I had to ask. "Sam, do you thing somebody might plant a bug in here, or tap the phone?"

"I wouldn't be surprised." He smiled. "Besides, I like to work with stuff like this. I had a bunch of training in the service, including some with Military Intelligence. Now, I'll tell you what else we're gonna set up in your apartment."

"What's that?"

"We're gonna set up this little camera." Sam withdrew a tiny surveillance camera from his bag and held it up for me to see.

"Ah, Sam!" I teased. "You're just gonna set this up so it'll take pictures of me in the buff."

Sam laughed. "Yeah, right! We'll set it up in your bedroom. It turns on when it senses motion, so it'll get your picture whenever you get out of bed."

I rolled my eyes, and then got serious. "Where do you want to set it up--for real?"

"We'll set it up so it's aimed at your entrance door. If anybody comes into your apartment, we'll have him or her on video."

"Do you think somebody will come in to my apartment without my invitation?"

Sam walked to each window in my apartment and looked around outside and down on the street, then turned back to me. "Hard to tell. Care to guess what I saw parked around the corner from your apartment earlier this evening?"

"What, Sam?"

"A blue Cadillac."

"The one we saw when we left that courthouse after Holland's trial?"

"Yep. I checked the license plate and compared it with the one on the car Barkley identified for us. It's the same one. Morris let you off the bike out in front of your apartment, and he saw you straight to your door. You wouldn't have noticed the Cadillac around the corner, but whoever was in it most likely saw you."

"Is it still there?"

"No, it drove away right after Morris brought you home. Maybe waited until you turned on the lights in your apartment, 'cause when your lights came on, it was gone."

"It's the one that belongs to one of Shawn Holland's bodyguards?"

"Yep. It may be somebody working for Holland, but you've got to remember that Holland has strong ties to Roger Hemtz, and between them, they've got the resources to find you and shadow you and--"

"And," I interrupted Sam, "kill me in any manner they wish."

"Yep. Hurt you good first, and then kill you."

"So, what can we do about it?"

"I'm going to alert Captain Barkley tomorrow and see if we can't get some extra protection for you. Maybe move you into another apartment, although that doesn't seem to do much except slow them down. In the meantime, you and James watch your backs."

"So if they're on to me, they may be on to James, too?"

"Yep."

"You think they've spotted us as cops?"

"I don't know. That's something I want to talk about with Barkley and Tim Woolworth, maybe not in that order."

"You'll do that in the morning?"

"Yep."

Sam checked the windows, and then turned to me. "Use that bug-detector regularly, and make sure the green light is on before you do any telephone calls, okay?"

"I will."

Sam smiled at me, but his eyes turned hard as he spoke. "You said you're gonna be hard to kill. Well, we're gonna do what we can to make you even harder to kill. I promise you that."

What more was there for me to say, except to thank Sam for his concern and the help he'd been to me. And, although I wasn't ready to tell him this just yet, I was beginning to see Sam as the man I could really go for. In fact, I felt like kicking myself for not asking him to stay the night. Of course, if I was under surveillence, it might seem as if I should have asked James Morris, the man with whom I'd said I was in a relationship, to stay the night rather than Sam.

* * * * *

After Sam left, I went through the apartment once again, checking for bugs or any other kinds of surveillence devices someone might have placed there. I must confess that I didn't sleep well that night, either, knowing that Holland's friends likely knew where I was living. Twice during the night I checked out the windows, looking for the blue Cadillac or any other vehicles that might contain somebody interested in my activities. I didn't see anything, but that didn't mean that somewhere out there someone wasn't keeping an eye on me.

Something else troubled me. If Topac was interested in me but thought I was in a relationship with James Morris, would Morris be in danger. Would Topac wipe out James in order to get to me? Was that the way Topac's mind worked? Maybe James ought to have some additional protection, too? I'd take that up with him and the other cops in the morning.

Sam called me the following morning to ask if I was okay. "Want to go have some breakfast with me?" he asked.

"Yes." I sure did.

As Sam drove me to the small cafe where we often eat breakfast, I asked if he'd been up all night.

"Yep," he replied. "I kept an eye on your apartment and the surrounding area all night."

"See anything unusual?"

Sam parked outside the cafe, then turned to face me and answer my question--straight on. "Yep."

"What's goin' on?"

"You remember the van that brought Roger Hemtz and a couple of his thugs to The Tiger's Lounge a few nights ago?"

"Yes."

"Well, that van showed up, and I know it's the same van because I got the license plate number. Checked it out immediately."

"And?"

"I couldn't make out the driver, and nobody got out, so I don't know who was in it, but it drove slowly by your apartment around one o'clock. Went around the block and drove by twice."

"Somebody's looking things over."

"Yep."

"Did the blue Cadillac return?"

"No."

"They didn't spot you, did they Sam?"

"I don't think so."

"Whatdaya think is goin' on?"

"Worst case, I'd say that Shawn Holland's men and Roger Hemtz know where you're at. What they plan to do with that knowledge, we don't know."

"Does that mean people like Harry Craftsman and Allan Coster and Charles Topac and Mike Tannis and the rest of the guys at The Tiger's Lounge know who I am and where I am?"

"Let's go inside and eat breakfast," Sam said, "and then we'll think about that question."

I admit that breakfast didn't much interest me right then, but I managed to eat a good breakfast and talk a bit with Sam, all the while keeping an eye on the patrons and the cars that went by outside. Nobody seemed to be paying much attention to either me or Sam.

Back in Sam's car, he turned to me. "We're going to pay a visit to Captain Barkley," he told me, "and we'll get his take on things.

"I asked James if he'd like to meet with us," Sam continued, "but he said he'd rather not, that he didn't like to be seen around police headquarters, but that he'd talk to us later and we could fill him in on things."

We rode in silence for a few minutes. Then I asked Sam if he thought we should pay a visit to Tim Woolworth. Get his take on things.

Sam smiled. "I've already arranged for us to have lunch with him."

* * * * *

Captain Barkley didn't seem surprised at the news that my cover likely had been blown. "I'm pulling you off that assignment right away," he told me. Sam breathed a sigh of relief.

"I'd like for her to stay at the apartment where she's been living, at least for a few days," Sam told Barkley. "We've got good surveillence around there, and I think we can protect her better there."

Barkley said that would be fine. "Watch your back, Jessica, and keep in touch," he told me as Sam and I left his office. Then he called us back. "Wait a minute."

Both Sam and I went back into Barkley's office and closed the door. "You guys work well together," he told us, "and James Morris speaks highly of both of you, so we're going to get you involved in something new before long."

"Will James keep working The Tiger's Lounge?" Sam asked.

"Yes," Chief Barkley replied. "He's got some contacts there that are becoming most helpful to us, and I think he'll be safe there. We're going to talk this afternoon, and we'll develop a story that will explain where and why Jessica left the scene, but he told me some time ago that if Jessica had to leave the project, he didn't think that would present a problem for him."

I certainly hoped my not being with James at The Tiger's Lounge would not pose a problem for him. But I was going to miss the motorcycle rides. Maybe I'd have to think even more seriously about getting myself another bike.

"Actually, Jessica," Barkley continued, breaking into my thoughts, "you've gotten us some good information from The Tiger's Lounge just in the short time you were there. We'll follow up on the hot motorcycles and the gambling at another time, give James a chance to gather more information for us."

Sam and I left Barkley's office and headed for lunch with Tim Woolworth.

Lunch with Tim proved enjoyable but relatively uneventful. He agreed with Chief Barkley's decision to take me off that particular assignment, indicating that I'd already verified the fact that illegal gambling and other activities were taking place at The Tiger's Lounge or by people who frequented that palce.

"You take good care of Jessica," Tim told Sam as we left the restaurant where we'd had lunch, "and we'll get together again."

* * * * *

Sam took me back to my apartment. We drove the streets around it, looking for any signs of anyone watching it, but didn't see anyone paying attention to us or the building.

"How about if I stop by late this afternoon and take you to dinner?" Sam asked. I told him that was a great idea. Although I didn't tell him just then, I hoped to see a lot more of him in the near future.

Once dinner was over, I invited Sam to my apartment for the evening. I'd been doing some hard thinking, and I wanted to get his take on some questions I'd been considering. Besides, I felt safe with him nearby.

"Sam?" I began.

"Yep?"

"Gotta question for you. Maybe several questions."

"Okay."

"It seems to me that the guys in that blue Cadillac, let's assume those are Shawn Holland's associates, got onto my whereabouts mighty fast. Likewise, Roger Hemtz or his associates found me. Now I admit that we didn't take great steps to keep me hidden, but how do you think all these guys found me so fast at this apartment?"

"You've got some ideas, I gather?" Sam asked.

"Yes, I do. After the Shawn Holland trial and Chief Barkley's getting me involved with The Tiger's Lounge, you talked with Tim Woolworth and then gave me the word on how Chief Barkley had some connections to Shawn Holland."

"I know what you're thinking," Sam told me, "and I just don't know. I'd hate to think that Barkley had anything to do with blowing your location or your cover. Besides, what benefit could there be to Barkley if your cover's blown?"

"But who else might have been able to do that? I mean, you thought Barkley found the ownership of that blue Cadillac mighty fast."

Sam thought a moment. "Jessica?"

"Yes?"

"Has Barkley got anything against you? Anything that would cause him to want to get rid of you? Or have you got anything on him that might give him trouble in the future?"

"Not that I know of?"

"Barkley got a real career boost from Shawn Holland," Sam reflected. "That's been a long time ago, but there might be something there."

"What about the women who was working undercover or as an informer or whatever, the one who was killed and dumped in the dumpster? Did Barkley have anything to do with her?"

Sam thought for a moment. "She was working under Barkley's supervision, but I think the general thinking is that she made some mistakes."

"She made mistakes?"

"Yeah."

'What kind of mistakes?"

"I don't know that, but I do know that she was working under Barkley's supervision."

I admit that Sam's statement made me jumpy. I got up, went to first one window and then the other, looking out at the vehicles parked up and down the street.

Sam came and stood beside me. "See anything suspicious?" he asked.

"I'm jumpy, Sam," I told him, "but I don't see anything suspicious right now."

Sam put his arm around my shoulder and led me back to the sofa. I turned toward Sam then, and threw my arms around him. "Hold me, Sam," I whispered.

One long hug later, I slowly pulled myself away from Sam, wishing I could stay in his arms forever. Knowing I couldn't, well not just then, anyway. "What do they have on Chief Barkley?" I asked.
Chapter 6

Sam looked at me. "I don't know what they have on Chief Barkley that would make him give up an undercover cop," he replied, "but according to Tim, like I told you, Barkley got a big boost in his career from Shawn Holland several years ago. Tim says Barkley would never have achieved his rank without Holland's help."

"What kind of help?"

"I don't know exactly. Tim says it involved some serious financial contributions from Holland's backers to influential people who could and did help further Barkley's career. That's about all he'll say. Maybe they got cops transferred who were in line for promotions ahead of Barkley?"

"What kind of payback was expected?"

"I don't know that one either. Tim started looking into Barkley's background some time ago, but there's not much there to link him to anything we've been talking about. If the rumors are correct, Barkley did a real good job of covering his trail. In fact, it took Tim a lot of work to uncover the Holland connection."

"If Holland helped Barkley so much, why did Barkley go after him? I mean, with the dirt I got on Holland, he's likely to be in the pen for years, maybe for the rest of his life. That's not a good payback to the man who helped Barkley's career."

"No, it's not, and I'm not sure the payback was Barkley's doing," Sam replied, "not all of it, anyway."

"What do you mean, not his doing?"

"I'm thinking that somebody above Barkley gave him the word that he'd better get Holland--and good. Or else."

"Somebody above Barkley?"

"Yep. Like maybe the Police Commissioner. Who, exactly, I don't know, and I don't think Tim knows."

"So suppose the Commissioner tells Barkley to get Holland, and he does it. Maybe in doing so, Barkley repays some old debts, say to the Commissioner? Something like that?"

"Maybe."

"You also said that Tim had some recorded phone calls Barkley made to this call-girl organization. Was there enough sensitive stuff on those calls to harm Barkley if they were made public, say by Holland?"

"I don't know, Jessica."

Oh, my! I was tired, needing to move around a little, and I got to wondering just what--or who--might be waiting for us outside. I got up and walked--first to one window and then the other. Just looking out. Not seeing much.

The only vehicle I recognized was the one Sam had been driving. It was there in the parking lot as it had been all along. Then another thought crossed my mind. "Sam?"

He was standing beside me now. "Yep?"

"Do they know what car you drive?"

"It's an unmarked police car, but I don't know if anyone knows it is--or knows who I am."

"Will you be driving it any more, now that you're not officially backing me on an assignment?"

"No. In fact, I was going to turn it in tomorrow morning."

"Good. Sam?"

"Yep?"

I smiled at Sam, the best I could at that hour and for the shape I was in. "I'm tired as can be, and I sure feel a lot safer with you here. Ya wantta stay the night?"

"Yep. Want me to sleep here on the sofa?"

"No, Sam. I want you with me, okay?"

* * * * *

I snuggled into Sam's arms a little later that evening and slept the best I had for a long time. Somehow that undercover work had taken its tole on me, and I needed that rest--especially in view of the facts as I was beginning to see--or imagine--them. Well, I'd said I was going to be hard to kill, and I was committed to being just that. But it wasn't going to be easy.

When I finally woke up, I had some additional questions for Sam, but he suggested we go out and eat breakfast first. Believe me, we looked over the parking lot and the streets very carefully before we left, but we didn't see anything suspicious.

Well, it was time to do some more thinking before Sam left me to take the unmarked police car back to the police garage. This time I had some questions about the girl who'd gone undercover at The Tiger's Lounge and ended up dead in a dumpster across town. I asked Sam to tell me what he knew about that situation, and whether or not Chief Barkley had been involved to any extent in that operation.

"According to Tim," Sam began, "Barkley was indeed the cop overseeing that undercover operation. He'd also have had something to do with the investigation into the girl's death."

"You said her name was Sara Colwich?"

"Right. Ever hear of her?"

"I don't think so. What name did she use undercover at The Tiger's Lounge?"

"Niki Best."

"And the police never determined who killed her?"

Sam frowned. "Tim says he thinks the cops really botched that investigation. They didn't get any DNA from the girl's body, or if they did, they lost it, for one thing, and they didn't follow up on the few leads they had."

"No DNA? Can't they have her body exhumed?"

"It's much too late for that. Her body was cremated."

"Crap."

"Yeah. So they never got that important evidence. Still, Tim thinks they had some leads, and--"

"Leads? What did they have, Sam?"

"Yeah. It seems as if someone called the hotline the cops maintain for anonymous tips. Said they'd seen some activity around that dumpster about the time somebody likely dumped the body, but nobody followed up on that lead. Didn't go talk to anyone, at least no information on such a visit was recorded. Didn't get the caller's identification, if they were given any, or anything."

I shook my head. "Can the cops be that bad?"

"Makes you wonder if maybe they didn't want to find out who killed her, doesn't it?"

"It sure does. Makes me think 'cover up.'"

Sam smiled. "There apparently were some other leads as well."

"Like what?"

"Some of the girl's jewelry apparently showed up at a pawn shop not long after she died, but, funny thing, the pawn shop had no record of who brought it in."

"Could it be that somebody paid off Barkley to see to it that nobody was linked to the girl's murder?"

"Well, I hate to think so, but I guess anything's possible--and apparently some people thought so."

I could hardly believe what I was hearing, so I had to ask: "Sam, is there any indication that Barkley's on the take? Or that he's paying back old debts?"

Sam smiled. "I don't know, but I intend to stop by Tim's office when I take the police car back, and I'll inquire. Gotta few questions for him. I'll also run by him some of the stuff we've been talking about. In fact," he added, glancing at his watch, "I'd better be getting the car back to the garage."

"You're coming back over here, aren't you, Sam?"

"If you want me to."

"I sure do." Man, did I ever want Sam back with me--in more ways than one!

"I've got some things to work on this afternoon, but I'll be back in time to take you out for dinner. How's that?"

"Good."

"Now, Jessica," Sam began, then hesitated.

"Yes?"

"Keep an eye on things, and give me a call if there's any trouble, okay?"

"I will."

"If for some reason you can't reach me, call Tim Woolworth, okay?"

"Okay."

"You have his number?"

"Yes."

"We'll be moving you back to your own apartment before long, and we'll try to keep you safe there," Sam said, as he put his arms around me and gave me a hug before he left.

I watched from my window as Sam walked across the parking lot to his car and drove away, wishing he hadn't had to leave me just then, knowing I'd never have a better friend.

I didn't see anyone follow Sam, but ten minutes after he drove away, my telephone rang. I looked at the caller identification and saw that it was Charles Topac calling. No way was I going to answer that phone right then.

Topac left me a brief message that began "Hi, babe!" and ended with "Call me when you get a chance!"

* * * * *

Sam took me out to dinner that evening, just as we'd planned. We didn't see anyone follow us, but Sam had some news for me. Seems as if James Morris had discovered that someone, probably Shawn Holland or Roger Hentz, had a contract out for Captain David Barkley.

One of the bikers who frequents The Tiger's Lounge parking lot had a little too much to drink and got to talking about how there was $100,000, more or less, because the guy talked different figures, waiting for the man who knocked off a top cop. The name that kept coming up was that of David Barkley.

Unfortunately, before Morris could get any particulars, another biker came by and roughed up the one who was telling about the contract. Told him to shut up and get out of there--and made sure he did. Dragged him out of the parking lot right fast. Had some help with one of the bouncers, too.

Anyway, before he got silenced, the biker kept babbling on and on about "the double-crossin' cop" and even mentioned "the double-crossed senator." If he had his facts straight, that just might refer to Barkley double-crossing Holland.

Sam told me that the cops had taken the warning seriously, and that Chief Barkley was not going to be available for a few days while they checked out Morris's story.

I'd always liked Captain Barkley, and I really hated to hear that these thugs were out to get him. Yes, I know that they might also have a contract out on me, and maybe Barkley wasn't the cleanest cop in the world, but he'd been good to me, and I didn't like what I was hearing about somebody out to get him.

"While the thugs seem to be focused on Barkley," Sam began, "let's move you back to your own apartment tomorrow."

I told him I thought that was a good idea, but we still needed to be careful.

"We'll do that," Sam assured me.

"You'll stay with me tonight, won't you, Sam?" I asked.

Sam smiled. "I'm looking forward to doing just that."
Chapter 7

Sam and I had never been intimate before that night, but we both were more than ready--and his kisses turned me on like angel-fire. After some wonderfully steamy lovemaking, I fell sound asleep in his arms and slept the entire night away, feeling more secure than I'd felt in years.

It was late in the morning when we awoke. After a quick breakfast, Sam helped me pack up my belongings in anticipation of my moving back to my own apartment on Maple Street.

My own apartment building is an interesting place. Many years ago, it was a warehouse. Since that time, it's been redone into one and two bedroom apartments. (Mine is a small, one-bedroom unit.) Ceilings are high and the windows are huge, and many of the warehouse features were kept as they were--so it's a rather fun-place to live.

Once there in my apartment, Sam helped me set up my land-line telephone so I could monitor it for taps. Then we searched the apartment for bugs, but didn't find anything suspicious. Sam said he'd be keeping an eye on the apartment, warned me once again to watch my back, and then left for the day. I hadn't realized how stressful the past few days had been, but it took me all of about fifteen minutes to fall asleep--pleased to be back in my own apartment and in my own bed.

Sam took me to dinner that night, and then brought me back to my apartment. Within a few minutes of arriving in my apartment we were in each others arms. When Sam said, "let's go to bed," I was ready.

We slept until early afternoon the following day. Sam told me he had an assignment, that he'd have to leave, and that he'd check in with me later.

About ten minutes after Sam left early that afternoon, my telephone rang. I looked at the caller-id--and almost recoiled. The number recorded there was that of Charles Topac. How he managed to get my "home" phone number so fast I did not know. For one long moment, cold shivers ran up and down my spine. He must know where I was, where I lived, and if he knew where I was . . . .

Well, he had my number, all right, so he must know where I lived. I'd better find out what he wanted.

"Hello?"

"Hi, hot babe! It's your ol' admirer, Charles Topac. Remember me?" Topac's voice was smooth. He could be a real charmer if a gal would let him.

"Yes."

"Haven't seen you out with that Morris character lately. You two still an item?"

We'd agreed as to how I'd answer that question so as not to interfere with James's activities any more than necessary, but not leave myself open to all the kooks in the world. "Not so much now."

"Glad to hear it, babe." Topac sounded happy with that news. "How about you and me gettin' together a little later this afternoon? Maybe have a beer over at Tony's Hideout? Wantta talk over something with you, babe. Somethin' I think you'll find very interesting."

"You want to talk over something with me that I'll find interesting?"

"Yep."

When I hesitated, Topac came back with a statement that jolted me hard. "You ever hear of a gal named Niki Best?"

Had I ever heard of a gal named Niki Best? What was this? A trap of some sort? Did Topac know or suspect that I was a cop? And what was his interest in Niki Best, anyway? Well, I'd take the bate. See where this was going. "Yes."

Topac chuckled. "I thought you would have. Now that I've got your interest, hot babe, how about if I pick you up in about twenty minutes?"

Well, I'd sure like to hear what Topac had to say about Niki Best. "Okay," I agreed.

"I'll be driving a black Chrysler. Pick you up in front of your apartment building, okay?"

Hello! Topac must know exactly where I lived. "Yes."

"Twenty minutes. See ya, babe."

The next thing I did was call Sam. Told him everything and asked if he could keep an eye on me. He said he'd do his best. Said he'd get another cop backing me up as well. Warned me to watch my back. See what Topac had to say.

I had no idea as to what was going to happen on my "date" with Topac, but I checked the pistol I carried in the small of my back, the derringer in my left boot, and the knife in the other one. If Topac had in mind for me what somebody had done to Sara Colwich, I was going to make myself very, very hard to kill.

After carefully checking over my gear, I walked downstairs and waited for Topac in front of my apartment building. I didn't have long to wait. He'd said he'd pick me up in twenty minutes; he was right on time--to the minute.

Topac was driving a new black Chrysler sedan--a beautiful car, looking to be freshly washed and polished. He jumped out when he saw me, opened the passenger door, and helped me into the passenger seat. Moments later we were off. Hopefully, we were on our way to Tony's Hideout.

The Chrysler Topac was driving was one deluxe vehicle, with leather seats and lots of chrome, all the latest feataures, a much nicer car than I've ever owned--or likely ever will. I remembered what I'd been told about Charles Topac and his partner Mike Tannis being a loan shark operation, among other things, and figured that business must be good for him to afford a car like that. But then, from what I'd been told, the loan shark business is good!

The truth was, I'd never even ridden in a car that nice. "Nice car," I told Topac.

"Thanks." Topac grinned. "It looks even better with you inside here with me."

I had to grin back at him. He was one smooth operator.

Besides being a smooth operator, I've gotta tell you, Charles Topac is one good-looking man. Muscular. Tanned. The kind of guy any girl could go for. He was wearing a black leather jacket and dress slacks, not the usual jeans and tee-shirt I'd expected. Seeing him dressed up got me wondering if he was serious about romancing me. I mean, if I didn't know the guy's reputation, well, . . . .

Tony's Hideout is one rough bar in a rough part of town. I've never been there, but rumor has it that more crime is hatched in that place than anywhere else in the city. Whatever, if that was where Topac wanted to talk to me about Niki Best, I'd listen to what he had to say. Frankly, I doubted that Niki was the person Topac had on his mind right then, but I'd find out soon enough.

There weren't any cars and only three motorcycles in the parking lot. Topac parked near the door, jumped out and opened the passenger door for me, then took my elbow and guided me inside Tony's Hideout. This guy was obviously experienced in dealing with girls--and he knew his way around Tony's Hideout.

It was dark, sexy-dark, inside, and there weren't many patrons at that hour, except for three guys at the bar and two guys playing pool toward the back of the room.

Once inside the bar, Topac guided me toward a table in the back, well away from the other patrons. "What would you like to drink, babe?" he asked.

I told him I'd take a beer or whatever he was having, and watched as he walked up to the bar and brought back two beers. He pulled a chair up beside mine. As he sat down, I noticed something about him that I hadn't spotted before. When he twisted around, the leather jacket he was wearing gave the outline of a large pistol in his pocket.

Topac leaned close to me and put his arm around my shoulders. "Babe," he whispered, "you're the hottest chick I've ever laid eyes on."

No way was I going to play that game, but I didn't want to offend Topac either. "Thank you," I whispered back, "and now what's this you want to tell me about Niki Best?"

Topac's lips twisted in a grin. "Ain't you gonna ask how I made you for a cop?" he asked.

I smiled back at him. "Okay, so you think I'm a cop, and you know where I live, and my phone number. You must have been doing a little detective work on your own?"

"Yep. They did a good job of keeping you out of the spotlight druing Senator Holland's trial, but I spotted you leaving the courthouse several times, put two and two together, and got four. Hey! When you showed up at The Tiger's Lounge with James Morris, well . . . ."

"You spotted me leaving the courthouse several times?"

"Yep. You remember seeing a blue Cadillac around there, don't you?"

This was getting interesting. "Yes."

"Well, one of my friends who works--or worked--for Senator Holland and I were in that Caddy. Holland hates your guts and has a contract out on your head. But then you probably know that."

"I'd suspect so."

"Not to worry about me, babe. I'm not after your head, and I didn't let on to my pal that I knew you. See, I got other interests in you, and I want to talk to you about Niki Best."

"So is your pal who worked for Senator Holland out to collect that reward on my head?"

"I'm sure he'd like to do that, but I'm not going to be the one to tell him where you're at." Topac paused a moment. "You're safe with me," he continued. "Morris is safe, too."

I didn't know exactly how much of that I could believe, but I'd go with it for now. "Okay. Now what's on your mind about Niki Best?"

Topac backed off a little. "Niki was one hot babe, but she couldn't hold a candle to you, Jessica." He looked me over, his eyes focused directly on my neckline--mentally undressing me.

I tipped my beer, waiting for Topac to continue. "So what can you tell me about her?" I asked again.

Topac leaned closer to my ear. "Like I said, Niki was one hot babe. She--"

From the corner of my eye, I saw a figure come toward us--walking fast. Looking up, I saw a man lay his hand on Topac's shoulder. "Hi Charles," he said, interrupting him before he could get into telling me what was on his mind.

Topac looked up, startled. "Oh, hello Mike." He turned to me. "Jessica, do you know my partner, Mike Tannis?"

"I've heard his name, but I don't think we've met, so hello, Mike." I turned and raised my hand.

Tannis shook my hand, then turned back to Topac. "I hate to interrupt you guys," Tannis said, "but I've got some business for Charles to take care of, some business that won't wait."

Topac stood up immediately. "Sorry, Jessica," he said. "I know what Mike's talking about, and I've gotta run. Call ya later."

I grabbed his arm. "Wait a minute, Charles. How am I going to get home? You want me to call a taxi?"

Mike Tannis looked at me. He wasn't smiling. "I'll give you a ride home," he said. He didn't seem pleased.

The three of us walked outside. That's when Topac turned to me. "I'll call you, babe," he said. "We'll have the rest of that beer later and a good lunch."

Tannis pointed me toward his car, a new, red Chrysler similar to the one Topac drove. Business for these guys must be good! He didn't bother to open the door for me. As we drove out of the parking lot, I saw that Charles was walking back toward the entrance of the bar. There may have been someone with him, but I couldn't be sure.

I hoped Sam or one of the other cops was keeping an eye on me, but I need not have worried. Not just then, anyway. Mike drove me straight back to my apartment. It was interesting, I reflected, that he knew exactly where I lived. And if these two guys knew where I lived, everybody else who was interested likely did, too. Or they could find out easily enough.

Still, I hoped Charles would call me again. I wanted to hear what he knew about Niki Best. Besides, I rather liked the guy.

Two hours later, I got an unexpected call from Mike Tannis. "I thought you'd want to know, Jessica, that Charles is in the hospital," he told me. "Somebody took a shot at him when he left Tony's Hideout."

"Somebody took a shot at him when he left Tony's Hideout, you say?"

"Yeah. Near as I can tell, somebody was waiting for him in the bushes. Shot him as he was getting into his car. He managed to knock the gun aside, so he didn't get a direct hit, and then the guy ran off. Charles lost quite a bit of blood, but he managed to get the guy's gun and then drive himself to the hospital."

"So, how is he?"

"He'll live and he'll be just fine, but he'll be in the hospital for a few days. Said it was important that he talk to you as soon as possible. Can you drop by the hospital this afternoon?"

"Yes. Are you sure he's up to having company this afternoon?"

"No, not really, that's my opinion, but he wants to see you anyway. Said it was urgent." Tannis' voice dropped. "He thinks somebody is out to kill him."
Chapter 8

I called Sam and told him what was going on. He said he'd be by to pick me up and take me over to the hospital. Said he'd keep an eye on the parking lot and the entrance to the hospital wing where Topac was a patient while I went inside and talked to both Tannis and Topac.

Mike Tannis was seated in the hall just outside Topac's room, apparently keeping an eye on anyone who might be in that hallway. His right hand was resting inside his jacket, probably on a pistol. "What's your take on things?" I asked, once we'd exchanged greetings.

"I think some cop tried to kill Charles."

"A cop tried to kill him?"

"Yeah. You see, Charles got himself crosswise with some cops a few years ago. Seems as if there was a girl named Niki Best that he met at The Tiger's Lounge. He went nuts over her, and she seemed to really like him. They did things together, and I know Charles really liked her. In fact, I was beginning to think Charles and Niki might be getting married. Then, when she didn't show up at the bar one night, he discovered that somebody had killed her. Only then did he find out that her name wasn't Niki Best. It was Sara Colwich, and she apparently was an undercover cop or a confidential informer of some sort."

I nodded. "Yes, I believe she was."

"Anyway," Tannis continued, "Charles was really angry. He went to the cops and tried to talk to them about Sara. Offered to help them find her killer. Told them he had some contacts who might be able to help. They brushed him off. He said he had an idea about who killed her, and they didn't seem to give a damn one way or another what he thought."

"He had an idea as to who killed her?"

"Yeah." Tannis looked around to see who might be listening. Didn't see anyone. "Charles had quite a few contacts that might have helped the cops find her killers, including some friends of Shawn Holland and Roger Hemtz. Those guys had a lot of connections on the dark side of the street."

Tannis paused and looked at me. "I'm keeping you from seeing Charles," he said. "You go on in. I'm going to keep an eye on things out here. I'll let him tell you what he thinks is going on."

I went into Topac's room. He was awake and murmured "Hi, babe," when he saw me.

"Hi, Charles?"

"Hi, girl. Glad you're here." His voice was strained.

"What happened?"

"You and Mike went off together when we left Tony's Hideout, remember?"

"Yes."

"Well, I went back inside for a few minutes. Had to take care of a couple of little things in there. A little later, when I was getting into my car, this guy stepped out from behind the shrubs and jabbed a gun in my side."

"What then?"

"Hell, girl. I'm an old army man, and my training kicked in. I spun around, knocked the gun aside, and kicked his feet out from under him. Trouble was, I wasn't quite fast enough. Probably saved my life, but the gun went off and shot a hole in my side. The guy got up and ran off. I'd have chased the bastard and beat the hell out of him, but I was afraid I'd run out of blood." Charles laughed. "Figured I'd better let him go. But, hey! I got his gun."

"You got his gun?"

"Yeah. I hit him damned hard, too. Hope I broke his arm. He dropped the gun, and I got it. Gave it to the cops. Don't know how they got there so fast, but they were right there. Makes me wonder how they got there . . . ." Charle's voice trailed off.

"The cops got the gun?"

"Yeah. They won't get any fingerprints off it, though, 'cause the guy was wearin' gloves. Probably wiped the gun clean before he used it, too."

"You drove yourself to the hospital?"

"Yeah. Didn't want to pay for an ambulance. Got blood all over my new car, too, and I hate that."

"That's too bad, but you're going to be okay? Right?"

"Yeah. I'm a tough ol' so-an'-so." He paused and looked at me. "Two things I want you to know right up front, okay?"

"Yeah?"

"Did Mike tell you about me and Niki?"

"Yes."

"Well, her gettin' killed like she did really stung me. I had an idea about who killed her. Maybe right, maybe wrong. But what really disturbed me was that the cops didn't seem to go after her killers. Then one of the guys running The Tiger's Lounge let me in on what he thought happened. See, I thought she was gonna inform the cops about the activities at the Lounge, maybe legal, maybe illegal, but he said he thought she'd found out that some cops were taking pay-off money to overlook what was going on at the Lounge."

"Cops were on the take and she found out about that? You think that's what got her killed?"

"Yeah, and the cops were makin' good money for turning a blind eye on what was goin' on. Then, when she got beat up and killed, he told me he thought some of the crooked cops killed her, beat her up and raped her to make it look like some of Roger Hemtz thugs got her. One thing I do know for sure, the cops didn't waste much time investigating her murder."

"Any idea as to who the cops were? The ones who were on the take as well as the ones who investigated her murder?"

"No, but I've got an idea of who the cop was who protected the killers."

"Who, Charles?

"Cop by the name of David Barkley. He's a Captain now, but he wasn't back then. Don't know his rank, but he wasn't a Captain."

Charles Topac and I looked at each other for a long moment, and then Topac continued. "Now you see why I wanted to get in touch with you. Don't get me wrong, I think you're the most beautiful girl I've ever known, but I didn't want the same thing that happened to Niki to happen to you."

"You probably know that both Shawn and Cynthia Holland certainly want me dead, right?"

"Yeah. I also know that Shawn Holland and David Barkley, the cop, are buddies. They go back a long way. Well, they were buddies anyway. And Holland's wife is a sister of Roger Hemtz. If Holland and Hemtz put out a contract on you, I wouldn't count on Barkley protecting, not you in the least. Hell, he might even want to collect the reward for himself."

I didn't want to talk about Barkley right then, but there were several things I wanted to ask Topac about what happened to him. "What did you tell the cops about who shot you?" I asked.

"Same thing I told you."

"No names? How about a description? And did you recognize him?"

"No. I didn't know the guy. Don't think I'd ever seen him before. He had a handkerchief over his face, just like an outlaw in an ol' time western movie, and a baseball cap on his head. He was wearing jeans and a dirty grey shirt, like a million other guys. The gun was a Beretta 9mm. There's a million like 'em on the street."

"So what's the motive? Why did he want to kill you?"

"Hell, babe, there's a lot of guys who'd like to see me dead. Some of 'em are cops, too. Who this guy was, I don't know."

"Are you going to be safe here?" I had to ask.

"Yeah. I'll be okay. Mike's gonna stay with me. Keep an eye on things." Topac looked at me hard. "You got a good friend who's a cop, right?"

"Yes."

"I thought so. I saw somebody I thought was keeping an eye on your apartment. Figured he was a cop. You trust him?"

"Yes."

"Hundred percent?"

"Hundred percent."

"I figured so. You like him?"

Well, I'd better be honest. "Yes."

"Damned lucky guy. You tell him I said he'd better keep an eagle eye on you for the next few days, anyway, 'cause I think you're in trouble." Topac smiled, then added, "Oh, yeah, girl! If you decide to dump him, remember I'm available."

"I'll do that, and I'd like to have you meet him and tell him what you've told me about Niki Best as well as your thoughts about who might have killed her. Will you do that? Talk to him?"

"Yeah. Sure. Soon as I'm out of here, we'll get together, okay?"

"Okay." I wasn't sure I should mention what was on my mind, but I'd do it anyway. "There's another cop I'd like you to talk to about the things you've told me. Would you do that?"

"Who's the cop?"

"Tim Woolworth. He's with Internal Affairs."

"Tim Woolworth?" Topac thought a moment. "Yeah! Tim Woolworth. I think I do know him, well, I know who he is, anyway. Is he okay in your book?"

"I think so. I trust him."

"That's good enough for me. We'll get together just as soon as I'm outta here. You tell 'em both that I wantta talk to 'em. Maybe we can still find out what happened to Niki."

I took Topac's hand and squeezed it. "Get yourself healed up and out of here," I told him. "Besides," I teased him, "I didn't get a chance to finish my beer with you at Tony's Hideout."

Topac grinned for the second time since I walked into his room. "Yeah, babe," he said. "We'll get together for another beer just as soon as I'm out of here." His grin told me he had more on his mind than another beer, but that was okay. I could like that guy.

* * * * *

The moment I walked out of the hospital and Sam fell into step with me, I knew something was wrong. "We're not going back to your apartment tonight," he told me.

I wasn't about to argue. "What's wrong, Sam?"

"Remember that blue Cadillac that's been around ever since I picked you up after Holland's trial?"

"Yes."

"It's been through the parking lot, and I noticed that whoever was driving it paid a lot of attention to Topac's car. Checked the license plate. We only have Topac's word that the driver of that car isn't clued in to you being the undercover cop who derailed Holland, so we're going to assume that he might be looking for you."

"Right."

Sam drove us to a motel. We didn't see anything of the blue Cadillac, so maybe we were safe for the night, espceially since Sam had driven a different car than the one he'd been driving, this one a nondescript four-year-old Chevrolet.

As Sam and I talked over my visit with Charles Topac and Mike Tannis later that evening, I couldn't help but think that these were the two guys at least some of the cops suspected of extortion and murder. Topac might think that some of the cops were out to get him, and they just might be, but how about the guys he and his partner put the screws to with their loan operation. Sam and I would get Tim Woolworth's take on things tomorrow.

Well, I'd had enough excitement for one day. Things were beginning to weigh in on me--hard. I was so fortunate to have Sam with me. As I went to sleep in Sam's arms that night, I began to wonder just who Sam and I could trust anymore. We'd for sure better watch each other's back.
Chapter 9

Sam and I left the motel the following morning, ate breakfast at a nearby diner, and headed straight for Tim Woolworth's office. We'd just seated outselves in his office when my telephone jangled. I didn't recognize the number, but I answered anyway.

"Hello?"

"Jessica?"

"Speaking. Who's this?"

"David Barkley."

"Captain Barkley, it's good to hear from you. Are you okay?" I asked.

Barkley chuckled into the phone. "I was just about to ask you the same question." He paused. "Hang on a moment."

I heard a car door slam closed. My best guess was that Barkley just got into his car. "Hello, again. How are you?"

"I'm okay," I responded, "and you?"

KA-BOOM!

Before Capatain Barkley could respond, there was a tremendous explosion bollowed by a brief burst of gunfire. BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! I don't know how many shots were fired, but I heard several--and then there was nothing but silence on the phone.

I quickly told Sam and Tim what I'd just heard--the car door closing, the explosion, the gunfire. Tim got right on the phone to somebody, told them what we'd heard, and gave them the number that was on my telephone id--Chief Barkley's number. Moments later, he turned back to Sam and me. "Some of the guys will check it out, but if it's what we think it is, Barkley's probably dead."

"A car bomb?" Sam asked.

"Probably. There was a big explosion followed by a burst of gunfire," I told him. "That's what it sounded like to me, anyway. Why somebody would follow up a car bomb with gunfire, I don't know."

"Who?" Sam aimed the question at Tim.

Tim shook his head. "I don't, know," he said. "David Barkley made a lot of enemies over the last few years, and it could have been any of them. Most recently, as you know, he angered Shawn Holland, a man who'd helped him in the past, and that means he angered Shawn's wife, Cynthia, and her brother, Roger Hemtz. They'd all want revenge. They'd all want Barkley dead."

"Has Hemtz done any car bombs before?" Sam asked.

"Not that I know of."

"Then who does car bombs that might have had it in for Barkley?"

Tim shook his head. "I don't know. Let's see what the bomb squad comes up with, if indeed this was a bomb killing Barkley that Jessica heard."

Sam shook his head. "You told me that David Barkley had a number of enemies, right, Tim?"

"For sure."

We didn't have long to wait. Half an hour later, we had our suspicions confirmed. David Barkley was dead, all right. He'd died in his car when a bomb exploded. There were also several bullet holes in the car, indicating that someone had fired at him after the bomb went off. Those were the shots I'd heard. What was left of his phone was on the seat beside him in the burned out car.

Well, regardless of how many enemies David Barkley had acquired over the years, he'd been reasonably good to me. Maybe that was because I'd got the information on Shawn Holland that sent the senator to prison, and maybe Barkley had been out to get Holland, but Barkley had helped defend me against a dishonest cop who might have sold me out to Holland. If that had happened, I'd likely be dead. For that, I surely can thank him.

Sam and Tim and I talked a little about Charles Topac and Mike Tannis. Tim didn't seem surprised that somebody tried to kill Topac. "There are a bunch of people who hate Topac and his partner, Mike Tannis," Tim assured us, "but I'd sure like to get Topac's views on who might have killed Sara Colwich."

I told Tim I'd do my best to get Topac to talk with him. Once again, Tim cautioned Sam and me to watch our backs and ask us to keep in touch. We assured him we'd do both, thanked him for his help, and were on our way.

Sam went out to the parking lot first and looked things over. When he didn't see anything suspicious, he beckoned to me. I wasn't sure exactly where we could go and be safe, but I'd trust Sam's thoughts on that issue. If we were going to be staying at a hotel, I needed to go back to my apartment for some things, and I told him so. "Now's as good a time as any to do that," Sam suggested.

We circled the block around my apartment, but didn't see any vehicles that seemed suspicious. Sam went ahead of me as we entered my apartment building and climbed the steps to my apartment.

There was a large manila envelope tucked under the door to my apartment. After Barkley's experience, maybe we should have called the bomb squad, but Sam felt it, believed it to be okay, and then cautiously opened it. Inside was my picture, probably taken with a phone-camera as I was walking on the street near the courthouse. Someone had taken the trouble to enlarge and print it out, and then had drawn a circle and target cross-hairs on my chest. Printed in crude black letters were the words, "You're next, bitch!"

Sam went into my apartment ahead of me and checked carefully to be sure nobody was there. Together we checked for bugs and couldn't find any.

While Sam kept an eye out the windows for any suspicious vehicles, I packed a few clothes and essentials into a travel bag. We'd stay in a motel for a few days. Maybe let things cool off a little--although I doubted that would happen any time soon.

We decided that we'd better move my car to a safer place than the apartment parking lot. Sam checked it over for bombs and bugs before he'd let me near it. Then we took it across town to a self-storage unit, paid a month's rent, and locked it inside.

It was while we were locking my car in the storage unit that I remembered something I'd forgotten to pick up at my apartment. We drove back to my apartment and Sam kept an eye on things from the parking lot while I went inside--to discover yet another manila envelope tucked under my door. Someone had been to my apartment door between the time we left and returned.

Inside my apartment the light on my telephone was flashing to let me know I had a new voice-message. I admit that my hand was trembling just a little as I lifted the receiver.

"Well, well, if it isn't Annette Smith," the caller began, the female voice cold as ice. (Annette Smith was the name I used when I worked undercover with Shawn Holland and his people.)

"You're dead meat, bitch," the voice went on. "You can run but you can't hide where we can't find you. After the men have had their fun with you," the caller continued, "it'll be my turn."

The telephone went silent. I went to the window and motioned for Sam to come up to my apartment because I wanted him to listen to the message.

"Do you recognize the voice?" he asked after he'd listened to the message.

"Not for sure."

"Not for sure? Can you make a guess?"

"Parts of the talk sounded like Cynthia Holland's manner of speaking, but she had crisper speach than that," I told him.

Sam thought a moment, listened to the message again, and then said, "I think whoever's speaking used a device to alter their voice."

Sam listened to the message again, then took out his phone and made a recording of the message. "We'll do a little analysis of this voice," he told me. "See if we can identify the caller."

I showed Sam the second envelope I'd found tucked under my door. He opened it to find another photo, this one of me and Sam leaving the courthouse together.

"Well, Sam," I told him, "they know both of us. Who we are and where we are."

Sam smiled. "Yep."

"They must have been keeping an eye on us in order to leave that second photo while we were away from the apartment."

"Yep." Sam turned to me. "There's a surveillance camera above the entrance, and it's focused on the parking lot."

"Yes, and there's another that looks over the lobby. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Yep. Let's you and me have a talk with the apartment manager. See if we can't take a look at those recordings. If we're lucky, we might have pictures of somebody coming in and going out, leaving those envelopes under your door."

Minutes later, we had copies of those videos. We'd take them with us and examine them frame by frame. "Let's take these right over to Tim's office," Sam suggested.

Less than thirty minutes later, we knew who had delivered those envelopes--at least the second one. (The first one must have been delivered some time ago, because the cameras only kept recordings for two days.) The man who delivered that second envelope was Bob Mahone, a man who'd worked on Shawn Holland's staff. Not only did we have clear images of him walking up to my apartment door, but we had images of him in the parking lot. He'd been driving a black Cadillac.

"Ever see that vehicle around your apartment before?" Tim asked me.

I thought for several moments. "I don't think so."

"I think I've got some information on Bob Mahone," Tim said. He turned back to his file cabinet, searched there for several minutes, then pulled a folder and turned back to us. "Yep, I've got a little something on him."

"Whatcha got?" Sam asked.

Tim studied the papers in his folder. "He's been arrested twice for dealing drugs. That was some time ago. Holland got him off with suspended sentences. He's suspected of doing damage to Holland's rivals before the past two elections."

"Doing damage to Holland's rivals? In what way?"

"Yeah. Seems like he threatens Holland's political rivals, or their families. One of Holland's opponents several years ago dropped out of the race rather than fight off a lawsuit brought by Mahone. Another time Mahone located a girl who agreed to bring up some charges of harrassment against the candidate opposing Holland. Mahone paid her off, and the candidate dropped out of the race. We found out later that the charges weren't true."

"So he's not a nice guy."

"No way."

Sam was silent for a moment, thinking. He turned to Tim. "Can you get me a couple of bugs and the equipment to monitor them?"

"What kind of bugs?"

"We need to keep track of Mahone's car, see where he goes in it, and we need to record whatever conversations he has while he's in that car."

Tim smiled. "No problem for me to provide the bugs. Can you install them?"

It was Sam's turn to smile. "Yep." He turned to me. "Jessica, do you know where Mahone parks his car at night?"

"I know the apartment complex where he lives, and I think he parks in a parking garage there. It's a high-dollar rental place, so there's some security, but it shouldn't be hard to defeat it."

Tim grinned. "You know this operation is off the books, right?"

Sam smiled. "Yep."

"You're sure you can open Mahone's car and place a bug inside without setting off the alarm?"

Sam was smiling with his lips but his eyes were hard. "When I was in the army," he began, "I worked with a couple of guys in intelligence. They taught me a lot about bugs and how to install them, and they taught me how to defeat car alarms and open cars without a sound. In fact, we used to have contests to see who could open a car in the shortest time without setting off the alarm. We practiced on everything from rusty junkers to high-dollar automobiles. I've still got the tools I used in the service. Mahone's Cadillac should be a piece of cake." He turned to Tim. "If you could get me the serial number on that Caddy, . . . ." His voice trailed off.

Tim got to his feet. "I'll be right back," he said. I noticed that Tim was smiling.

I looked at Sam. This was getting to be interesting, and made me forget that we hadn't eaten lunch.

Fifteen minutes later, Tim came back to his office and closed the door behind him. "I'll show you what I've got," he said.

"Okay."

"First, here's the serial number on Mahone's Cadillac." He handed Sam a slip of paper. "Now, here are the bugs I think you can use."

I watched as Tim and Sam looked over the bugs and supplies Tim had gathered. There was a GPS unit that would tell us where Mahone's car was located and a bug that would broadcast conversations from inside his car. There was also a receiver that would receive and record any conversations the bug picked up.

After we looked over the bugs, Tim picked up the file he had on Mahone and scanned it again. "There's one other interesting thing in here," he said.

"What's that?"

"Mahone seems to have had contact with Roger Hemtz from time to time. I think he may have contacted Hemtz when he needed a little help in dumping Holland's political rivals. At any rate, they know each other."

Sam and I left Tim's office, drove over to a small restaurant not far from the police station, and ate a late lunch. Once we were finished, Sam suggested that we take a drive over to Mahone's apartment building--just to look around.

We parked on the street and Sam looked over the apartment complex and the parking garage where I remembered Mahone usually parked his black Cadillac.

The lone security camera that covered the entrance to Mahone's parking garage would pose no problem. We could avoid it by entering by a side door, or we could disable the camera if necessary. Sam had the tools to unlock the side door to the parking garage if it were locked, as well as those he'd need for unlocking the Cadillac.

"Let's go get some rest," Sam suggested, "because we won't go to work on the Caddy until late tonight."
Chapter 10

It was one o'clock in the morning when Sam drove us to Mahone's apartment complex. We cautiously circled the surrounding blocks but didn't see anything suspicious or out of place. Furthermore, there was no light in Mahone's apartment.

Sam and I were both wearing dark clothing that night, the better to blend in with the shadows. While I stood watch, keeping an eye out for any possible human movement around the parking garage, Sam quickly opened the locked side door. There was no activity to be detected inside the garage, and Sam quietly made his way to Mahone's Cadillac. All seemed to be going according to plan.

Moments later, however, Sam met me back at the side door. He'd obviously not had time to plant the GPS on Mahone's car, let alone open the car door and plant the bug inside. "What's wrong, Sam?" I whispered.

"Tell ya later. Let's get outta here," he whispered, taking my hand and urging me along as he did so.

"Okay."

We quickly made our way back to Sam's car. "What's going on, Sam?" I asked, the moment we were inside.

Sam looked at me, his face a dark mask. "There's a bomb under Mahone's car," he whispered.

"Crap! What do you want to do?"

Sam had his phone in his hand. "I'll call Tim. He can call the bomb squad without getting us involved. Say it was an anonymous tip."

I nodded.

We waited about a block away from that parking garage until we saw the police vehicles arrive. When a light came on in Mahone's apartament, we knew that someone had alerted him. That's when we got out of the area, and drove to the motel where we'd spend the rest of the night.

* * * * *

"Who might have wanted to take out Mahone?" I asked Tim the following morning once we'd filled him in on what we knew from the previous night's adventure.

Tim sank back into his chair and slowly shook his head. "I don't know. First, somebody gets David Barkley with a car bomb, and then somebody goes after Bob Mahone," he reflected. "You guys probably saved his life, but he's never going to know who to thank."

"You think the same guy built both bombs?"

"Probably. Well, I shouldn't say that, because I don't know. We'll see what the bomb squad has to say about that, but there hasn't been a car bombing around here for a long time. Most of the time when somebody wants a hit they take the person out with a gun."

"Who's got the know-how to build car bombs?" Sam asked.

"The bomb squad tells me that the one on Mahone's car was rather crude, not that it wouldn't have blown up and killed him, but it wasn't as sophisticated as some government organizations or professionals might make them. Oh, and the one on Mahone's car wasn't designed to be triggered by the car's ignition. It was to be triggered by somebody's especially rigged up smart-phone."

"What about the one on Barkley's car?"

"The bomb squad's still working on that one, but my guess is they were made by the same people, because there aren't that many people around who can make a car bomb." Tim shrugged his shoulders. "Hard to tell, though. David Barkley's bomb went off when he turned the ignition switch, so that's different. Maybe they were made by different people."

"What do you make of the one on Mahone's car being made to be triggered by a smart-phone?"

"My guess is that whoever made it wanted to see it blow up. He, or she, could follow Mahone around until he was ready to kill him. Maybe he was going to take a video of the event to use as a warning to others--or for his own entertainment."

"So who's got the know-how to build car bombs?" Sam asked again.

"Someone in Hemtz's organization could likely build one, or hire somebody to build one," Tim replied, "but then so could Charles Topac or his pal, Mike Tannis."

"Charles Topac or Mike Tannis could build a car bomb? Are you sure?" I asked.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Tim replied. "You see, they're both military veterans, and from what I've learned, they both worked in black ops."

"Black ops?"

"Yeah. They're both smart boys, and I suspect they learned how to make all kinds of booby traps and improvised explosive devices. Wiring one under a car shouldn't prove any problem for either of them."

"Could they have gone after Barkley?"

"Sure. They, or at least Topac, apparently didn't like the way he handled the investigation of Sara Colwich's death, and one of them just might have had something against Mahone as well."

"Is Mahone shook up enough over the bomb threat to talk to the police?" Sam asked.

Tim shook his head. "I doubt it. The cops are going to see what he's got to say, but I doubt he'll tell us anything we don't already know."

"So now we can't easily wire his car for GPS or for bugs?"

Tim smiled. "Not until we see what he's gonna be driving. Once we know, we'll see about a bug."

"He'll get rid of the Cadillac, you think?"

"Yep. The cops are going to keep it for a few days so they can go over it carefully, and when we give it back to him, I'll see to it that there are some bugs attached. Also, I've got a man assigned to see what he'll be driving in the meantime, and my guess is it'll be a vehicle owned by one of Holland's staff, or former staff, I should say. We'll find out and let you know."

"The parking garage where Mahone was parked has a security camera over the entrance," Sam noted. "Has anyone looked at the videos?"

Tim laughed. "No. Seems as if that camera was not in operation when you guys were there. Hadn't been for maybe two or three days. The apartment complex manager said he's had a work-order in to get it fixed, but it'll be a few more days before it's working again."

"Those cameras are usually quite reliable. So what's wrong with this one?" Sam asked.

Tim shook his head. "I don't know, but one of the techs is going to take a look at it when the security people come to fix it. Maybe we'll know then."

"So, does Topac or Tannis have the know-how to deactivate a security camera like that one as well as build and plant a car bomb?"

Tim nodded. "I'd guess so."

Well, all we could do now was wait for the police to check out the bomb on Mahone's car and the security system that should have been monitoring movement around his parking garage. See what they turned up. My guess was they wouldn't turn up much.

Sam stood up. "I guess we'd better be going," he said.

I stood up. "Keep us posted," I told Tim, and he assured us that he would.

He turned to Sam. "Do you want me to let you know what Mahone's driving until he gets his car back?"

"Yep, and we want to hear what any of the bugs you plant have to say."

"Okay. I'll let you know as soon as I find out anything."

Sam and I cautiously made our way out of the police building and to his car. "I got another idea," he said.

"What's that?"

"Let's go pay a visit to Topac."

"Okay, but let's go eat something first."

Sam and I ate at a small cafe near the hospital, then went over to see Charles Topac. We found him awake and sitting up in bed. I introduced Sam.

Topac eyed Sam up and down for several seconds, then smiled. "You're a lucky guy," he told Sam.

"How's that?"

"Damn, how I envy you," Topac replied, "having a hot babe like Jessica."

Sam smiled. "She's a gem, all right."

"You take good care of her, and if you ever decide to dump her, you let me know first thing, okay? I'll take her off your hands."

"Not a chance," Sam replied.

Topac smiled at both of us, then let us know right away that he was ready to get out of the hospital and go home.

"Where's Mike?" I asked.

Topac grinned. "He had an appointment, so he's away for a little while. He'll be back to take me home before long."

"Charles?" Sam got Topac's attention. "I'd like to hear what you know about Niki Best, and what happened to her."

Topac scowled. "If I find the bastards who killed her, I'll kill the whole damned bunch." He paused a moment. "Tell you something else. If I find the cops who let her killers go, I'll get them, too. Every damned one of 'em."

"I understand how you feel," Sam replied, "and I'd like to hear what you know about what happened. Tim Woolworth would also like to talk to you. You can trust him; well, you can trust the three of us."

"I'll tell you what I know. It'll take a little while."

"That's okay. We got time. How about if I pick you up tomorrow morning and take you over to Tim Woolworth's office? He's with Internal Affairs, and he'd like to know what happened as much as we would. If it involves cops, well, so be it."

"Okay."

"You want Mike to come along?"

"Yeah. Whatdaya say Mike and I meet you at my place and we'll both go over with you?"

"That'll be fine. What time?"

"Can you pick us up at ten o'clock?"

"Yep."

"You know where I live?"

"Yep."

Topac laughed. "I shoulda known you would. You're a cop."

There was a knock on the door, and moments later, Mike Tannis came into Topac's room.

I introduced Sam.

Tannis closed the door, then turned to me. "I just heard that David Barkley was killed. Is that so?"

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"Somebody put a bomb on his car."

"Damn!" Topac exclaimed. "They got the one cop I thought might tell us who killed Niki Best."

"You thought Chief Barkley might know?" Sam asked.

"Yeah." Topac's eyes were rock-hard. I had a good idea of what he'd do to the person who'd killed his girlfriend if he found out who that was.

"Who else might know?"

Topac thought a moment. "There was a guy who worked for Shawn Holland who might have some ideas about that," he said. "I'll try to come up with his name before I see you tomorrow."

A nurse came into the room just then and said she was ready to check Topac out of the hospital. Sam finalized arrangements to pick up Topac and Tannis at Topac's house in the morning, and then Sam and I left.

Having been up all night and active throughout the day, not to mention the stress of locating that bomb on Malone's car, had just about exhausted me. "Sam," I said, "tomorrow's another day. Let's you and me get some rest." Sam agreed, and we headed for the motel where we'd spend what was left of the day and night.

* * * * *

I woke up the following morning with a feeling that something bad was about to happen. "I think I need to check things out at my apartment," I told Sam.

"We've got to pick up Topac and Tannis this morning," he reasoned, "so maybe we can eheck out your apartment after we talk with them."

"Maybe," I countered, "but I think we need to check things out at my apartment right away. Why don't you drop me off at my apartment on your way to pick up Topac and Tannis? I'll check things out and you can pick me up afterwards."

Sam scowled. "I don't like it. I don't like your going over there by yourself, especially not with your thinking that something's wrong."

"Okay. Can we go over there after we talk with Topac and Tannis?"

"Sure."

"Okay." I wasn't sure it was okay, not the way I was feeling about something sinister going on, but that was the way it had better be. "How about if we drive by my apartment on the way to pick up those guys, just to see if we spot anything out of the ordinary?"

"Okay."

We were almost two blocks from my apartment complex when Sam suddenly turned to me. "Get down fast, Jessica," he hissed.

Believe me, I dove down fast. Got my head below window-level. "What's going on?" I asked.

"There's a familiar blue Cadillac down the street from your apartment building. Right behind it is a big Harley-Davidson motorcycle."

After we'd passed the Cadillac and the motorcycle, I inched myself up until I could just see out the window. I'd seen that Harley before. It had been one of the few vehicles parked in front of Tony's Hideout when Topac had driven me there. I recognized it because I'd noticed the scratched and dented fender and the unusual arrangement of rear-view mirrors.

The Cadillac's windows were mirrored, of course, so Sam couldn't be absolutely certain, but it appeared to him that there were two men in the car.

Sam drove on down the street and around the corner and then parked. "I'm going to get the license numbers on those two vehicles," he told me as he cautiously climbed out of the car.

Moments later, Sam was back in the car. "I've got 'em," he told me.

I looked at my watch. We wouldn't have time to follow up on what these guys were doing there because we had to pick up Topac and Tannis. "We'll plan some surveillence of our own when we get though with them," Sam told me.

Me, I was ready to confront whoever was in that Caddy. Find out who it was and what they were doing there. Maybe it was a good thing Sam was there to put the brakes on that idea. Keep me from doing something I'd regret later.

"Do you think the security camera covers the area where those guys are parked?" I asked Sam.

"Yeah, but they're quite a ways out so it may not be possible to make positive identifications from the videos. We'll take a look when we get back over this way. See if anyone went up to your apartment. Anyway, I got the tag numbers."

"If that's the blue Cadillac we think it is, they've been shadowing us ever since Holland's trial."

"Yep."

"Don't they care that we know they're shadowing us?"

"Probably not. They're not breaking any law, and they know that if you do spot them, you'll just feel less secure and more intimated. Keep you on edge. They'll like that."

I had to agree there. They sure were making me feel less secure, and I knew Sam couldn't be with me like this forever, much as I wanted him to be. Well, I'd made up my mind early on to be hard to kill, and I meant that.

Furthermore, I didn't think any of Holland's or Hemtz's people would simply ambush me. They might want me dead, but they'd want to rough me up good first and rape me, just like somebody did to Sara Colwich.

It was time to think about what Topac and Tannis might contribute to our knowledge about who killed Sara Colwich--and those two men were waiting for us when Sam pulled into Topac's driveway. It was time to put that blue Cadillac and the Harley-Davidson out of my mind--for now. We'd get back to them later.

Charles Topac was eager to tell his story. He began by telling us how he wasn't long out of the service when he met the girl he knew as Niki Best in The Tiger's Lounge. She seemed to like him, he told us, and he "went nuts" over her. He'd never suspected that she might be an undercover cop or a confidential informer--or "whatever she was."

Anyway, one night she didn't show up at The Tiger's Lounge, and she'd told him she'd see him there that night. Topac started asking around to see if anyone knew where she was--and got the impression that some of the management knew exactly where she was, but they wouldn't tell him. The next day he got the news; Niki Best was dead.

"The news item about her death was buried in the middle of the newspaper, but it did say that her body had been found in a dumpster. The cops were asking anyone who had information about her to call their hot line.

"I knew a little about police work from when I was in the service," Topac explained, "and I started to ask questions of the cops I knew, hard questions about Niki's death. They didn't seem to want to give me the time of day. Made me feel like it wasn't any of my business."

"Who'd you talk to?" Tim asked.

"David Barkley was the first one I talked to. He wouldn't tell me anything. Said, in so many words, that anything he told me might foul up the investigation." Topac scowled. "Barkley's song and dance was that I should get out of the way and let the police do the police work.

"Days and days went by," Topac continued, "and it became obvious that the cops weren't going to solve Niki's murder. I got to be a real nuisance to them, and finally, Barkley told me to get lost.

"Well, I'd learned a little about crime investigation in the service, and maybe you'll hate me for saying so, but I was also getting just a little acquainted with the underground activities in the area. I mean, that's part of what goes on at The Tiger's Lounge. You know this?" Topac looked around.

"We know this," Tim replied.

"Well," Topac continued, "I got to asking around, and I found out that Shawn Holland and Roger Hemtz owned a piece of the action at The Tiger's Lounge. So, I reasoned, if Niki was a cop, she just might be enough of a threat to that business that somebody wanted her out of the way.

"About that time I also was getting acquainted with some of Senator Holland's associates, and the finger pointed at one of them--a guy by the name of Mahone. Bob Mahone. You know him, or you know who he is?"

"Yes. We know who he is."

"I'm not saying that he did the dirty work on Niki. In fact, from the stories I've heard, a bunch of guys were involved, but my best guess is that Bob Mahone organized the hit on Niki. I can't prove anything, but Mahone's my best guess."

"Charles?" Tim questioned.

"Yeah?"

"I understand that you found some of Niki's jewelry at a pawn shop."

"Yes, I did. Brought it to the attention of the cops, but they didn't seem interested. When I found that they weren't interested, I went back and talked to the pawn shop owner. Funny thing, the records on that jewelry just weren't there. And then, I got the word that the cops had misplaced or lost some critical evidence regarding Niki's death--that nobody was ever going to determine who was responsible."

"End of story?" Tim questioned.

"Almost, but not quite." Topac smiled. "I kept asking questions of a few people, and I got acquainted with some of the guys that hang out at Tony's Hideout. Now those boys are full of stories, and they're not always so careful about who they talk to, so I keep my ears open."

"And a few days ago somebody wanted you out of the way, right?" Sam asked.

"Looks that way." Topac turned to Tim. "Have the cops got any information on the guy who shot me?"

Tim shook his head. "Not much. The security camera over Tony's Hideout's front door wasn't working."

"Figures."

"There's one thing the cops got that might help identify him," Tim continued. "They got a print of his boot there in the dirt at the edge of the parking lot, and he wears extra wide boots."

"Extra wide boots, eh?" Topac smiled but his eyes were hard.

"Yeah, and there's a gouge in the sole of his left boot."

"What about the spent cartridge from his gun? It tell you anything?"

"We've got it, but it won't help any--and the gun he used didn't have fingerprints on it."

"I figured as much. He was wearing gloves."

"The cartridges in the magazine could have come from any number of places. We checked 'em for prints and they didn't show any."

"Somebody was extra-careful when he loaded the gun then. Wiped the bullets clean, right?"

Tim nodded. "Yeah, I'd say so."

"Okay. So what I'm looking for is a guy who wears extra-wide boots and the left one has a gouge in it, right?"

"Right. The gouge is in the sole."

"Okay. Anything else?"

"None that you don't have from seeing the guy," Tim replied. "Can you think of anything else that might help us identify him?"

Topac smiled. "I'll think about that, and I'll keep my eyes open. Let you know if I come up with anything." He turned to me. "Here's something else I picked up on, Jessica."

"What's that?"

"I told you I hear a lot of interesting things in Tony's Hideout."

"Yes?"

"Even before Niki's death was public knowledge, I overheard one of the guys talking about the 'sport'--that was his term--his buddies had with some undercover cop they'd caught. This was some time ago, you understand.

"Just a few nights ago," Topac continued, "I overheard one of the guys there talkin' about there was another undercover cop that was about to get the same treatment. Now, you're the only undercover cop I know who matches the talk. See, you're the one who got Senator Holland convicted. They know this, and that puts you at serious risk from Roger Hemtz and his gang."

"I know that."

"Well, what I'm saying, Jessica, is that you need to watch your back. Those guys know who you are, even though you used an alias when you worked over Holland, and you've changed your hair a little." Topac turned to Sam. "You seem to be the one protecting Jessica, and you need to keep alert--'cause I don't want to hear about her ending up dead in some dumpster like Niki did."
Chapter 11

Sam and I took Charles Topac and Mike Tannis back to Topac's residence, a small and rather unpretentious house on Oak Street. Topac assured us that he was going to keep looking for Niki Best's killer, and said that he'd let us know if he learned anything new.

Frankly, I doubted that Topac would pass along any information. Instead, I thought to myself, if Topac finds out who killed Niki Best, he'll take care of him or them by himself, or with Tannis's help. Still, I hoped that he wouldn't get himself or his friend killed. I mean, he'd been nice to me--and I liked him.

"Well," Sam's voice broke into my thoughts as we drove away from Topac's driveway, "Where does that conversation with Topac and Tannis leave us? We know that Topac had reason to want to get Bob Mahone, and Tim thinks he has the ability to build a car bomb."

"Yeah," I responded, "and he wasn't pleased with David Barkley. You think he could have planted the bomb on Barkley's car?"

"I want to doubt that," Sam replied, "but we need to keep that possibility in mind. Both of the bombs, actually. But hey! What say we go check out the activity around your apartment?"

"The license plate numbers? We need to run those. Find out who we're dealing with."

"Yeah." Sam pulled into a parking space and retrieved his phone. Moments later, we had the answer. "The blue Cadillac is registered to Roland Sumpter. Know him?"

"I know who he is, all right. He worked for Shawn Holland and he's probably out of a job now with Holland's conviction. Oh, and I'll be quick to add, Sumpter is one mean character. Mean and cunning. He'd love getting even with anyone who harmed his boss."

"What did he do for Holland?"

"He was what I'd call an enforcer, although he'd have had another title, of course. If there was, say, a vote coming up in the senate that Holland needed help with, Sumpter would go have a talk with those who might be, let's say, undecided. During their conversation, Sumpter just might mention what would happen to, say, a guy's wife or his daughter, or his business, if the vote didn't go Holland's way. Some of those predictions came true, too."

"That was part of your testimony against Holland, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"Did Sumpter actually do any of the dirty work himself?"

"None that I could attest to. Instead, he could arrange the dirty work. He could and did pay off, say, one or a bunch of Hemtz's gang members, to do the work."

"Did they ever actually do anything, or were the threats enough to insure that people came around to Holland's way of thinking?"

"This didn't come out at the trial, but I believe I could link Sumpter's payoff to a couple of thugs that beat up another senator's daughter, and there was another payoff that went to some thugs who set fire to a business owned by another senator's family. There was some other stuff, too."

"Okay, I get the picture. Now the Harley we saw is registered to a man by the name of Jake Jones. Do you know him?"

"No, but I recognized the motorcycle as having been parked out front of Tony's Hideout when Topac took me there."

"What do you bet he's got a rap sheet?"

"Yeah, probably a long one."

"You still wantta go back by your apartment?"

"Yep, but I want to do something first."

"What's that?"

"I want you to take me to see the dumpster where they found Sara Colwich's body. Can you do that?"

Sam looked at me. "Are you real sure you wantta go there?"

"Yep. I want to see the area, and the exact place where she was found."

"It's in a bad part of town, Jessica."

"I know that. I still want to go there."

"Okay." Sam started the car. I heard the doors lock as Sam pushed the locking button. "Gotta keep the doors locked in that part of town," he murmured.

"Where did Sara's abductors pick her up?" I asked.

"We think they abducted her from The Tiger's Lounge, probably as she was leaving late one night." Sam paused a moment, then continued. "There was something strange about her leaving when she did. Maybe somebody drugged her drink or, well, I don't know what, but she apparently left by herself. That's one story. The other story is that she left with a guy--but nobody can identify the guy."

Charles didn't see her leave?"

"No, and she didn't leave with him. At least that's what he says, and I think he's telling the truth."

"Didn't she have backup? Wasn't somebody paying attention to what was happening?"

Sam looked at me--his eyes hard. "Yeah. That's part of the mystery. What was her back-up doing? They had to have seen her leave the place. Should have monitored a microphone she was wearing. If she was being abducted or in trouble, they should have gone to her aid. If she was getting into someone's car voluntarily--well, they should have been able to track her movements. Should have followed the car if she was doing something unexpected."

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you saying that maybe the cops backing her up didn't do their job?"

"Yes. I sure am, and Tim agrees with me. Some people even hinted that the cops were paid off to look the other way while she was being abducted."

"Wow! Who was backing her up?"

"I don't know their names, but Tim tells me that the two cops who were backing her up left the agency--and fast. Both of 'em moved out of state. Neither one is a cop now."

"Did anybody get statements from them before they left?"

"Sure. They didn't know anything. Said they saw Sara get into a car with a guy they thought was her boyfriend. Said she got into a car with a different guy every night. Didn't get any signals from her that things weren't going right--they said."

We were driving straight into a rough part of town, all right. Storefronts had bars on the windows and doors, and there were security cameras all over the place. Gang-related slogans were spray painted on the walls, as were sexually explicit drawings and symbols. People were loitering in the doorways of vacant buildings, and some were shouting obscenities in our direction as we drove by.

"See what I mean about this part of town?" Sam asked.

"I sure do."

"It gets worse."

It did get worse. Boarded up buildings were more frequent and trash was blowing around in the street. Before long, Sam slowed the car and pointed down an alley.

"See that big dumpster about half way down the alley? On the right?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's where they found Sara's body."

"Drive around the block. I want to see down the alley from the other end."

"Okay."

As Sam drove around the block, I looked around at the buildings in the area. Although it was not a residential area, some of the buildings had second floors that likely had been made into apartments.

"Did anyone interview any of the people who live around here, Sam? Check to see if any of them saw anything suspicious the night Niki died?"

Sam shook his head. "The cops didn't do much of that, but apparently Charles Topac did."

"Oh! Did he learn anything?"

"Tim tells me that someone phoned in an anomynous tip, saying that the cops should check with a man who lived upstairs over the old hardware store over there." Sam pointed. "Said that the man saw activity over by the dumpster on the night Sara was killed. Said that he could give them a good idea of who was there and what went on."

"So, did the cops follow up on that tip?"

"One of them went over there and tried to locate the man, but he wasn't anywhere to be found. Of course, it may be that the guy didn't want to talk to the cops."

"Was it Topac who phoned in the tip?"

"Probably. Tim says Topac came to see Chief Barkley about the same time in the investigation. Told him that the cops should talk to this man he'd talked to. Barkley told him they couldn't locate him. Topac told Barkley he'd talked to several people in the area who might have some leads to Niki's death. Said they'd seen vehicles and activities around in that alley the night she died. When Barkley didn't seem interested, Topac turned around and left his office. Told Barkley he'd track down the killers by himself."

"So there's another reason Topac had for disliking Barkley."

"Yep." Sam turned to me. "Have you seen enough around here?"

"Yes, for now, anyway."

"Then let's go get something to eat before we go over to your apartment. Check things out over there."

"Okay."

All the time we were eating, I had the same sense I'd had this morning that something was terribly wrong at my apartment. Well, now we'd see.

Sam circled the block around my apartment building. There weren't any cars we recognized, but there were two motorcycles parked on the street. Two or three years ago, those motorcycles would have been completely out of place; now, there were motorcycles frequently parked around my apartment complex. Some people said that was evidence that a gang was moving into the area, that we'd soon be seeing drug dealers and other riff-raff on the street corners. In fact, some of my neighbors were so unhappy with the way the neighborhood was going that they'd moved out. The truth is, there are several vacant apartments in the complex now, whereas two years ago there were waiting lists of people wishing to rent apartments there.

"Let's get those tag numbers," Sam said. He drove slowly by the motorcycles and I read the numbers using Sam's night-vision scope. We'd find out who was parked there.

"You park and then wait for me in the car, Sam," I said. "Keep an eye on things. I'll just run up to my apartment and check things out. Make sure everything's okay. Okay?"

"No way."

"What's wrong?"

"No way are you going up those stairs and into your apartment alone. I'll go with you."

As Sam pulled into the parking lot, I glanced up at the windows in the hallway by the entrance to my apartment. To my surprise, those windows were dark. The lights in that hallway were not on as they usually are--and suddenly there was a brief flash of light as if someone with a flashlight had walked by that window. "Look, Sam!" I hissed.

Sam saw the dark windows and the brief flash of light--and kept right on driving, through the parking lot and out into the street. "Somebody's up there," he whispered "and they may be waiting for you. No way are you going up there tonight," he said. "Not right away, anyway."

We parked on the street three parking spaces behind those motorcycles and watched the windows in the hallway by the entrance to my apartment. Someone obviously had been inside the building to turn off the lights, but except for that brief flash of light we didn't see any movement. "Let's come back here in the morning, and bring some backup cops," Sam suggested.

Before I could respond, the lights in those hallway windows came back on. Sam and I waited and watched the entrance.

We didn't have long to wait. Two men came out of the building and walked directly to those two motorcycles parked on the street. One of them had a gun tucked into his waistband. They didn't pay any attention to us--just walked to those bikes, started them, and roared off. I studied them through the scope as they left.

"Recognize either of them?" Sam asked.

"No. Do you?"

"Can't be sure." Sam was already on the phone, running the tag numbers.

Moments later we had an answer we weren't expecting. "The tag's are fake."

"Fake?"

"Yeah. Somebody reworked the tags that are on those bikes."

"Any idea as to who?"

"No, but apparently, this isn't the first time somebody requested information on those tags." He turned to me. "Do you know how they're making fake vehicle tags now?"

"No. How?"

"They use a 3-D printer and print up a realistic plastic tag. You can't tell 'em from the real thing from a few feet away, especially after they've got a little dirt on them. One biker can sport several fake tags, change 'em when he wants to, cancel out that form of identification."

I turned to Sam. "Do you think it's safe for us to go up to my apartment now?"

Sam scowled. "I don't know. My guess is that those guys were waiting for you."

"Let's wait and go up tomorrow morning, then. Maybe get another cop to go with us, or keep an eye on the parking areas."

"I think that's best." Sam thought a moment. "What do you say we take a drive through the parking lot at The Tiger's Lounge?"

"See if we spot a couple of bikes with those fake tags?"

Sam grinned. "Yep."

The parking area around The Tiger's Lounge was full of vehicles. We paid particular attention to the motorcycles--and there they were. Both of the bikes that had been parked across from my apartment were there. The riders had taken no steps to hide them or change the tags. Of course, they wouldn't have known we'd seen the bikes.

"We know where to find 'em," Sam said.

"Yeah. I bet they're regulars here."

"What do you say we take a look at the parking area around Tony's Hideout? See who might be there?"

"Yeah. Let's."

Sam drove us through the parking area, past a variety of vehicles. Then I sensed Sam stiffen. "Look over there," he motioned.

Over in the shadows at the edge of the parking lot was a car we both recognized--Charles Topac's black Chrysler.

"What do you think he's doing here?" Sam asked.

"He's probably looking for a man wearing extra wide boots with a gouge in the sole of one of them. I'd bet on it."

"So would I."

"What do you think he'll do if he finds that man?"

Sam thought a moment. "I'd guess that we'll find the man's body out in the back alley with his throat slit."

"You figure Topac's capable of that?"

"Yep. He's ex-military, and Tim says he was involved in black ops."

"He's capable of murder?"

"He wouldn't see it as murder. He'd see it as self-defense. Or, street-justice."

Suddenly, I was very tired. My watch told me it was almost midnight. "Let's go to our motel, Sam," I said.

* * * * *

The activities and anxieties of the day had exhausted me. I slept like a rock and awoke late the following morning. Sam was already up and dressed--and on the telephone.

"We gotta talk, Jessica," he said as he completed his telephone conversation.

"What's goin' on, Sam?"

"I just had a long talk with Tim."

"What's Tim know that's new?"

"There's been some jockeying around within in the police department since Chief Barkley's death. Tim's been in the thick of it, trying to maintain some order while keeping assignments going to the right people."

"Where's that leave you and me, Sam?"

"Tim is monitoring the situation within the department, and right now I think he's pretty much in control of the cases Barkley was managing. There's a high-profile case he's assigned a young cop to work on, and he needs me to assist with that investigation for a few days. He knows I've been with you, protecting you, and he says I'll still be able to spend nights with you."

"You'll be able to work the case during the day?"

"Yes. Now, Jessica, I told Tim that I wanted to keep an eye on you, especially at night, and he agreed that I should. In the meantime, he's got you on paid leave, and wants you to keep a very low profile."

"I can't just sit here at the motel all day. Can we fix me up with a vehicle?"

"Yes. I arranged for you to drive me to the police station and then keep the car I've been driving. It's not marked in any way, so it shouldn't attract attention." Sam paused, then looked directly at me. "Now, Jessica," he began, "I don't want you getting into any hot spots by yourself, okay?"

"Okay, I . . . I guess." Well, what else could I say.

Sam grinned. "You have to realize, Jessica, that I'm getting right attached to you--and I don't want you getting into trouble. Don't want you getting hurt."

I grinned back. With that, Sam took me into his arms, hugged me close for a long moment, and then kissed me. "I'm not going to be available during the day, so if you need anything, call Tim, okay?"

"Is that okay with him?"

"Yes. I cleared that with him. He can get in touch with me if it's necessary."

"So, will I see you tonight?"

"Yes. I'll give you a call as soon as I'm off the case for the day, and we'll make arrangements to get together, eat something, and come here to the motel for the night."

How I had been so fortunate to team up with Sam, I wasn't quite sure, but it sure did feel good.

I drove Sam to the police station as soon as we finished eating breakfast. Now that I was on my own for the rest of the day, I wasn't sure exactly what I was going to do.

My first thought was to go to my apartment and see if anyone had been messing with things or leaving messages of one kind or another. It would be better to take Sam with me, but . . . .

My second thought was to take a drive over to the part of town where Sam had driven us--the part of town where Sara Colwich's body had been found. Yes, I know. It's a very rough part of town, but . . . .

Okay, I told myself. Let's think like a cop and go visit the rough part of town. After checking my pistol and knife to be sure I was ready for anything, I traced the route Sam had taken toward the dumpster where Sara Colwich's body was found.

In contrast to the day when Sam had driven me there, there was almost no activity on the street. I circled the block where the dumpster was located and only saw one person--an old man who was seated in a chair in front of a boarded-up store front.

The dumpster was still there. It appeared to be overflowing with trash, and a certain cold chill swept over me as I thought about Sara Colwich's murder--and her disposal in that dumpster.

The old man seated on the sidewalk near that store front waved to me as I circled the block a second time. That got me thinking. If he lived in the apartment above that store, his back windows would have overlooked the dumpster. Do you suppose he would have seen anything the night Colwich's body was dumped there?

Only one way to find out. I eased the car to the curb near to where the old man was seated. After checking my pistol again, I climbed out of the car and walked over to him.

"Hello!" He greeted me.

"Hello, yourself."

"You must have found something interesting to look at, seeing as to how you circled the block twice."

"Yes. Yes, I did."

"You're a cop, ain't ya?"

His question didn't surprise me, and I'd be honest. "Yes."

"I'm not surprised. It's a rough neighborhood where I live. Whole lotta crime around here. Cops are around here all the time, but . . ." The old fellow looked me over, then continued. "But I ain't seen any as good lookin' as you!"

"Do you live around here?" I asked, ignoring his comment about my looks.

"Yeah. I live right up there." He motioned over his shoulder toward the second floor.

"So, do you see a lot of things going on from your windows?"

"A lot of things going on? Yeah, you could say that." He grinned. "I guess I've seen about everything there is to see, every crime, anyway."

"What kinds of crime do you see?"

The old man thought for a few moments. "The drug pushers are out regularly, selling all kinds of stuff, and there's a few girls on the corners most nights, lookin' to be picked up, and then there's lot's of fights."

"Fights? Gang fights?"

"Yeah, there are two or three gangs that seem to fight around here regularly. One of 'em call themselves the Demons. Another one calls themselves the Dragons. Then there's another one, a really tough one, but I don't know what they call themselves. They all seem to think they own the block, well the whole territory. You see those inscriptions over there?" He pointed to the wall behind his chair.

"Yes."

"One gang'll come over and spray paint their name, and then another gang will come along and paint over the name of the first one. Then the two gangs'll get into a fight over who controls this turf. Only there's one gang that runs 'em all off."

"Which one's that?"

The old man went silent, looked up and down and across the street, and finally turned back to me. "You ever hear of a guy named Roger Hemtz?"

"Yes."

"Bad character. From what I hear, he's the major drug importer for this part of the country. Maybe has other nasty stuff going on, too. Anyway, he has a loyal motorcycle gang that works for him, distributes drugs, and does whatever other dirty work he tells 'em to. Folks tell me he pays 'em well, too."

"They pretty much control this area, then?"

"Yep. The other gangs that I mentioned aren't near as mean and powerful as Hemtz's bunch. When the others hear those guy's roarin' motorcycles coming this way, they get out of the way fast. Those that don't, well they get clobbered."

"Do the gangs bother you?"

"No. I don't give 'em the chance. When evening comes, I stay upstairs. Or if I hear those motorcycles comin' during the day, I get the hell inside. Keep outta sight."

"How long have you lived here?"

The old man thought a moment. "About ten years."

Well, I'd better get at asking any questions I might have, ask them before somebody else came along. "Not too long ago," I began, "a young woman was murdered and her body left in that dumpster in the alley behind your building. Did you happen to see anything going on out there that night?"

"Damn, girl!" the old man exclaimed. "You're a-tryin' to get me killed, askin' questions like that."

"I'm not going to let anyone know who told me, but I'd like to know what you saw."

"Yeah, I saw something, all right."

"Can you tell me anything that might identify the people involved?"

"Yeah, I sure can, but you know that my sayin' something doesn't mean anything. Nobody would believe me in a court of law, and I'm not dumb enough to rat on the guys I saw out there at the dumpster that night. They'd cut me in little pieces and feed me to the rats."

"You can tell me. Who was involved?"

"Unless I miss my guess, it was Hemtz's motorcycle gang. Not all of 'em, maybe, but there was ten to twelve of 'em."

"Hemtz's motorcycle gang, eh?"

"Ah, hell. I'll be honest. I recognized some of the guys. Ya see, I used to be a biker myself. Wasn't a gang member, myself, but I knew a lot of bikers. Some were gang members."

I wouldn't push him to name names. "How did they transport the woman's body?"

"They came down the alley behind my building, makin' a helluva lota noise. Didn't seem to care if anybody heard them or not. There was maybe six or eight motorcycles leading a van and two or three more motorcycles following it. Some of the gang jumped off their bikes, went to the van, and opened the back doors. They pulled the gal's body out, tossed it into the dumpster, whooped and yelled while they were doin' it, and then the whole lot roared off. Circled the block a time or two and roared off."

"Do they know you saw 'em?"

"I'm sure they know, and they don't care. If they thought I was tellin' you this, though, they'd come around tonight and burn down the entire block. Cut me up in little pieces, like I said. Make sure I didn't tell anyone else. You hear what I'm sayin'?"

"Yes."

"So you're not going to tell anyone I'm the one who told you about that night, right?"

"Right. What you told me is safe with me."

The old man looked at me--hard. "If Hemtz's gang ever finds out I told you what I just did, they'll not only come lookin' for me, but they'll come lookin' for you--and you don't want 'em lookin' for you. You hear me, girl?"

"Yes. Now, for another question, did any cops come around asking you if you saw anything?"

The old man laughed. "I watched the cops lookin' around when they took the body away. They looked around the area, but none of 'em came around asking me anything. Fact is, I was glad they didn't. That might have got me killed."

"Nobody ask if you'd seen anything that night?"

"Nope. But about a week later, a young man came around talkin' to people, askin' if they'd seen anything--and he came around to see me. Said he was the girl's boyfriend and wanted to find her killer."

"Did you tell him what you told me?"

"I told him what I'd seen, but I didn't tell him who I thought was involved. He got the message, though, because he told me he already had learned enough to know that it was Hemtz's gang that killed her. Said he was gonna get her killers if it was the last thing he did."

"Did he tell you his name?"

"No. I didn't want to know his name, because I figured Hemtz's gang might like to know it and I wasn't going to be the one to give it to them."

We looked at each other for a long moment. Then the old man glanced up and down the street. "You better get on out of here, girl, before somebody comes along and gets an idea that you and me are talkin' about things that are best left unsaid."

"Right."

"Wait a moment."

I turned back toward him and watched as he pulled a small notebook from his shirt pocket, produced a pen, wrote something in the notebook, tore the page out, and handed it to me. "There's the tag number from the van that the gang hauled the woman's body in," he whispered. "Now, don't tell anybody where you got that number."

I thanked him for his time and the information--and got out of there. In the rear-view mirror, I saw the old man going back inside. Two blocks away there was a gang of about ten young men, all wearing black tee-shirts and coming towards where I'd left the old man. I hoped they weren't looking for him. Maybe they'd been looking for me.

Several blocks away, I pulled into a strip-mall parking lot and looked at the tag number the old man had given me. I'd have Sam or Tim check it for sure, but if I had to guess, it was the same as the tag on the van Roger Hemtz and his two men were seen getting out of at TheTiger's Lounge.

My next stop was at a shop that sold wigs. After some looking around, I settled on one that would turn me into a brunette, something quite different from my natural hair and of a style much different from my usual. Hopefully, that wig would give me some protection from being spotted easily, especially if I were riding in a vehicle.

Now for the real question of the day: Did I have the courage--or the foolhardiness--to go to my apartment without Sam.

Well, first things first. I'd call Tim and tell him about my conversation with the old man who lived near the dumpster where they'd found Sara Colwich. Give him the tag number. Not that it would assist in solving Colwich's murder--but then it was another small piece in the puzzle.

Tim took my call, and I gave him the tag number. "Hang on," he said. I did, and moments later he was back on the phone. "Yep, that's the tag number of a white Ford van registered to Roger Hemtz. Wantta tell me where you got it?"

"Is it secure, my phone to yours?" I asked.

Tim laughed. "Probably not. Can you find a public telephone and call from there?"

"I'll try." I drove back to the mall and looked around for a telephone, all the time checking over my shoulder, because I hadn't forgot that gang of punks who just might like to find me out somewhere by myself. Finally, I found a phone, called Tim, and told him my story. I also told him about the gangs the old man had told me about.

"Maybe you oughtta stay out of that part of town for a few days," Tim said. It wasn't a suggestion.

"Yes, I guess so." Dang! Where in town could I go? Well, I'd tell Tim what I was going to do. "Tim, you may advise me not to, but I'm going over to my apartment."

"Jessica, are you sure it's safe?"

"No, but I can't avoid going back there forever, and I've got a disguise with my new wig."

"Will you call me once you've checked the streets and parking lot and before you go in to your apartment? Get some tag numbers of any suspicious vehicles around? Let me know what you see?"

"Yes."

"Sam isn't going to be happy about your going there by yourself."

"I know that, but . . . ."

"Okay. I know you're going to do it, but check things out on the streets and give me a call first, okay?

"Yes."

I put the wig on my head and checked myself out as best I could in the mirror. I'd be hard to recognize seated in the car. Well, here goes . . . .

There were none of the vehicles Sam and I had seen around on the streets by my apartment. No motorcycles at all. In fact, the streets and the parking lot were almost empty. Where, I asked myself, would I go if I wanted to keep an eye on the entrance to my apartment building?

I parked in my apartment complex parking lot, sat there, and studied the surrounding buildings. There were several windows from which someone could watch for me, but there was not much I could do about it. No way could I check each window. Well, I'd call Tim, tell him what I was doing, and walk right up those stairs to my apartment.
Chapter 12

I was just about to open the door to my car when I got this feeling that something wasn't right. Something about the way the traffic was moving on the street. I couldn't see that anything was wrong, but there's something in my police training that cautions me when things aren't, well, aren't quite right. I've learned to pay attention to that feeling, too. Instead of getting out of my car, I started it and drove slowly out of the parking lot.

And that's when I sensed that another vehicle on the street was pulling out behind me. I slowed. It didn't pass me. I went around the block. Pulled into another parking place. They parked behind me. Probably nothing to be alarmed about, I told myself. I mentally cursed myself for being such an alarmist, for being too jumpy.

Well, I'd see what was going on, if anything. I took the gun from my purse, held it under my jacket, climbed out of the car, and walked straight for the entrance to my apartment building--a path that would take me near, but not too near, the car I felt was following me.

"Hey, babe!"

I turned. The face in the passenger window of the car that had followed me around the block grinned. "Wantta have some fun, babe?" he called, "Let's go party. I'll buy you a drink?"

I looked him over, ignoring his question, then saw the face in the rear window call out, "Hey babe! Nice knockers!" This wasn't a teenage punk. I wasn't sure, but it looked like one of the guys I'd seen in the parking lot where the bikers assembled at The Tiger's Lounge. Did those guys know who I was?

Well, they were young punks, all right, but they didn't appear to be the kind that were going to give me any real trouble. Not in broad daylight, anyway. Maybe that approach helped them pick up girls, but I doubted it. I turned and walked away without responding. They whooped it up as they drove off. Maybe I'm paranoid, but I got to wondering if those punks were on somebody's payroll--keeping an eye on me.

I glanced at my watch. It was three-thirty in the afternoon. The high school located about four blocks from my apartment building was letting out. Two school busses went by. That's probably where the guys who'd called to me were from. No. They were older than that. I couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right--that I'd seen the one guy before. Probably at The Tiger's Lounge.

Before I reached the door to my apartment building another car load of guys came by. They whistled when they saw me and a couple of them shouted, "Hi, babe!" Well, like it or not, like James Morris told me, I'd have to get used to guys like that.

There wasn't anybody lurking in the entryway to my apartment building. I checked my mailbox. Nothing suspicious there.

I climbed the stairs to the second floor where my apartment is located. Checked every place where someone might hide. Nobody was lurking there.

There was a small envelope standing against my door. I picked it up, then unlocked the door to my apartment, pushed it open, and cautiously went inside--gun in hand.

I checked carefully throughout my apartment for hidden bugs, but didn't find anything. The light on my telephone was flashing, however, indicating I'd had an unanswered call--and that a voice-mail message was waiting.

Well, I had to listen to it sometime. After checking the windows to be sure my car was still safe and that none of the known vehicles were around, I lifted the receiver.

"You can run," the female voice rasp, "but you can't hide where we can't find you, bitch. And when we do, there's a dumpster waiting for you--just like the one where Niki Best was dumped. You deserve what she got--and it's coming."

It was the same distorted female voice that had delivered the previous message--the voice that sounded a lot like Cynthia Holland's. Or, maybe that was my imagination. Well, whoever it was could threaten all she wanted, but I wasn't going to make it easy for them to take me down.

I opened the envelope that had been against my door. There was a small hard little something inside wrapped tightly in a cloth. I'd take it over to Tim's office. We'd unwrap and look at it there. See what I'd been gifted with.

Once again, I looked around my apartment. It didn't appear that anyone had been inside. Since it didn't look like I'd be living there for a few more days, anyway, I gathered some clothes and a few things I'd need and packed them in a carry-bag. With another look out the windows, I locked the door and went outside to my car.

Just as I got to my car, a car I recognized, Charles Topac's black Chrysler, pulled into the parking lot and parked near mine. "Jessica," he called, "Come over here."

I walked over to him.

"You've got to get out of here," he said, "and then I want to show you something."

"I've got to get out of here?"

"Yeah, now!" His voice told me that he was deadly serious.

"I'll drive over to the motel where I'm staying," I told him. "You follow me. We can talk there. Okay?"

"Okay. Just get moving."

I wasn't sure just what the hurry was, but I'd take Topac's advice. After another quick look at the vehicles parked around, I drove directly to the motel.

Topac pulled up beside me and motioned for me to get in with him. "Jump in," he said.

"I'm surprised to see you out driving around," I told him. "Is your wound healing up okay."

"Yeah. It hurts like hell but I can drive all right, and I got the car cleaned up. Got the blood cleaned out of it. There's a few stains to remind me of what happened, but that's life. Seeing those stains will keep me reminded of the guy who shot me--and believe me, I'm lookin' for him."

"What do you have for me?" I asked.

"I'll tell you a couple of things. Then let's go for a ride."

"Okay."

"I've been keeping an eye on your apartment, because I suspect you're in serious danger--maybe from the same people who killed Niki. I say that because I've seen a couple of motorcycles parked out front of your apartment on the street as well as a blue Cadillac. Maybe you've seen 'em, too?"

"Yes."

"The blue Cadillac belongs to a guy named Roland Sumpter. He worked for Senator Holland, did a good share of his dirty work for him. Maybe you knew him, or knew of him."

"I just knew his name, and I know he did some of Holland's dirty work. Never had any close contact with him though."

"Well, he's the one Holland could count on to do his dirty work, all right, and he had his pick of Roger Hemtz's motorcycle gang when he needed help. You know that Holland's wife is Roger Hemtz's sister, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Well, Sumpter knows where you live, and if he knows where you live, so does Hemtz and his gang. And you know that Hemtz had an interest in The Tiger's Lounge, too, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, I've seen Sumpter's car parked over near your apartment several times, so I figure they're keeping a close watch on your activities."

"Do you know a guy named Bob Mahone?" I asked.

"Yeah, he worked for Holland, too. Did some of the dirty work as best I could figure it. You probably knew him well."

"Not real well. But I knew his reputation."

"Some of the stuff you got Holland for was stuff he directed Mahone to do, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

Now Topac's reference gave me pause. You see, the dirty work Mahone did that I knew of wasn't directly mentioned in court. How much did Topac know about Mahone and his activities, anyway? And where did he get his information?

"I think either Mahone or Sumpter or both of them helped kill Niki. Maybe they didn't do the actual killing, but they arranged for it. Set her up."

"I understand your thinking."

"Jessica, I like you," Topac said. "That's the reason I've been keeping an eye on your apartment and on anybody who might be keeping an eye on you. Now, put your bag into your room here, and we'll go for a little drive. I want to show you something, well, several things, really. You're gonna find them very interesting."

"Okay." I got the bag out of my car and took it inside. I knew I couldn't call and talk to Sam, but I could leave him a message while I was inside my room, and I did so. Just told him that Charles Topac had picked me up and was going to show me something or somethings--whatever. Maybe I wasn't completely trusting Topac, but the knowledge that Sam would know what I was doing reassured me.

"The way I got it figured," Topac said, as he took off, "is that Niki was finding out about things going on at The Tiger's Lounge that were sure to cut into the profits--maybe even close the place down or put some of the management in jail." He turned to me. "Did you know that Holland and Hemtz both have substantial interests in that bar?"

"Yes."

"Well, I've since found out that a share of the profits from The Tiger's Lounge supported Holland in his political efforts and, in turn, he supported anything that would help out that bar. He blocked some inquiries into illegal activities there, and he intiminated witnesses, among other things. Oh, and there was prostitution there, and maybe some of the women were illegal immigrants. Holland took care of stuff like that--until you showed up."

"So you think Niki was about ready to blow the whistle, so to speak, on the things going on at The Tiger's Lounge?"

"I sure do. She was beginning to make detailed reports to the cops, and Holland's crew took her out before she could do any more damage."

"So you think Roger Hemtz and Shawn Holland had her killed?"

"Yeah, I'm sure they ordered it, and some of Hemtz's gang did it. They didn't just kill her either. They beat the hell out of her and raped her--and then they killed her. Dumped her body in that dumpster where somebody found her."

"And you think the same thing might happen to me?"

"Babe, I'm sure of it. You taking down Holland gives them plenty of motivation. Besides that, you know a lot of how Holland's friends work, so some of them can't feel real secure--not like they could when Holland was calling the shots."

Topac drove for several blocks in silence, then pulled the car into a curb-side parking space. "See that big apartment building over there?" He pointed.

"Yes." I'd seen the highrise building before, but I'd never paid much attention to it. Its address, 707 East First Street, was one of the most prestigious in the city. Only the wealthy and well-connected could afford to live there.

"Roger Hemtz doesn't spend all of his time here in the city," Charles began. "In fact, he spends quite a bit of time on the road. Sometimes he's gone for several days at a time. But when he is here, he lives in one of the apartments over there. In fact, I think maybe he owns the building. Don't know that for sure, but he has an apartment on the top floor.

"He doesn't own the building under his own name if he does own it, of course,"Topac continued. "He has something worked out about that for legal purposes, but he still owns it. I'm telling you this because I think that's where they took Niki."

"To Hemtz's apartment?"

"Yeah. Well, that's where they took her first, anyway, after they abducted her from the Lounge. Now, I'll show you where I think they took her after that." Topac started the car.

"You're thinking revenge, aren't you, Charles?"

"Yep."

Topac drove us back into a rough part of town, not all that far from where I'd visited with the old man a few days ago. There were several large warehouses in that area, some of which had been abandoned and some that still were in use. Topac parked at the curb.

"See that warehouse over there." Topac pointed.

"Yes."

"Roger Hemtz owns that warehouse. I'm sure that is where they bring the drugs his gang distributes, at least a good share of them."

"Have you actually seen them do that?"

Topac smiled. "Yeah. One night I was over in this part of town, sort of looking things over, and I saw a large truck back into the loading dock on that warehouse. It took 'em all of about twenty minutes to unload whatever was on that truck, and then it was gone. Since then, I've seen 'em unload trucks over there several times.

"But," Topac continued, "the motorcycle gang that works for Hemtz also uses that warehouse as a club house. The windows are blacked out, so when they run the bikes inside and close the doors nobody can know they're there."

"You think that's where they took Niki?"

"Yes. That's where they beat her up and raped her. There wouldn't be any way anyone could hear her yell, and it's not all that far to the dumpster where they dumped her body."

There was a slight rumble in the distance. I looked around. Something didn't feel quite right. Turning to Topac, I said, "You hear that? We've got to get out of here, Charles."

"We've got to get out of here? What's . . . ."

"Yeah, and fast. Hear that?"

The rumble was growing louder. Topac heard it, too. "Sounds like motorcycles," he said, seemingly still not concerned.

"Yeah, and that means it's probably Hemtz's gang. Let's get out of here."

Topac didn't seem concerned, but he started the car and drove us around the block and up a small rise behind the warehouse district. "I wantta watch this gang," he said. "See what we're up against."

"You're thinking of taking on the whole gang?"

Topac smiled, but his eyes were hard. "Damned right I am. I'm gonna take down Hemtz and his whole gang. Gonna take 'em down hard for what they did to Niki. You're gonna help me, too, ain't ya, babe?"

This was a side of Charles Topac I'd never seen before. "That's a job for the cops, Charles."

"Hell! The cops had their chance. I've just got one more little piece to fit into the whole puzzle, so as I can get 'em all. The cops and the city fathers ought to thank me for cleaning that trash outta the city. Ought to give me a reward."

Before I could respond, ten motorcycles roared down the street and into the parking lot behind Hemtz's warehouse. The riders dismounted quickly and went directly inside.

"There's just one more vehicle we're looking for," Topac said.

"One more vehicle?"

"Yeah. Hemtz usually arrives in a van, a white Ford van. I figure he needs a van to haul the money he makes around. What else he uses a van for, I don't know."

"What does he drive when he isn't driving the van?" I asked.

Topac laughed. "I've never seen him in anything else, and that puzzles me. You'd think a guy with the money he's got would drive some luxury foreign car, a high-dollar sports car, maybe, but like I say, I've never seen him in anything but that Ford van."

We sat there in silence for a few moments before Topac grabbed my hand and whispered, "There it is. Roger Hemtz is here."

There was the white Ford van, all right. It most likely was the one in which Hemtz had arrived at The Tiger's Lounge while James Morris and I were there that one night, and most likely the one the old man had seen at the dumpster. Charles Topac must have done a lot of investigative work to know as much as he seemed to know about Roger Hemtz and his activities.

"As soon as he's inside, we're gonna go down and get a closer look at the bikes and the van," Topac growled.

"Are you sure that's wise?"

"You're armed, ain't you?"

"Yes, but--"

"But what?" Topac interrupted.

"We're pretty much outnumbered, aren't we?"

"Ain't gonna be any trouble, babe. I'm just gonna drive through the parking lot behind those bikes and get the tag numbers. Use my phone to photograph 'em. Then we'll see who these guys are."

"Charles?"

"Yeah?"

"The tag numbers may or may not help us much." I told him about the fake tags Sam and I had seen on two motorcycles that were parked outside my apartment building.

Before Topac could respond, we saw the bikers come out of that warehouse. Each one of them was carrying a bag or a backpack. Moments later, Hemtz himself came out of the warehouse and climbed into his van. He and the bikers left immediately.

"You said the bikers use that warehouse as a clubhouse, right?"

"Yeah. They've got exercise equipment in there and the old office area is furnished with refrigerators and kitchen equipment. Don't know that they spend nights there, but they could if they wanted to, because there are some sofas and maybe a regular bed or two where some of them could sleep."

I didn't ask Charles how he knew all of this, how he knew what was inside that warehouse. "Where do the bikers hang out when they're not there?" I asked.

"Mostly they hang out in the parking lot of The Tiger's Lounge," Topac told me. He paused a moment, studied the warehouse, and then said, "Looks like our party is over. Want me to take you back to your motel?"

"I guess so."

"Let's take a detour and see if Hemtz's van is parked somewhere around the apartment building I showed you."

"Okay."

Hemtz's van was there, all right, and so were a couple of motorcycles. Topac insisted on getting the tag numbers on the bikes and drove through the parking lot to photograph them with his smart-phone camera.

As we drove by the motorcycles, I noticed that one of them was the one that had been parked near my apartment building, along with the blue Cadillac. It was the one I'd identified because of the scrapes and dents.

Topac saw it, too. "That's one of the bikes that was parked near your apartment," he told me. "I got the tag number then and, fake or not, that's the one on this bike."

"Do you know who rides it?"

"Not for sure, but we'll find out. I've seen it in The Tiger's Lounge parking lot."

Topac drove me "home" to the motel where Sam and I were staying. His parting words were, "Let's get Roger Hemtz and those bikers. You an' me, babe. Take 'em all down--and soon."

* * * * *

I hadn't told Charles, but that apartment building where he said Roger Hemtz lives when he's in town is where Shawn Holland's two bodyguards lived. Their names are Chester Morrison and Tom Grayton, and I got acquainted with them when I was undercover with Holland's operation. Both Morrison and Grayton are very smooth and polished security types, but underneath that polish they are two mean bastards. Knowing that they live in the same building as Roger Hemtz makes me wonder if they are now working for him or his organization in some capacity. Furthermore, I now have to wonder if they're friends with the bikers who do Hemtz's dirty work--and if they were involved with Sara Colwich's torture and murder.

* * * * *

Sam came "home" a little later and we ate at a nearby restaurant. I told Sam about my adventures with Charles Topac that afternoon, and about the small package I'd found at my apartment door. We'd take it to Tim's office and look at it tomorrow, or at least I would if Sam had to be on assignment. Those plans made, I was suddenly very tired--and ready for bed.

It was about three o'clock the following morning when Sam's phone vibrated, alerting us that something big-time was going on that involved the police or fire departments. I woke up just in time to hear Sam exclaim, "Oh, my!"

"What's goin' on, Sam?" I asked.
Chapter 13

"Charles Topac showed you the warehouse Hemtz and his gang operate from, right?" Sam asked me after he completed the call.

"Yes."

"Well, right now that warehouse is in flames--and burning like crazy. It appears to the fire department to be arson--and that warehouse is gonna be a total loss. They won't be able to save any of it, and they're working hard to save the surrounding buildings."

"I'll call Charles Topac," I said. "We'll see if he knows anything about it."

I dialed Topac's number. Dead silence. There wasn't even a ring.

"Can't reach him?"

"No."

"Maybe he's turned off his phone?"

"I still should be able to leave a message. I'd guess something must have happened to his phone--or to him and his phone. Then again, you may be right and he's just turned it off. I'll try Mike Tannis."

I called Topac's friend, Mike Tannis. His grumbled "Yeah?" told me he'd been sound asleep and didn't much like being awakened.

"Jessica Snow here, Mike. Sorry to bother you. Do you know where Charles Topac might be?"

"No. He left here about midnight. Is he in trouble?"

I told him I didn't know, that I couldn't reach him on his phone, and that the warehouse he told me Hemtz and his gang used was on fire.

"I'm not surprised at anything Charles does," Tannis replied. "Just between you and me, Charles has been out to avenge Niki's death--and he figured that warehouse was where she died. Not that I'm saying he had anything to do with it being on fire. You understand that, don't you?"

"I understand." Maybe I shouldn't have asked, but I had to know. "Mike, did Charles have the ability to set that fire?"

Tannis laughed. "Charles and I learned a lot of things in the military, including how to sabotage just about anything. So, yes, he has the know-how to set a building on fire, but I'm not saying he did it, understand?"

"Yes."

His tone softened. "I'll go over to his place, Jessica. See if he's okay."

"Thanks, Mike," I told him. "Give me a call or have Charles give me a call. Let me know he's okay. Will you do that?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want to go over there?" Sam asked, once I was off the phone. "Take a look at that warehouse fire?"

"Yes, I guess so."

"You think Topac is involved in some way?"

I'd be honest. "I don't know."

Sam drove us over to see the fire and we parked on the rise where Topac and I looked over the warehouse the day before. By the time we got there, the fire department had the fire under control. Still, I suspected that the warehouse would not be used again by Hemtz or his gang or anybody else. The damage was just too great. There just wasn't much left of it, and I had to wonder if anyone had been inside when it went up in flames.

It would be some time before anyone could determine the exact cause of the fire. I had to wonder if anyone would suspect Charles Topac as the one who started it, or if they could link him to it in any way.

Well, we'd seen the ruins, and there was nothing we could do about it. Sam and I stopped and ate breakfast on our way back to the motel. I still hadn't heard a word from Mike Tannis--or Charles Topac.

Minutes after Sam left for his assignment, however, my phone jangled. To my surprise, Topac's number showed up, so I answered the call. "Hello, Charles?"

"Hello yourself!" Topac's voice was strong, jubilant.

"Have you heard the news about the warehouse fire?" I asked. "You know the warehouse I mean."

"Yeah, Mike called me. Said you couldn't reach me. Said you were worried about me."

Well, I'd be honest. "Yes, I was."

"What say I pick you up in about fifteen minutes? Take you for a little drive?"

"Sure."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

Fifteen minutes later, no more, no less, Topac greeted me with a cheerful, "Hi, Jessica."

I climbed into his Chrysler and we were off. I had a good idea of where we'd be going, but I'd ask anyway. "Where are we going, Charles?"

"Now that it's daylight, I wantta see that warehouse, well, what's left of it, anyway. Thought you would, too." There was a smile in his voice.

"Sure." I meant it. Besides, I was beginning to like being with Charles.

The streets around the warehouse were still blocked off to through traffic and several fire trucks were still on the scene, spraying water on what was left of the warehouse and a couple of nearby buildings, so Topac drove us to the rise were we could park and look down at the activity.

"That fire sure wrecked the place, didn't it?" Topac said. He sounded right cheerful.

"Yes."

"Roger Hemtz won't be working out of it any more, and the bikers won't be able to use it for a club house."

"No." I had to agree. "Do you think Hemtz has another place where he can do the business he did here?"

Topac shook his head. "I don't know. This is the only warehouse he had that I'm aware of. Still, I wouldn't be surprised if he had another warehouse or a building of some sort somewhere." He studied the smoldering ruins, then turned to me. "Let's go see if there's any activity--"

The roar of motorcycles coming up behind us interrupted Topac's statement. Before either of us realized exactly what was happening, there was a biker on either side of the car.

Both bikers jumped off their bikes and headed directly for us. One of the bikers grabbed Topac's door; the other biker grabbed mine--and they yanked both doors open.

The moment I saw what was happening, the hand-to-hand combat training my dad had given me went into use. As the biker reached inside the car for my arm, I shoved the door in his face and then turned sideways and kicked him between the legs--hard. He went down, gasping for breath, and rolled away.

Topac was out of the car and duking it out with the biker outside his door. He landed a right fist to the biker's jaw and then kicked his legs out from under him, scrambled back inside the car, and hit the starter. The moment I slammed my door shut, he hit the accelerator--and we got out of there just as fast as we could. Those bikers would remember us for a long time--and now have their own score to settle with us.

We roared out of there fast, keeping alert for any other bikers that might tail us. A few minutes later, however, Topac threw back his head and laughed--and then got deadly serious. "Those boys and their pals ain't gonna like what we did to 'em," he said. "Next time they'll be comin' for us with guns ablazin'."

That response to the two bikers had been easy. They'd probably been acting on their own without alerting the rest of the gang. I had a feeling that our next encounter with those guys wouldn't be so easy.

Topac drove aimlessly for a few minutes, keeping an eye out for any more trouble, then turned and drove directly toward the apartment building where he'd said Roger Hemtz lived. Parked about a block away and retrieved his binoculars from the console. "By now the words out about the warehouse fire," he said, "so let's see if there's any special activity around Hemtz's place."

We didn't have long to wait. Fifteen minutes later, the bikers began to arrive. Topac studied them through his binoculars. We waited, watching the bikers hustle through the front door to the apartment building.

It was perhaps half an hour later when Topac hissed, "There they are!"

"Who?"

"The two guys who jumped us."

"Are you sure?"

"Hell, yes. I'd recognize the one who came up on my side of the car by the tattoo on his face." Topac laughed. "He ain't walkin' so good, and the other guy is walkin' like someone who got kicked where you kicked him would be walkin'."

"So they are part of Hemtz's gang."

"Yep! They'll have a story to tell, and that'll get the whole gang riled up. Of course, they'll have to be concerned about where they can do business now that the warehouse is gone. That'll be their next order of business. Maybe keep their minds off you and me for a little while."

"Any ideas about where they'll be setting up another place to do business?"

"Not really. I'm hoping they'll lead us there, wherever there is."

"When will they be getting another shipment of drugs, or whatever they get?"

"I don't know, but it should be soon. I saw the last shipment come in about two weeks ago, so they'll be needing more supplies any day now."

"We need a different car," I told Topac. "They're on to yours. What say we go get the one I've been driving?"

"Good idea."

Topac drove us back to the motel where the car I was driving was parked. We then drove back to watch the activity around Hemtz's apartment building. There now were ten motorcycles parked around the parking area as well as Hemtz's white Ford van.

Something about Hemtz's driving that van puzzled me. "Don't you think it's a little odd that Hemtz is driving just the one vehicle all of the time?" I asked Topac.

"Odd? How so?"

"Well, everybody must know who's driving that particular van, especially the cops and any enemies he may have."

Topac laughed. "The cops don't seem to bother him much." Besides, he doesn't transport any illegal drugs or anything in the van. A truck brings, or did bring, the supplies to that warehouse, and the bikers distributed them. About the only thing Hemtz hauls in that van is money, and believe me, Jessica, he hauls a lot of money in that van." He paused a moment, and then continued. "You've got to remember, too, that until you put Shawn Holland away, he had some well-placed protection, maybe protection from the cops, too."

"But doesn't Hemtz have enemies or competitors? The kind who just might plant a bomb under that van? Get rid of him and take over his operation?"

"Yep, but somehow Hemtz and his friends keep an eye on that van--day and night." Topac smiled. "Don't ask me how I know, okay?"

"Okay."

"There!" Topac exclaimed. "They're leaving!"

The bikers were filing out of the apartment building, two by two. Topac and I watched--and waited. Two! Four! Six! Eight! Ten! "Let's follow them," Topac said.

I started the car and we followed them from a distance, Topac keeping an eye on their route with his binoculars. We must have followed them for twenty minutes, ever watchful to be sure we didn't have a tail, unitl we saw the bikers begin to turn into the alley behind a small, run-down, strip mall.

We continued on past that alley and found a parking lot two blocks away where we could watch the biker's activity. Watched them park in the alley behind that strip mall and then file into the back entrance of one of the stores.

That building had once housed a hardware store. It had closed along with some of the others in that mall several years ago when the neighborhood deteriorated. The front windows and door had been boarded up and were now covered with spray painted slogans, mostly gang related. There was a loading dock in the back where trucks once unloaded--and likely would again if Hemtz's organization took it over.

"Well, Jessica," Topac said, "we now know where they're going to set up shop." There was a smile in his voice.

I knew what he meant by that statement, and I had a feeling he was going to be keeping the activities there under surveillence. Not that I was going to ask him about that. Nor was I going to ask him if he knew anthing about the fire at Hemtz's warehouse.

"There's one thing we need to be cautious about in this neighborhood." Topac's voice broke into my thinking.

"What's that?"

"Those buildings all have flat roofs."

"Yes?"

"They're ideal for lookouts and snipers."

"Snipers?"

"Yep. Hemtz's gang will keep watch over the area from those roofs while there's activity there, just like they kept watch from the old warehouse roof. They'll be especially watchful since that fire, and they'll be watching for us as well as the cops and rival gangs. Once they learn what vehicles we're driving, they just might plan some revenge."

"They wouldn't just shoot us, though, would they?"

"No. They'd disable our vehicle and then they'd come after us. Make sure we paid for the trouble we've caused them."

Somehow I got the idea that Charles Topac now considered me a part of his team. And I had no illusions as to what Hemtz's gang would have planned for me. They might even invite Cynthia Holland, Roger Hemtz's sister, to watch the revenge. Or partake of the revenge.

"We're going to have to be careful around here," I told Topac.

"Yes, and not only around here," he replied.

We watched the bikers going in and out of the back door to that former hardware store. Some of them had armloads of trash that they took to a nearby dumpster. My guess was that they would be cleaning it up so they could use it to take in truckloads of illegal drugs and distribute them as well as use the building for a clubhouse.

"Drive us down the street in front of that mall." Topac's voice broke into my thoughts.

"Okay."

Topac had his smartphone out. As I drove us by the mall, he photographed the storefront and the storefronts on either side of the one Hemtz's gang appeared to be taking over. After checking to see that he had the photos he wanted, he murmured, "Let's get out of here, babe." Unless I missed my guess, he was already thinking of his continuing revenge.

"Where to?" I asked.

"Let's go over to Tony's Hideout. I'll buy you a beer and lunch."

"Do you think it's safe?"

Topac laughed. "No. Ain't nowhere that's safe for you and me. Not with the goons that are after our hides. But Tony's is as safe as anywhere, and they've got good burgers."

There were four motorcycles and two trucks parked in front of Tony's. We parked close to the door, making sure we couldn't easily be blocked in, then went inside.

The bartender waved at us and motioned for us to come over. We walked to the bar. "Guy was in here a few minutes ago looking for you, Charles," he said. "He asked for you by name."

"Who was it?"

"Wouldn't tell me his name, and I wouldn't tell him anything about where he might find you. Told him I hadn't seen you today. That I didn't know when you'd be in."

Topac smiled. "Thanks."

"Who's the beautiful lady?"

Topac introduced us. Dan Herrington is the bartender's name. He seemed like a nice guy.

"What can I get for you guys?"

We ordered beers and burgers, then Topac turned to the bartender. "You've got a good eye for people, Dan. Did you ever see this guy before, the one who came in asking about me?"

"Maybe. I think so, but I'm not absolutely sure. Can't quite place him."

"You saw him here in the bar?"

"Yeah. It would have been a few days before you got shot. He was wearing a Harley-Davidson cap then and this guy was wearing one today, but you got to remember that a lot of the bikers in here wear Harley-Davidson caps."

"Anything else you remember about him? The way he was dressed? The way he walked?"

"Yeah, I looked him over. He was wearing jeans and a soiled denim shirt, like everybody else who comes in here, but I did notice one thing that was unusual."

"What was that?"

"He had big feet."

"Big feet, eh?"

"Yeah. You know that most of the guys that come in here wear boots and some of 'em are big, but this guy's were extra wide. He clumped around a lot when he walked, or I wouldn't have paid any attention to his feet."

"Anything else you remember?"

"Not really. There were several guys who came in about the same time and I got busy taking care of them."

Big feet. Wide feet. That was a part of the description of the man who'd shot Charles. I knew what he was thinking.

The bartender turned back to us. "You in some kind of trouble, Charles?" he asked.

"Trouble?"

"Yeah. This guy askin' about you wasn't smiling much. Like maybe you owed him money or something."

"I don't owe anybody money," Topac responded, "but I'll tell you what I'm thinking. I want to see this guy, and if he comes in again, give me a call. Don't tell him you're calling me, but keep him around until I get here if you can."

"What's goin' on, Charles?"

"You remember that I got shot a few days ago, right?"

"Yeah. I remember. You think this guy did it?"

"The cops said he left boot-prints in the dirt near where he ran off after shooting me, and those boot-prints showed that he was wearing extra-wide boots. Furthermore, one of his boots, the left one, I think, had a gouge in the sole."

The bartender nodded. "I'll give you a call if he comes in again."

"Thanks. By the way, was he packin' heat?"

"I can't be sure. He's big and beefy, and he could have had a gun in his jacket pocket."

"Be damned wary of him, okay?"

"Yeah."

Two more men came into the bar just then and the bartender turned to them. Topac and I took our beers and found a table where we could keep an eye on the door. I knew very well what was on Topac's mind; he'd just love to see the man who'd shot him walk in that door.

I drove us back to the motel where I was staying after we finished eating. Charles said he had some business to tend to and that he'd call me later. Maybe we'd go snoop around again tomorrow. See what we could stir up in the way of trouble. He was smiling as he spoke.

To tell the truth, I was beginning to like Charles Topac. Maybe I didn't like him in the same way I liked Sam, but yeah, I was beginning to like him. Liked being with him. Felt safe with him. In fact, I would be looking forward to seeing him tomorrow.

And the fact that Charles had a rough reputation with the police didn't seem to get in the way of my liking him. Yes, it was even possible that he'd had a hand in building two car bombs, one of which killed David Barkley. Furthermore, I had my suspicions about the fire that destroyed Hemtz's warehouse. But, hey, I still was beginning to like Charles Topac! I could even imagine his strong arms around me holding me close to him and . . . .

Sam called me late that afternoon. Said he was coming by and would pick me up on his way to eat. That he had some "interesting information" for me regarding that warehouse fire. Well, we'd see what he'd found out, and I sure hoped Sam would be staying with me again that night.
Chapter 14

Sam had some interesting information on that warehouse fire, all right. It was arson. No doubt about that. Somebody had managed to get inside the building and remove the cap on a gas pipe that had once fed gas to a heater in the office. The heater had been taken out and the gas pipe capped several years ago, but the gas was still turned on so someone could use the two space heaters in the gang's club-house area.

Once that cap was removed, the arsonist had opened a value that let the gas escape directly into the warehouse.

He'd, I'm assuming now that the one who engineered the fire was a man, planted a device that would spark when triggered by, probably, a rigged smartphone. Once gas had escaped and filled a good portion of that warehouse, he'd triggered it from a safe distance--and the resulting explosion and fire completely destroyed the building.

All the time that Sam was explaining to me how the destruction of that warehouse had been carried out, I was thinking of one thing--could Charles Topac have done it? It wasn't a question; I knew the answer. Whether he actually did it or not, well I couldn't say.

I wasn't going to lay that possibility on Sam, however, not at the moment, anyway. I did tell him about Topac's discovering the building that Hemtz's gang would likely use in the immediate future.

Sam made some notes in his notebook regarding that building and then got the serious look he often gets when he's got something to lay on me.

"What is it, Sam?" I asked.

"Tim's got a possible assignment for you. Well, a likely assignment."

"An undercover assignment?" That sounded good to me. I like working.

"Yep. He says you're really good at undercover work and he wants to talk over an assignment with you. He asked me if I thought you were ready for a new assignment, and I told him I thought so."

"Are you going to be able to back me up?"

"I'm not sure. Probably not for a few days because I've got an assignment to finish up first, but then I would."

"With all the fallout from the Shawn Holland case, I'm going to want excellent backup."

"Tim knows that. He wants you to have excellent backup, too."

"So when do I meet with Tim?"

"Tomorrow morning, that is if you're sure you're ready. Tim doesn't want to push you."

"No. I've got to get back to work. I'll feel a lot better when I do, and I'll plan to meet with him tomorrow morning."

I showed Sam the little object that someone had wrapped in a rag and left in an envelope by my "home" apartment. He unwrapped it carefully, and then handed it to me.

"What do you make of this?" he asked.

In my hand was a broken earring. It appeared to have been made of silver or a silver-like metal with a stone of some sort and no doubt was very pretty--before someone had mangled it. There was a smear of some substance on one side that looked like it might be dried blood. "I don't know what to make of it," I told him. "What do you make of it?"

Sam shook his head. "I don't know. Let's show it to Tim in the morning. Get his take on it."

I studied the earring, carefully turning it this way and that, then turned to Sam. "That looks like a bloodstain on the back."

"It may be, and there may be a partial fingerprint in that stain," Sam replied after carefully studying the earring. "Let's let Tim see what he makes of it."

We'd show it to Tim, all right, but something else I was going to do was show that earring to Charles Topac. We'd let Tim see what he could make of it, and then see if Charles had any ideas on its significance, and why it was left for me to find. See if there was any connection with Sare Colwich. After all, Charles had found some of her jewelry at a pawn shop. Maybe this earring matched the jewelry he'd found?

Once again that night I slept soundly, securely snuggled in Sam's arms. I had to admit that I was looking forward to another undercover assignment. Doing nothing wasn't much fun for this ol' cop but, although I wouldn't tell Sam, spending time with Charles Topac had been, well, exciting. To say the least!

* * * * *

"How would you like to get involved in running guns, Jessica?" Tim began, once I was seated in his office the following morning.

"Running guns? Sure. Why not?"

"The word on the street is that there are a couple of gangs that are having trouble purchasing enough firearms--especially since we took one of their regular suppliers off the street," Tim continued. "They've got their own personal weapons, but they want more. Guns--and ammo, too. Lots and lots of ammo."

"How big is this market?"

"It's huge. There's a tremendous demand for guns, especially those that can't be easily traced. There's a good demand for ammo, too."

"So I let it be known that I can supply guns and ammo at a reasonable price, and then let them come to me? They'll place orders with me, and I'll pass those orders on to you?"

"In a nut shell, yes."

"Who finances these purchases?"

"The gangs you'll be dealing with are into money laundering and they skim a fraction off the top of those transactions for their own use. They're also into extortion, and who knows what else."

"Money laundering?"

"Yeah. They make regular trips across the border with cash from a couple of businesses here in town. From across the border the cash goes to a couple of off-shore banks that don't ask any questions. We're working on those operations, but at first glance, they're probably raking in maybe $100,000 every two or three weeks. If we can get guns to 'em and then get those guns off the streets, we can take out a share of the gun violence we're seeing here in the city."

"Who's gonna back me?"

"As soon as Sam finishes his current assignment, maybe two or three days from now, he will. Until then, there's two cops I know who can do it--and they'll take good care of you."

We talked for about an hour, working out the details of my new assignment and arranging for me to move into another apartment, seeing as how my own apartment was under watch from, probably, Shawn Holland and Roger Hemtz's thugs.

"I've got an undercover cop in a good position to finger you as somebody who can supply guns to this gang," Tim told me. "His name is Ted Upton. He rides with a biker gang that calls itself the 'Demons.' Mostly, they hang out at a bar called The Hideout.

"We aren't just thinking of providing the gang with guns," Tim continued, "although a share of these guys would have trouble with background checks. In addition to their own interests in owning guns, what they want guns for is to re-sell them to the guys who come across the border illegally. They up the price sky high because the guys who want the guns can and will pay well for them.

"If you and the guys backing you can get things moving in this gun-market, we should be able to trace the guns and round them up, get them off the street and at the same time either land some of the guys in jail or deport them."

"You mentioned two gangs? What's the other one go by?"

"They call themselves the Dragons. We don't know much about them yet, but they feud some with the Demons. One thing we do know is that they want guns."

"Have you got somebody undercover with them?"

"Yes. His name's Fred Towner. He's really more of a confidential informer than an undercover cop. He feeds us information about the gang's activities and we keep him out of jail."

We talked guns for some time and I got a good idea of what guns the police department actually had available and what guns could be located for me on short notice. After making final arrangements to proceed with my gun-running assignment, Tim sent me off with one of the cops who'd be backing me to get some things from my apartment and move them to my new apartment located at Oak Street and 53rd Avenue. Before I left, Tim promised me that he'd fill Sam in on our conversation and point him in the direction of my new apartment that evening when he finished work for the day.

I showed Tim the earring Sam and I had examined the previous day. He examined it carefully and said he'd have it checked to see if they could get a good fingerprint from it. Said they'd type the blood, if that was indeed a blood stain, and see if he could locate Sara Colwich's blood type for comparison. He also said he'd see if any of the jewelry that once belonged to Sara Colwich was in the evidence room. If so, he'd compare the earring to see if it matched any of her jewelry.

"You actually have some of Sara Colwich's jewelry?" I asked.

"Yes, I believe Charles Topac brought in some jewelry that he said he recognized as hers. Left it with one of the cops. Said he'd found it in a pawn shop, but there weren't any records of how it got there."

I remembered that he'd told me about locating some of her jewelry in a pawn shop, but I had no idea that he'd actually turned it over to the police. Well, regardless, I doubted that this earring I'd been "given" would shed much light on that murder. My best guess was that giving me the earring was a kind of warning, as in "you're gonna get what the owner of this earring got."

By that evening I was settled in my new apartment, a good long ways from my own apartment and the guys who were keeping it under watch. I had a new telephone number as well and I'd work with Sam on getting some security cameras set up. My new undercover name would be Annette Wolf.

One thing has troubled me ever since Shawn Holland's trial and my having to deal with the contracts Chief Barkley assured me were out on me. That is the fact that everyone has smartphones these days and Holland's staff had many occasions to take photos of me. If those had been posted to any social media or sent to friend's phones, those could provide anyone who was interested with my identification. Whether these gangs called the Demons and the Dragons had contact with any of Hemtz's gang, well, I could only guess. And if I had to guess, I'd guess they all knew each other. Maybe they fought with each other over turf, but they knew each other.

I wanted to let Charles know about my new assignment because I wouldn't be able to spend time with him over the next few days, but Tim suggested that I let Sam tell him. For some reason Tim didn't seem to want me having contact with Topac while I was working undercover.

Well, the Demons must have been hungry for guns because my first call from them came the following morning not long before lunch. "Hello?"

"Annette Wolf, please?"

"Speaking?"

The caller was young, to judge by his voice, and direct to the point. "This is Tracy Atkins. How about you an' me getting together to discuss some business?"

Tracy Atkins was the name Tim had given me as the one most likely to call. He's not the leader of the gang, but he's one of the top dogs, and the one who probably handled the gang's finances. "Business?"

"Yes, but I'd rather not discuss it on the phone."

"I understand. How did you get my name?"

"Ted Upton gave me your name. Said he'd done business with you. That you were reliable."

"Okay. Where do you want to meet with me?"

"Ted said you'd been a biker. You okay ridin' double on a Harley?"

"Yeah."

"How about if I pick you up at your apartment in about twenty minutes? Buy you lunch while we talk business."

"Okay. You know where I live?"

"Yes. Ted Upton told me. Oak Street and 53rd Avenue. Right?"

"Yes. I'll be out front of my apartment building, wearing a black leather jacket, jeans, and cowboy boots."

"Okay."

"Okay. I'll be ready."

I looked up and down the streets in front of my apartment building but didn't see anything of my backup cops. Still, they should have listened in on that telephone conversation and, if they were any good, they wouldn't show themselves. Of course, I was well armed mself. Well, I'd see what I'd gotten myself into this time--and the Harley-Davidson was right on time twenty minutes from when I'd talked with Tracy Atkins, assuming that was his real name.

Tracy Atkins was one hard biker, muscular, and good looking, with tattoos all over his face and arms. The Demons logo, a mix of skulls and learing eyes, was printed on the back of his jacket.

I climbed on the bike and we were on our way, and just as I'd suspected, headed straight for The Hideout. I'd never been there before, but I'd located it and checked the surroundings after Tim told me that was where the Demons seemed to hang out and conduct business.

The Hideout had little business at that hour of the morning, to judge by the near-empty parking area. Atkins and I went inside.

Two men were seated at the bar, talking with the bartender. They looked me over when we walked in, but then quickly turned back to their conversation when they saw who was with me. Tracy Atkins seemed to command their respect.

Tracy took my arm and guided me to a table in the back of the room. Pointed to a menu hand-printed on a chalk-board. "Everything's good here. What would you like to eat?"

"What do you recommend?"

"I'm gonna have a couple of burgers and an order of fries. How about a couple of burgers for you, too?"

I smiled. "Just one, some fries, and a beer."

"Be right back." Atkins walked to the counter and placed our order with the bartender. Came back a few moments later with our beers.

Atkins leaned close. "I'm not much of a talker," he said, "so I'll get right into business. Okay?"

He looked at me, and I nodded.

"I'm interested in obtaining some guns," Atkins continued, "and I understand you may be able to supply me--off the books."

I nodded. "What kind of guns are you interested in, Tracy?"

"9mm Beretta pistols for now. Maybe rifles at a later time."

"How many pistols?"

"Ten, for starters."

I quoted Tracy a price and watched carefully to see how he reacted. His smile told me what I wanted to know.

The bartender called Tracy's name and motioned for him to come to the bar. He returned a few moments later with our burgers.

Tracy Atkins had been right about the burgers. They were excellent. I'd come back here to eat anytime. If I was doing business with Atkins and his gang, I'd probably be here again, all right.

"You said you might be interested in rifles?" I questioned.

Atkins leaned close and whispered, "Yeah. Automatic rifles."

"Full-auto?"

"Yes."

"Those get to be expensive if we have to go to the importers," I told him, "but I may have an alternative. Tell me what you'd want, and I'll check it out. See what we can do."

"I know they'd be expensive," Atkins said, "but I'm going to want about a dozen to begin with. I want 'em short and with big clips, and I'll want a lot of ammo to go with 'em."

"I've got a contact who deals in stolen military weapons," I told him. "Mostly he deals in larger stuff like machine guns and rocket launchers, but he just might have some assault rifles available--or he could get them."

Atkins smiled. "Military weapons would fill the bill for us. You see, there's a gang war simmering and . . . ."

"A gang war, you say?"

"Yeah. Have you ever heard of a man named Roger Hemtz?"

I nodded. "Yes."

"Well, his gang is starting to intrude on our turf big time, bringin' drugs and cuttin' into our business. We aren't going to put up with it much longer, but we need some weapons to match theirs."

"Have they got automatic weapons?"

"We don't think so," Atkins replied. "At least we don't think so, but they're well armed--and we wantta be ready when we go into battle with 'em." Atkins was smiling, but his eyes were hard. I had no doubt in my mind abut his intentions.

I told Atkins I'd see what I could do and get back in touch with him. After we finished eating, he brought me "home" on the back of his Harley. Wow! What a ride! I just might have to get my own Harley, I told myself, seeing how much I enjoyed riding on one.

* * * * *

I talked over what I'd learned about Tracy Atkins and his gangs interest in guns with Tim later that afternoon. Tim seemed pleased with the contact I'd made, and said he'd get to work on acquiring the weapons for the Demons. That he'd let me know how things were progressing.

I rehashed everything with Sam later that day. He told me he'd talked with Charles Topac about my having a new assignment. Told Charles to leave me alone for a few days. I knew that wouldn't set well with Charles.

Sam assured me that Charles wasn't too happy with Tim's suggestion that he not call me while I was on this assignment. Said he considered you his friend, and he intended to keep in touch. I could tell that Sam wasn't real pleased about that either.

It's not that I wanted to make Sam jealous or anything like that, but I have to admit that I do like Charles, well, maybe not as much as I like Sam, okay, but I do like him. However, there would be time to spend with Charles later--I could hope.

Later that evening, Sam helped me inspect my "new" apartment for bugs, and we studied the security cameras that were installed around the apartment building. To the best of our knowledge, there weren't any bugs in my apartment. I did have a land-line phone, and Sam installed a monitor on it that would tell me if it was tapped by anybody but the cops who backed me.

Then, just as Sam was about to leave me for the night, his phone jangled. After a rather lengthy conversation, consisting of Sam's mostly listening, he turned to me. "That was Tim Woolworth," Sam told me, "and he says they've got a lead on the person who bombed David Barkley's car."
Chapter 15

"Who, Sam? Who bombed David Barkley's car?"

"We don't know exactly who, yet, but I'll tell you Tim's story. Seems as if some of the bikers were celebrating outside The Tiger's Lounge when James Morris rode up a couple of nights ago. He went over to see what was going on. The bikers introduced him to a man he'd never seen before, apparently a fellow who'd been recruited to build a bomb for the gang. The guys were talkin' about how he'd built this bomb and blown up a car. One of the guys even had a video of the blast that he'd taken with his smart-phone. He showed it to Morris, and it looked like maybe the car David Barkley had been driving. I say 'maybe' because it wasn't a very good video. Anyway, Morris managed to get a photo of the bomb-maker with his own smart-phone, and the cops are trying to find out exactly who he is."

"Using facial-recognition software?"

"Yeah, the cops figure he's probably got a criminal record of some sort, somewhere. Trouble is, Morris's photo isn't the best because he didn't dare use flash or be obvious about what he was doing. Still, it's the best lead they've got so far. Oh, and the cops are also checking the hardware stores where the guy might have bought materials for the bomb. See if anyone recognizes him."

"Have you got a name for the guy?"

"No. Morris got a name for the man, all right, but he and Tim both thinks it's fake. It's not in any database Tim can locate, so far, anyway."

"Who imported the man?"

"Care to guess?"

"Roger Hemtz?"

"Good guess, at least as best we can gather from what was being said. The bikers with him were some of Hemtz's gang, at least that's what Morris says, and I trust him to know."

"Have you got any word on the second car-bomb? The one you found on Mahone's car?"

"No, but from what the bikers said, the man was working on another car-bomb, and then he was gonna get outta town. They kept talking about getting him back for a visit when they needed another car-bomb, so maybe they're planning more of the same."

"Any ideas as to where this guy is from?"

"Don't know that one either. The cops are working on locating his home town along with his police record. That is they figure he's got a record--somewhere. One theory is that he came up here with a load of drugs, maybe from across the border, but nobody knows exactly where he came from. Not yet, anyway."

"Any idea on who the next car-bomb is designed for? The one the guy's said to be building?"

Sam shook his head. "No."

"Do you think he had anything to do with the bomb on Mahone's car?"

"Don't know that. Tim says the bomb squad hasn't determined if the same guy made both bombs or not. My guess is that there wasn't enough of the first bomb left to compare it with the second one, and there weren't any fingerprints on the second one either. Of course, if this guy is real good, he probably doesn't leave fingerprints."

There wasn't time for us to talk any more right then because Sam had to leave for work, and he'd already stayed "overtime" to fill me in on the latest. However, as I thought about what he'd just told me, there was one thing I was thankful for; it appeared that Charles Topac had not made the bomb that killed David Barkley. I mean, I was beginning to really like Charles, and I didn't like to think of him as a cop-killer, even though I know he thought Barkley didn't do his job investigating Sara Colwich's death.

There were several things I had to think through once Sam left. The old man who lived over near the dumpster where Sara Colwich's body was found had told me about the feuding gangs. Tracy Atkins had told me about his gang getting ready for a shoot-out with Hemtz's gang. I'd better discuss this possibility with Sam and Tim--and Charles. I didn't want Charles getting caught up in a gang war between the Demons and Hemtz's bikers. No way.

Well, it had been a hard day, and I wished Sam were there with me for the night. Still, I knew that he was doing his job, and I hoped he'd be safe. Me, I was not sure exactly how safe I was, but I'd turn in for the night anyway, wishing I was in Sam's arms.

I'd been so involved with the gun-running operation and then in learning what Sam could tell me about that car bombing, not to mention getting into another apartment, to think much about myself--and my own safety. Even though it was dark outside, I checked the windows for any signs that my known enemies were lurking there in the darkness. While I didn't see anything out of the ordinary, I was still uneasy. Roger Hemtz's gang appeared to have very long fingers; they were into all kinds of activities--and I'm sure they haven't forgotten the undercover cop who put away their friend, Shawn Holland. Well, there was nothing I could do but put those thoughts out of my mind and turn in for the night.

Who knew where I was, anyway? Other than the cops, that is? Tracy Atkins, and any of the Demons motorcycle gang he might have told. Fred Towner, the confidential informer within the Dragons motorcycle gang, and any of that gang he might have told. Who else? I couldn't be sure. For sure, enough people knew exactly where I was.

For some time I lay there awake, listening to the night sounds in and around my "new" apartment, thinking about the people who knew where I was and what they might have planned for me--if anything.

I managed to drift off to sleep around midnight, but then an hour or so later, something woke me. There was the sound of a door closing and human activity in the hallway just outside my door.

My hand closed around the pistol under my pillow as I sprang out of bed and quietly made my way to my door. After listening there for a few moments, I decided that the activity there was over.

I checked my windows. There was a car slowly driving away. I couldn't be sure of the model, but it appeared to be a fairly new Cadillac, black or a dark color--I couldn't be sure, what with the way the lights distorted colors. Nor could I get a tag number.

Somehow, that car triggered a distant memory. Two people I knew drove cars like that one. Mahone was one of them, but that likely wasn't his. I didn't think he had his Cadillac back from the police. The one other person I knew who drove a car like that was Chester Morrison, one of Shawn Holland's bodyguards. He'd given me a ride in it once or twice, and he took a lot of pride in that car.

Still, there must be a number of similar vehicles in the city, and this one wouldn't have any connection to Chester Morrison--or me. Yeah, right!

Well, I wasn't going to bother Sam just then. In the morning I'd see if anything I'd heard going on in the hall had anything to do with me. A little later, I shoved my Beretta back under my pillow and managed to fall asleep.

* * * * *

The following morning, I discovered an envelope taped to my door. Inside was a note from none other than Chester Morrison.
Chapter 16

Chester Morrison? At least that was the name scribbled at the bottom of the message which read: "Meet me for a drink in the lounge of the Bayleaf Hotel at nine o'clock tomorrow night. I can tell you something hot about Shawn Holland that you never uncovered, and I can tell you what really happened to Niki Best."

Morrison had my attention, all right. No way was I going into the Bayleaf Hotel lounge alone to meet him, however, not without some good backup. Not only was I not sure what would be waiting for me at that hotel, but I didn't trust Chester Morrison. After all, I'd probably cost him his job with Shawn Holland, although he wouldn't have any trouble finding another job, what with his connection to Roger Hemtz as well as a number of the high-ranking politicians. What might he expect from me in exchange for the information he promised--if, in fact, he had that kind of information on Holland or about Niki Best?

The fact that Morrison knew where I was gave me something else to think about, all right. Who might have given him my address? Or had he discovered it on his own? If so, how?

I'd talk things over with Sam and maybe Tim Woolworth before I made any plans to meet with Morrison. Get their take on things. Get some backup--just in case.

About the time I was thinking over the message from Morrison, my telephone rang. The caller id showed Charles Topac's number. Even though he'd been told to keep away from me while I was on this assignment, he'd called anyway. Well, I'd see what he had to say. Besides, I had to admit, to myself anyway, that I did like the guy.

"Hello?"

"Hi babe! I know I'm not supposed to call you while you're on assignment, but I've got some hot news for you."

"Hot news, eh?"

"Yeah, babe! A few days ago, I leased an apartment in a building directly across the street from the building I showed you where Roger Hemtz has an apartment, remember?"

"Yes."

"Well, I told you that you and me are going to take down Hemtz and his gang, right?"

"Yes."

"With that in mind, I've been doing a little surveillence. From my apartment, I can look right across the street and directly into Hemtz's apartment. He's got a balcony, and that's where he seems to conduct a share of his business--at least when the weather's nice."

"Oh?"

"Yeah! He's on the phone out there quite a bit, and some of his gang meet with him out there. If I had a directional microphone, I bet we could pick up on a bunch of interesting conversations. But, hey! I'm not supposed to be calling you, so I'm gonna suggest that you come over to my apartment, and I'll let you look right in on Roger Hemtz and his business. Whatdaysay?"

"Charles, I'm not sure that's a good idea, not right now, anyway. I've got this assignment, and may be expecting a call and getting picked up at this address. Later, maybe, we can do this."

"Okay. I'm going to check into a directional microphone. See if I can pick up any of Hemtz's conversations. Find out what he's up to. When are you going to be able to join me over here?"

Well, I'd be honest. "I don't know, Charles. I've got to keep working this assignment for a few days, anyway. Then we'll see."

I didn't think Charles would be pleased, and he wasn't. "Okay, then, babe, but I'd sure like to see you."

"I know, Charles," I told him, "and I'd like to see you, too. We'll get together just as soon as it's possible for me to do so."

"Promise?"

"Yep."

Oh, my! So now Charles Topac was setting himself up to listen in on Hemtz's conversations! I could only guess at how long it was going to be before he took on the whole gang. Or they took on him.

Now, what was I to make of Chester Morrison's invitation? He obviously knew where I was living and he knew of my interest in Sara Colwich. Furthermore, he claimed to have some "hot" information about Shawn Holland. So why was he getting in touch with me now? And how did he locate me at this apartment complex?

After checking to be sure that my telephone was secure, I dialed Tim Woolworth's number. I wasn't about to tell him about Charles Topac's call, but I did want to discuss Chester Morrison's invitation.

Tim seemed quite fascinated by Morrison's note. "You've got until tomorrow night to prepare to meet with him," Tim told me. "In the meantime, I'll see what I can find out about Morrison and what he's doing now. We'll get some backup for you if we decide you should keep that appointment."

That was the best we could do right then.

Knowing that Morrison knew where I was staying made me nervous. I checked my windows regularly that afternoon but I didn't see anything suspicious. No vehicles that I recognized were around in the parking lot or on the street.

Although I thought I might be hearing from Tracy Atkins or one of the Dragons members, I didn't hear a thing. If I didn't hear from Atkins by tomorrow afternoon, I'd call him. Let him know the status of his order for guns, and especially the automatic rifles.

* * * * *

Sam picked me up in the late afternoon and we ate at a diner not far from my apartment. He'd have to work again that evening, and maybe into the night, so he wouldn't be spending the night with me. He knew that I had concerns about what the night might bring, and promised that he or a friend of his would keep an eye on things.

I told Sam about Morrison's note and my talk with Tim. He told me again that he'd get one of his friends to drive by my apartment building during the night to see if anything suspicious was going on. That wouldn't substitute for Sam's being there, but it was the best I could hope for.

* * * * *

I must have been really tired because I went to sleep early and didn't hear a sound all night. Maybe it was as well that Sam was working that night, because I couldn't have stayed awake to enjoy his companionship.

I'd half expected another note or something stuck on my door in the morning, but there wasn't anything there. Well, I wouldn't bother Sam, but I'd better call Tim to see what his thinking was about my proposed visit with Morrison.

Tim Woolworth said he was glad I called because he wanted to talk to me. "I'm going to take you off that assignment you've been working on," he said.

"Selling guns to those two motorcycle gangs?"

"Yes. I've talked it over with Sam and we agree that something isn't right."

"Something isn't right?"

"Yes. Your being paid that visit by Chester Morrison got us thinking about how he might have known where you were living, what with your using an alias and having just moved into that apartment building. Well, we've discovered a possible connection between Morrison and Tracy Atkins."

"Do you want me to call Atkins? Cancel out on the gun deal? Maybe refer him to someone else?"

"No. We'll just leave Atkins alone, because Morrison may have blown your cover."

"What if Atkins calls me?"

"We don't think he will. Ted Upton, the cop who's undercover with the Demons will get Atkins directed to someone else."

"Is Atkins gonna come after me?"

"We don't know. Sam and I think the best thing is for us to move you back to your home apartment, and he'll be by to help you do that within a few days."

"Am I going to be okay here for those few days?"

"We think so."

"What about this potential meeting with Chester Morrison?"

"If you're okay in talking with him, we'll back you up. Sam will be available, and we'll get other cops as well. What do you think?"

I thought for several moments, then shared what I'd been thinking ever since I found Morrison's note. "I'd be interested in hearing what he's got to say--as long as he doesn't have some dirty trick up his sleeve."

"How well did you know him, Jessica?"

"Not real well. He gave me a ride a few times. He was not all business, of course, but he--"

"He was not all business?" Tim interrupted. "What do you mean?"

"Okay. Morrison is a rough man when he wants to be, but he's also something of a ladies man. He'd have taken me to bed with him if I'd given him any encouragement--which I didn't. I suspect that somebody within Holland's organization paid off a woman or two or three to keep quiet about what Morrison did. Otherwise, he might have proved an embarrassment to Holland."

"Do you think you'll be okay with him, knowing you've got good backup?"

"Yes, and I would be interested in hearing what he might be willing to share about Sara Colwich."

"What's Morrison got to gain by giving you information about either Shawn Holland or Sara Colwich?"

"I don't know. Do you have any ideas?"

"No."

"Okay. I'll take him up on his invitation. I'll meet him at nine o'clock at the Bayleaf Hotel lounge. Can I get together with Sam or with you and Sam this afternoon and make plans for me to do that?"

Tim agreed. Sam would pick me up early that afternoon and we'd meet in Tim's office.

Well, to be honest, I had to admit that I was rather looking forward to talking with Chester Morrison. In addition to what he wanted to tell me about Holland and about Niki Best, maybe I could get some insight into just who had let him know where I was. Find out what his connections were.

* * * * *

Sam took me to eat about six o'clock that evening and we talked about my upcoming visit with Morrison. When Sam brought me back to my apartment, he gave me a hug, and wished me well for the evening. That hug made me wish I was staying in with Sam for the night, but maybe he'll be there for me after my "date" with Morrison.

The Bayleaf Hotel is a luxury hotel, the kind of place where the wealthy elite stay--and party. Not the kind of hotel where I could afford to stay. Chester Morrison was seated at a table in the lounge, and he got to his feet the moment he saw me.

"Hello, Jessica," he greeted me, extending his hand as he did so. He'd known me by my alias, Annette Smith, when I was undercover on Holland's case, so he now knew and was using my real name. Well, my real name had been used at Holland's trial, so everybody who cared knew me as Jessica Snow.

"Hello, Chester."

We shook hands and then Morrison guided me back through the lounge to his table. "Would you like a drink?" he asked.

"Sure."

"What would you like?"

"Whatever you're having."

Morrison ordered drinks for both of us.

"I'm glad you were able to join me this evening," Morrison began. He sounded as if he really meant it, but then he's always been one smooth operator.

"So how have you been?" I asked, not wanting to jump right in to his purported reason for inviting me out here.

Well, like I said, Morrison was always a smooth character when he was dealing with women. One of the men on Holland's staff used to say that Chester Morrison treated every woman as if she were his hottest date--ever. "I've been doing just fine. How about yourself?"

"I've been doing just fine, too."

We sipped our drinks. After a few moments, Morrison spoke: "You may not have thought so at the time, but you did me a real favor when you took down Shawn Holland," he began.

"A real favor? How so, Chester?"

"He had some things on me, and . . . ."

"And now you're out from under his thumb?"

"So to speak, yes." Morrison smiled. "But I didn't invite you here to talk about me."

I waited.

"You're probably wondering how I found you in that apartment, what with you using another alias."

"Yes?"

Morrison chuckled. "Do you remember talking to an elderly gentleman who lives in an upstairs apartment near where Niki Best's body was found?"

"Yes?"

"Well, that fellow is my dad."

"Really?"

"Yes. I've tried to get him to move to a nicer neighborhood, even told him I'd pay the rent on a better apartment for him, but he doesn't want to move. Says he likes it there."

I nodded my understanding of what Morrison was telling me.

"Well, a few days ago he told me that he'd talked to this girl who was interested in what he knew about Niki Best's death. Well, about her being dumped in that dumpster, anyway. From his description, I had a good idea that the girl he talked to just might be you, so I showed him a photo of you I had on my phone. Bingo! He identified you right away. Well, the rest was easy, because I knew your real name from when you testified at Holland's trial.

"Locating you wasn't all that easy," Morrison continued, "but I've got friends who get involved in all kinds of stuff, some legal and some not, so I started checking around. Eventually, I got to a friend of mine named Tracy Atkins and he recognized you from your photo. Gave me your address.

"Oh, and don't worry, Jessica. I didn't give away your real name, and I didn't give you away as a cop. By the way, are you still dealing with Tracy and his gang?"

"No. I'm off that project."

"Good."

Okay. Now I knew how Chester Morrison had found me. It was time for me to change the subject. Find out what he'd tell me about what he was doing these days. "So what are you doing these days?" I asked.

Morrison smiled. For a moment, I thought he wasn't going to tell me, but then he said, "I've got a job with Raymond Geist. Do you know him?"

Did I know Raymond Geist? Yes, I did. At least, I know who he is. He's was elected to the city council in the last election and appears to be interested in even more powerful political positions. "Yes," I told Morrison, "I know who he is."

"I don't know what your opinion is of Raymond Geist," Morrison replied, "but he's right ambitious. Says he's going to be governor of our state one of these days. Anyway, he's building a staff to help him achieve that goal, and I was lucky enough to be included."

No way was I going to ask Morrison exactly what he was doing for Geist. With his reputation as Shawn Holland's thug, well . . . . When I looked up at him, Morrison was smiling at me. I did my best to return his smile.

"I wanted to see you," Morrison said, "for several reasons. Didn't know if you'd want to see me, but I figured I could interest you in talking about Niki Best."

"Yes, I am interested in what you can tell me about her."

"Guess you know that her real name was Sara Colwich?"

"Yes."

Morrison looked around the room but didn't seem to want to continue.

Well, I thought, let's quit the chit-chat and get on with it. "How did you know Sara?" I asked.
Chapter 17

Morrison leaned forward across the table, a rather dreamy look on his face. "Once upon a time," he whispered, "I was deeply in love with Sara, and she was in love with me."

"You were in love?"

"Yes. You see, we were highschool sweethearts. We did everything together, all through highschool."

"But you didn't--"

"I was a year older than Sara," Morrison interrupted. "We drifted apart when I went into the service, and then, well. she went away to college, found new friends, well, you know how it goes . . . ." His voice trailed off.

"You didn't keep in touch?"

"We did for awhile, but then . . . ." Morrison shrugged his shoulders, and after a moment, continued. "After I got out of the service I never thought I'd see her again, but then one night I was out there at The Tiger's Lounge and I saw her. She didn't see me, and she was with a guy, a guy I figured was her date or maybe her husband or whatever, so I didn't try to talk to her. I was dating a gal, had her with me that night, so it would have been a little awkward, at least that's the excuse I tell myself. The next time I was at The Tiger's Lounge, Sara wasn't around, and then I heard that she'd been murdered."

Morrison looked up at me and I nodded.

"That news really got to me," he continued, "and I began to ask questions about her death. That's when I got told in so many words to forget it."

"To forget her murder?"

"Yeah. But I kept remembering how much fun we'd had together in high school, and I got the impression that nobody was much interested in finding her killer. She deserved better, at least in my mind. And then I figured out what was going on. She was an undercover cop or confidential informant or whatever her official status was, and she was at The Tiger's Lounge gathering information for the cops."

"Yes, I believe she was."

"It didn't take long for me to put things together and figure out that Roger Hemtz owned The Tiger's Lounge, and that Sara would have been gathering information about illegal activities there. Then I talked to my dad, and he told me the same thing he told you about what he saw that night when they dumped Sara's body into that dumpster under his window. I didn't want to get the wrong people angry with me, so I didn't say much more about Sara and what happened to her.

"But I kept my eyes and ears open," Morrison continued, "and I began to figure things out. Shawn Holland had a great deal of influence within the police department, and he put the pressure on to keep 'em from identifying the people responsible for Sara's murder. Believe me, there were some big-money payoffs and some serious political favors.

"Things have changed for me now, thanks to you. I'm not working for Shawn Holland now and therefore indirectly for Roger Hemtz. I'll continue to work for Raymond Geist, but I've got a greater purpose in life now."

"A greater purpose?"

"Yeah." Morrison leaned closer and whispered, "I'm gonna take down Sara's killers."

Morrison's eyes were hard. I knew he was deadly serious. "Have you got a plan to do that?"

"I do," he whispered, "and I'll probably want your help."

"Want to fill me in on your plan?"

Morrison smiled. "Not just yet, because I've got a few details to work out--and then we're gonna strike--hard and fast. Gonna take down Roger Hemtz and his gang of thugs all at once. Boom! They're history--and Sara can rest in peace."

"So when are you going to tell me your plan and let me know how I can help?"

"Soon. Have you got a phone number where I can reach you?"

I gave him my phone number.

* * * * *

Sam shadowed me all the way back to my apartment when I left the Bayleaf Hotel and Chester Morrison's company. I invited him in, actually hoping he'd spend the rest of the night with me, but he said that he had another assignment that would take him well into the night. Said he or a friend would keep an eye on my apartment building during the night, however, and that he'd call me in the morning.

The night proved uneventful, for which I was thankful. Sam called me the following morning and took me to breakfast. He'd listened in on my conversation with Chester Morrison and had summarized it for Tim Woolworth. How Morrison was going to get even with Roger Hemtz and his gang, we couldn't be sure. Still, Morrison had seemed deadly serious--and I was expecting a call from him fairly soon.

I'd just got back to my apartment when my telephone rang. I'd been expecting a call from Morrison, but instead Charles Topac's number showed on the caller id. "Hello?"

"Hi, babe!"

"Hi, yourself!"

"Are you up to a real adventure?"

"What kind of an adventure?"

Topac laughed. "A mystery adventure."

"A mystery adventure?"

"Yeah, I'll pick you up and take you on a mystery adventure. Show you some things I've just discovered, things you'll really enjoy."

I wasn't sure exactly what to think about that, but I'd trust Charles. I mean, I do like the guy. "Okay, what time should I be ready?"

"Where are you?"

I told him my address.

"I'll pick you up in front of your apartment building in about twenty minutes. Okay?"

"Yeah."

Much as I like Charles Topac, I wasn't going off with him on a "mystery adventure" without letting someone I trusted know where I was. Sam was working on an assignment and I didn't want to bother him, so I called Tim Woolworth. Let him know what I was doing.

* * * * *

One thing I've always liked about Charles Topac is the way he treats me like I'm very special when he comes to pick me up. Today, he was driving his black Chrysler and got out to open the door for me the moment he saw me. I felt like giving him a hug, but decided against it. One of these days, maybe, but then I didn't want to give him any ideas about what I wanted. And there were my feelings toward Sam to keep in mind.

Charles seemed really happy, like he had something new and interesting to show me. Well, I'd ride along, enjoy the company, and see what he had going on this "mystery adventure"--almost certain that it had to do with his plans to avenge Sara Colwich's death.

We headed south on the highway out of town. Before long we came to what had once been a relatively small, city-owned, industrial development park. It was now totally deserted due to the fact that the major industry to go in there went bankrupt a few years ago.

Charles drove on by the industrial park. About a quarter of a mile or less on down the road, though, he pulled into the driveway of a huge house that appeared to be unoccupied. The house was located on a slight rise, and we could look out over the industrial park from the driveway.

To my surprise, Charles pressed a garage door opener on his visor, opened the garage door, parked inside, and closed the door. "Let's go look around," he invited as he opened the door for me. There was a decided smile in his voice.

That garage was absolutely huge. There was room for three vehicles and storage space for a lawn mower, and there was a riding mower parked there. We walked through a side door and outside the garage, leaving the car inside. I got the idea that Charles wanted his car to be out of sight while we were there. Maybe with good reason?

"See those buildings across the way?" Charles pointed to the large building that once housed a small manufacturing plant and the two smaller buildings, one to either side.

"Yes?"

"Well, guess who owns that complex now."

"Who, Charles?"

"Roger Hemtz."

"What's he want with something like that?"

"I figure he aims to make that his new headquarters, seeing as to how his warehouse burned."

"His new headquarters, you think? Instead of that strip mall store where we saw the bikers?"

"Yep."

"Have you seen any activity around there?"

"Yep. Hemtz's white van was out there yesterday and the day before, as were eight or ten guys on motorcycles. They were all looking things over."

"Who owns the house?" I motioned toward the house where we'd parked his car.

Charles smiled. "I do."

"You own the house?"

"Yes. I was going to sell it, but then when I saw Hemtz's gang over at that complex I decided I'd keep the house for awhile. I could park in the garage where they couldn't see my car and watch the activities from my window. Keep the lights off and they won't even know I'm here."

"How did you come to own a house out here?"

Charles grinned. "A few years ago, Mike and I loaned a young couple quite a bit of money. They got themselves in deep financial trouble and they couldn't pay it back. When we got things settled up a few weeks ago, I got the house in partial payment of their debt."

That made me think about what Sam and Tim had said about a couple who were deeply in debt to Mike and Charles as well as a drug dealer and maybe some other thugs as well. The husband got himself beaten up by someone and the wife ended up dead. No way was I going to ask Charles if that was the couple, but then Tim indicated that Tannis and Topac had sold that particular house, that this all happened some time ago. Anyway, what Charles was saying got me thinking about all sorts of things that I wasn't going to bring up with him--not now anyway.

"How's the house inside?" I asked.

"It's good, nice, really, and still mostly furnished. Want to see it?"

"Sure."

Charles unlocked the front door and we went inside. We walked through the house. It looked clean and tidy, and I wondered if Charles had been staying out here. Actually, it looked as if someone had just walked out of the house and left everything they owned behind, because the furniture was still there and there was even food in the kitchen. There was a sewing basket on the coffee table in the living room with needles, thread, and a large pair of scissors resting near by. Everything looked as if the owners had left in a hurry.

"Looks like a nice house," I told Charles. I meant it.

"Yeah, I've stayed out here a few times, and now that I know Hemtz's gang is going to be operating just across the highway, well, I'll probably be out here even more." He turned to me. "If I figure out when Hemtz's people are going to be over there, I'll invite you out to see what's going on." There was just the hint of a smile on his face, but his eyes were hard. He still was determined to take down Hemtz and his gang. Well, maybe I'd get to witness how he did it. Or maybe he'd want my help?

"Okay. Let me know what you can determine about their activities."

"There's a chain-link fence around the complex," Charles told me, "but I looked over their locks and they won't give us any trouble. I can undo those locks if we want to go over there and look around some time when the gangs not there. Maybe we'll go see what's in that big ol' building when nobody's around."

Just then something crossed my mind. "Have you told any of the cops about Hemtz's gang's activities over there."

"No!" Charles hissed. "I'm not tellin' the cops anything anymore. If you want to tell Sam about this place, and you probably will, you let him know that I don't want anyone else knowing about it--for sure no other cops."

"Okay," I promised.

"You and me, babe, we can sit right over there," Charles motioned toward chairs facing a large window in the living room, "and watch the Hemtz gang come and go. They'll probably bring in a truck, unload it, and send the bikers out with whatever they've got to sell."

"How will you know when they're going to be there?"

Charles smiled. "I've got a couple of surveillance cameras aimed toward that complex, so I've been able to watch them working on the place several times over the past few days. Once they've moved in, so to speak, they'll have a fairly regular schedule, like they had at their old warehouse, the one that burned. I'll let you know what I find out, and we'll come out here and watch what's going on--and when the time is right, we'll take 'em down. They'll be sorry they ever messed with Sara." He paused for a moment, then looked at his watch. "We'd better be getting back to town,"he said. "I'll buy you lunch at Tony's Hideout."

The bartender, Dan Herrington, waved to us as we entered Tony's Hideout, and we went over to the bar. "You remember the guy who was in here looking for you a few days ago?" he asked Charles.

"Yeah? Has he been around again?"

"Yep. I was going to call you, to tell you he was here, but he didn't stay. When I saw him heading for the door, I followed him. Figured I'd see what he was driving."

"Good! What's he driving?"

"He got into a fairly new black Cadillac. I couldn't see who was driving, and I don't think I've ever seen the car before. Couldn't get the tag number."

"Thanks for your concern, Dan," Charles responded. "Let me know if he shows up again."

A black Cadillac? I only knew one or two people who owned fairly new black Cadillacs. One of them was Chester Morrison, but I couldn't quite imagine what he'd be doing bringing someone out here looking for Charles. Still, I'd file away that possibility.

Charles and I ate lunch there in Tony's Hideout and then he took me back to my apartment. I thought about inviting him in, and then decided against it. Not that I didn't want to, but I wasn't sure how Sam might react to my having done so. Charles promised to call me again soon, and I was sure that he would--especially if he had an idea about how to take down the Hemtz gang.

Sam called later that afternoon and asked if I was ready to go eat a bite with him. Of course, I was. After we ate, I asked him to come in. Told him I had some interesting adventures to share with him. Told him about my visit with Charles Topac. Told him that Charles didn't want him to tell the cops about Hemtz's gang moving into that abandoned facility south of town--that he wanted it to be our secret.

I also told Sam about the house Charles showed me. "The place looked like it had been lived in right up to the day somebody just walked out of it," I told Sam.

Enough talk. It was getting late. Sam asked me if I wanted him to spend the night, and I told him I sure did. Confirmed what I wanted with a big hug and some well-placed kisses.

Tomorrow Sam would help me move back into my own apartment. We'd just have to see what trouble might be waiting for me there, because I had no doubt but what somebody still had that contract out on me, wanting me to pay dearly for the troubles I'd brought upon Shawn Holland and his friends. For tonight, though, snuggled into Sam's arms, I'd get some rest and be ready for whatever came along.

* * * * *

One, two, three days went by. None of the "enemy" seemed to be keeping an eye on my apartment or me. Nobody called or came by my apartment to threaten me. I worked out some in the police gym each day, keeping in shape, and spent the nights with Sam--knowing the reprieve I was feeling wasn't likely to last.

I talked with Tim Woolworth, and he got me some minor assignments within the police department--no undercover stuff yet. Things seemed to be getting back to "normal," whatever that was. Then, three days after I'd moved back into my apartment, late in the afternoon, my telephone rang. It was Charles Topac, and his message was brief: "Be ready for me to pick you up in twenty minutes, Jessica, because later tonight Hemtz's gang is gonna be around and in that building I showed you--and things are gonna get hot."
Chapter 18

I immediately called Sam. Couldn't reach him, but I left a message for him to let him know about Topac's call. Told him what Topac had said, and what I was going to be doing. Left a similar message for Tim as well.

Twenty minutes later, I saw Charles Topac's black Chrysler pull into the parking lot in front of my apartment building and I went outside to meet him. Always the gentleman, he jumped out of his car the moment he saw me and opened the passenger door for me.

"Hope you're ready for a real adventure, babe," Charles told me. He had a grin on his face, so I knew something was up.

"Yep." I was ready for whatever adventure he had planned. To be honest, I hoped he'd have plans for getting rid of the people who wanted me dead--and worse. Well, it was his show. I'd find out soon enough what he had lined up for the evening.

"You didn't tell the cops about our adventure a few days ago, did you, babe?"

"No." I wasn't about to tell him that I'd told Sam, or that I'd left a message to alert both Sam and Tim to what he and I were doing that evening.

Just as I suspected, Charles drove us out to the house he'd shown me a few days ago. Parked in the driveway. Got out and opened the door for me. Took my hand. "Let's go inside," he whispered.

As we stepped inside Topac's house, he flipped the light switch--and it was then I saw that I'd been set up. Sold out! As I entered that room, none other than Roger Hemtz and his sister, Cynthia Holland, stepped out of a doorway to my left and into the room--facing me. Hemtz had a gun in his hand, covering me. Two of Hemtz's big, brawny biker-thugs came out of another doorway to my right.

"Welcome to the club, Jessica, babe," Topac hissed in my ear as he got his fist in my back and shoved me forward hard--toward the two bikers.

"Hi ya, Jessica, babe," One of the bikers spat out as he lunged at me fast, arms out to tackle me, a big grin on his face. Topac was right behind me, pushing me toward the biker and blocking the door, so I couldn't run. Well, when ya can't run, ya gotta fight.

Sometimes improvised weapons are the best. I'd seen the scissors on the coffee table when we were there in that house a few days ago, and as that biker rushed me, I grabbed them--good as an eight-inch dagger in my hand any day. The biker let out a yell and knocked me flat on my back. He'd intended to fall on me, but I got those scissors point-up and he landed on them--right on the point--instead of on me.

"Yieee!" He yelped as those scissors went deep into his gut, and all the time I was twisting them hard. Driving them deep into him. When he rolled off me, flailing his arms, screaming, and grasping for those scissors, I managed to get my hand under my back and around the holstered Beretta--and it came out shooting.

I'd practiced drawing and shooting a pistol while lying flat on my back, and that practice paid off. My first shot took out the one I figured was most dangerous--Roger Hemtz. Hit him in the chest--maybe a heart-shot. He gasped, and the gun in his hand went off--but his aim was ruined. The bullet went into the floor about six inches from my head, and then the gun fell to the floor.

"Damn you," Cynthia Holland cursed and scooped up the gun Hemtz dropped. She was aiming it at me when I got off my second shot--and took out Cynthia Holland with a shot to her head.

Charles Topac was on me then, trying to knock the gun from my hand. He spoiled my aim a little, but my third shot hit him in the belly. He yelped and went to his knees, then rolled away from me, holding his gut and moaning.

The biker with the scissors buried in his gut was bleeding bad, screaming, cursing, trying to pull the scissors out, and not paying any attention to me. I steadied my gun on the other biker, ready to squeeze the trigger if he came after me, but he put his hands up and backed away, mumbling something that sounded like "don't shoot."

I heard car noise outside just then, and managed to get to my feet, wanting to see what was going on, my pistol covering the entry door. If it was more of Hemtz's gang, I was ready, but then Sam and a couple of other cops burst through the door--guns drawn. I'd let them take over now. Call the ambulance for these bums.

Sam steadied me on my feet, made sure that I was okay, and then placed a call to Tim Woolworth. Told him where we were and what was going on. The other cops were on their phones, no doubt calling for an ambulance. They'd need at least two, one for Topac and one for the biker who was down.

Roger Hemtz and his sister were dead, bullets in their vitals. Topac was alive, but they'd better get him to a hospital. The biker with the scissors in his gut would probably live if they got him to a hospital before he lost any more blood. One of the cops put handcuffs on the other biker. Well, I'd promised myself that I was going to be hard to kill--and these people had done their best.

I looked hard at Charles Topac. "I trusted you, tried to be your friend, and you sold me out," I told him. Then I had to ask, "Why?"

"It was the money. One-hundred-thousand dollars," he moaned, his eyes downcast. "Roger Hemtz gave me one-hundred-thousand dollars. Said he'd give me more . . . later, once we'd had the party."

"Did you really need the money bad enough to sell me out to Hemtz?"

Topac looked back at me and shook his head. His eyes were sad. "I'm . . . I'm sorry, Jessica,." he said.

"Where are the other bikers?" I asked Topac.

"They're . . . They're up at that . . . that store where we saw them after their warehouse burned."

"They waiting for me?"

"Yes. Plans were to bring you up to them after Hemtz got through with you." Topac's eyes were downcast.

"You really set me up, didn't you?"

"I'm sorry, Jessica," Topac moaned, "I'm sorry."

It was much later that night when Sam took me home. There was no question about it--Sam was going to spend the rest of the night with me. In fact, I was beginning to hope that Sam would be spending a lot of nights with me. Every night from then on if I had anything to say about it.

* * * * *

"You guys had to be close by Topac's house to get there when you did. How did you ever figure what was going on?" I asked Sam after we'd both recovered on the following day.

"I had a little talk with Tim Woolworth," he replied, "and Tim checked into the status of that abandoned industrial park Topac showed you. "He found out that Hemtz couldn't have bought it because it's never been for sale. The city still owns it, and they've got another business about ready to take over the property. That made us both suspicious as to what Topac had in mind. He owns that house, all right, so we thought maybe I'd better check things out there, and take a couple of other cops with me."

"I'm sure glad you did."

"Oh, and there's one other thing that didn't add up."

"What's that?

"You met Charles Topac through your contacts at The Tiger's Lounge, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, From what Tim found out, it seems as if Topac has had connections with Roger Hemtz, owner of The Tiger's Lounge, for some time. Did some dirty work for him over the past few months. So . . . Well, Jessica, they set you up, all right--maybe like they set up Sara Colwich not all that long ago.

By the way," Sam continued, "Tim's checking Chester Morrison's story regarding Sara Colwich. It just may be we'll be able to solve her murder, nail those who were responsible. Anyway, we're gonna work on it." Sam paused, thinking, then continued, "Of course, it may be that you took care of the people who masterminded Sara's murder."

"I hope so," I told him.

"Oh, and there was something else that put the spotlight on Topac," Sam continued. "Do you remember that mangled earring somebody left on your doorstep?"

"Yes."

"Well, Tim took a careful look at it. He was curious about what looked like a partial fingerprint in what appeared to be dried blood on the earring. With all the talk about the cops covering up Sara Colwich's murder, he didn't want to get any of the local cops involved, so he contacted a friend of his who's an MP at the army base east of town.

"The MPs took a hard look at that earring," Sam continued, "and they did indeed get a partial fingerprint off of it. Care to guess who's fingerprint it was?"

I couldn't guess. "Who, Sam?"

"Well, it's only a partial print, but it seems to match Charles Topac's right hand index finger."

That information came as a shock to me. "Charles Topac's finger print is on what we think was Sara Colwich's earring, is that what you're telling me, Sam?"

"Oh, yes, and Tim located some of Sara's jewelry in an evidence bag in the store room. Maybe it's some that Topac said he found in a pawnshop and gave to the cops. Don't know that for sure. The earring you got matched one Tim found in that evidence bag, though--that we know. Anyway, a lot of fingers were pointing at Charles Topac, and that's why we figured we'd better go see what he was doing with you last night.

"I've got a feeling," Sam added, "that Charles Topac isn't going to be in circulation for quite some time. Of course, he'll be in the hospital for awhile, and then Tim plans to book him on a bunch of counts."

"Do you think he'll be willing to provide us with information on who was responsible for the bomb that killed David Barkley, and the other things we think Hemtz was involved with, in order to cut down his prison time?"

Sam smiled, but his eyes were hard. "Tim's going to work on that possibility," he assured me.

All I could say in response was, "Hold me, Sam. Hold me tight!"
Epilogue

With Roger Hemtz and his sister dead and his gang without a leader, for awhile at least, I shouldn't have to worry quite so much about those people wanting me dead. I'll be able to get on with my life soon, doing what I like to do best--working as an undercover cop.

I'll be working with Tim Woolworth on another undercover assignment before long. He knows that the only way I'm going to be satisfied is if Sam's my primary backup cop, and he's agreed. Sam's gonna be my number one backup.

Of course, I'm going to be working with Sam in another way as well. I'm hoping to make him a permanent part of my life, not only my partner on the job but my partner for life. He seems really pleased with that prospect, too.

Other people are gonna want me dead. I know that. That's a reality cops have to live with. Well, as I determined when I realized that Hemtz and the others were out to get me, I am going to be very, very hard to kill.

The End

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