Gabriel

Chris Eisner

Description

It's the day after the dog fight massacre and homicide detectives are called to Stillman Point for multiple victims. Cassius Stevenson is home, with his new dog, and Jaris Knott lives. Stevenson starts over, intent on avenging his fallen mentor, and this time he gets help. But business in the west side drug game is changing. The murders only increased the power of the Reeves Crew.

Sujets

• Adventure (Guyana)
• Adventure

Informations

• Publié par: First Edition Design Publishing
• Date de parution: 15 février 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781622879588
• Langue: English

Extrait

GABRIEL

Chris Eisner
Gabriel
Copyright ©2014 Chris Eisner

ISBN 978-1622-875-57-1 PRINT
ISBN 978-1622-879-58-8 EBOOK

LCCN 2015946113

December 2015

Published and Distributed by
First Edition Design Publishing, Inc.
P.O. Box 20217, Sarasota, FL 34276-3217
www.firsteditiondesignpublishing.com



ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means ─ electronic, mechanical, photo-copy, recording, or any other ─ except brief quotation in reviews, without the prior permission of the author or publisher.

A portion of this book’s sale will be donated to K9s for Warriors, a non-profit organization that provides service dogs for veterans with PTSD and TBI. For more information, please see www.k9sforwarriors.org.

About the cover: Samuel Silva has used a variety of mediums, most notably BIC ballpoint pens. He is based in London.

About the editor: Porter Shreve was born and raised in the Washington, DC area. His book, The Obituary Writer, was a New York Times Notable Book. He resides in San Francisco with his wife and two children. For more information, see www.portershreve.com.
Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
For Ma
1



The higher the sun rose the more the snow melted and softened the ground. Detective Fredrico Viterello stood with a young uniform, looking over the scene, both of them sinking in muck.
"Found one upstairs," the uniform said, sniffing through a clogged nose. "Bunch of dogs, too."
"Are they dead?" Viterello asked, eyes closed, squeezing the back of his neck. "The dogs?"
"One is."
Intertwined in the weeds at the base of the Stillman Point building were iron bones of machines and trains. Nearby: three yellow tarps, all weighed down with stones and cinder blocks, the breeze gentle just enough to flash hints of the gore beneath.
"Let's get this taped off," Viterello said. "From the building, down to that caboose, and back around to the other end."
"There's nobody around." The uniform looked over his shoulder. "No citizens, I mean."
"Do it."
The uniform gave a nod and traipsed back to the parking lot. A row of vans and bucket trucks were backed in at the garage door, some with exhaust smoke sputtering. Ambulance, Animal Control, Medical Examiner's Office, Crime Lab—all the departments a detective did not want to see until after he alone had surveyed the scene. They touched things, moved them. They trampled like spooked horses and destroyed cases before the detective had a chance to sketch the scene or formulate what exactly happened.
The back of the ambulance opened and Detective Hyacinth Watkins stepped out, metal notepad case tucked under her armpit. She wore black heels and walked towards Viterello on the balls of her feet, following a single tire track embedded in the snow and mud. He wanted to say something about her choice of shoes for the day but she was pointing at where she walked, at the tire track.
"I saw it too," Viterello said. "Starts from the caboose."
They looked on at the tracks and the caboose and the mocha water beyond. A marine unit boat, pale gray with a royal blue stripe on the hull and a blue light bar over the roof, wandered back into the Harbor, its double outboard motors churning the Brown.
"I actually believed the sergeant," Viterello said. He entered the scene.
"About not having to take any calls?" Watkins followed him, putting a hand on his shoulder to balance herself. "Not her fault. Bentley didn't know something like this would come up."
Viterello shook his head, passing under one of the conveyor belts still connected to the building. He had been driving into the city, looking forward to a quiet day in his office, focusing on the dead doctor case. Got to stop answering your phone, Freddie. All phones.
"Check this out," Viterello said, stopping at the first tarp. He kicked a few of the stones off that held it down and pulled it up and over.
"Oh honey," Watkins said, crouching, "you've seen better days."
A woman lay on her back, her right leg tucked behind at the knee and the foot twisted and pointed straight up. The white jeans bulged over the lower abdomen as if containing a sack of fruit and the thighs and seat were dark with drying blood. Her scalp was missing asymmetric patches of Jheri-curled hair, replaced by scaling soot, and her cheek's brown skin had streaks of raw flesh. The eyes, uncoordinated, were looking inward with one up and the other slightly down.
"Smell that?" Viterello asked, face scrunched. "Is it gas?"
"Diesel." Watkins turned around, shaking her head. "Not Arson. Anybody but Arson."
Viterello dropped the tarp and put a single stone back. "Been a couple years since I had a joint case with them. I can't even remember their number."
"I'm sure they've already been called." Watkins pointed up at the top floor where a uniform stood in a square opening in the wall. He was dialing a cell phone, then listening, then dialing again. Flash bulbs went off behind him, sometimes overlapping. Below the opening were aluminum bleachers, dangling from a wire.
"What the hell, Freddie? I mean, what. The hell."
"Damned if I know. There's a little Smith and Wesson .380 over there behind that train axle but none of the vics were shot." Viterello looked at the bleachers, still finding no logic in it. "Did bleacher boy tell you anything?"
"Not really. He's got hypothermia. Maybe a broken ankle." Watkins nodded at the field before them. "One of these folks is his cousin."
"What's his name?"
"Rogowski, Stanley."
"East side polock?"
"You got it. First Stanley I met that wasn't retired from somewhere."
They walked along the base of the building until they reached the next tarp, looking up at the dangling bleachers all along. Shards and splinters of wood were littered about, the larger pieces covered with red paint like the few other sliding doors still intact on the floors above.
"This won't be pretty," Viterello said. The tarp covered a portion of a conveyor belt and was held in place by a single cinderblock. He took the block off and pulled the tarp back.
"Seems relaxed about the whole thing," Watkins said, tilting her head.
"Landed on his back." Viterello pointed up to the opening, then to the body. "Then fell over the side."
The man sat with his back to the conveyor belt and his upper arm and elbow rested on top. His forearm hung off the edge with the wrist bent casually, his fingers decorated with nuggets of gold and diamonds. He was leaned over slightly, as if ready to whisper to someone sitting next to him. Viterello bent down, craning his head around the body.
"Spine came through," he said. He leaned back but stayed in a crouch, looking at the face. Blood circled the mouth like lipstick put on with a drunk hand. "Didn't know diamond earrings got that big."
"Oh no," Watkins said, crouching next to Viterello. She leaned close to the dead man's face. "No, no, no."
"What?" The smell of bowel was slight, but perfume stronger. Viterello looked around to see where it was coming from, then, eventually, to Watkins, a woman not known for fragrances. She was wearing earrings for the third time this week.
"Look at him. All that gold? A yo boy polock on this side of the fence?"
Viterello looked at the face, then back to Watkins, stealing a glance at the bleachers. Watkins stood and did the same.
She said, "Markus? Markus Kruk?"
Viterello stood slow, hands working backwards up his thighs, taking in the face. "No."
"Yes. Now, we get to call Vice, too."
Barking came from the direction of the lot and they both turned to see a crime lab tech, the young uniform, and a man in gray academy-issued sweats walking towards them. They chuckled among themselves as the uniform broke off and walked down to the caboose with a strip of yellow police line tape following. A silver badge dangled around the neck of the man in sweats, same as the detectives. His shoulders stretched the edges of the cadet sweatshirt.
"Morning," he said, sticking a hand out to Viterello. "Penderson."
"That's nice," Viterello said, his hands clenched in his trench coat pockets.
Watkins reached over and took Penderson's hand. "Watkins. This is Viterello." She gave a few shakes. "You're a Junior."
Penderson grinned, looked downwards jutted, then to the body.
"Where's your supervisor?" Viterello asked.
"Downtown, I'm assuming. I was on my way to the gym when I heard the call. I live a few blocks over in Federal Hill. Thought I'd have a look."
More barking came from the lot and, when Penderson turned around, Viterello recognized the back of the shaved head. The one always looking out the window. Black guy with the wide back. Never played hacky sack with the other Juniors. Kept his shoes on and didn't drink Starbucks coffee, or what resembled coffee.
The tech took pictures of Markus Kruk, the white flashes barely noticeable in the sunlight. The three watched him.
"Been upstairs?" Watkins asked.
"Yes. It's ugly."
"How's that?"
"Well, smells terrible for starters."
"Like diesel?"
"That, dog shit, and a few other stenches I can't place." Penderson looked up at the bleachers. "Never worked a crime scene like this."
"Worked a lot, have you?" Viterello asked.
"No sir but—"
Watkins said, "What do you think, detective?"
"It was a dog fighting operation, a big one. There's a scale, cages, first aid stuff, bunch of dead dogs in the dumpster. There's one with its guts torn out in the ring."
"We have a body with burns to her face," Watkins said, pointing over her shoulder. "Your thoughts?"
"There was a fire but it was brief. I don't think the fatalities down here are from burns. They found an older man up there before you got here. Still alive but unconscious. He was burned u