Messenger of Death (30 page)

“Time to go?”
he asked. His tone suggested both a question and a reminder.

Serge nodded,
closed the binder to place it under his arm, and stood up. As he
moved away from his desk, Patrick raised an eyebrow. Serge had not
picked up the jacket and holster that were hanging on the back of
his chair.

“You’re not
taking your piece?”

“You have one,”
Serge replied. “That’ll suffice. Let me enjoy summer once in
awhile. I hate wearing a jacket all the time.” Without a jacket, it
was impossible to conceal a gun. But he didn’t really expect a
violent response from the man they were going to meet. And if a
problem arose, he would simply use his experience in psychological
warfare.

Outside the
office, Serge fully appreciated the warm, sunny day. The air was
dry and crisp, typical for the first week of July. A light breeze
gently touched his skin as he opened the car door and climbed into
the passenger seat. He quickly rolled down the window to let some
fresh air inside.

Serge found it
convenient that Patrick didn’t talk much during the drive so his
thoughts could flow without interruption. Today he chose to reflect
on the recent successes they had had. Their fight against the biker
gangs had become so much more efficient after the new anti-gang
legislation had passed and increases in police funding had gone
into effect. Taped phone conversations, evidence from raids on
clubhouses and biker residences, reports from undercover police
agents who had penetrated low-level dealer networks, and
information from other sources were flying into the central police
database like numerous rivers flowing into a large sea. The police
were finally able to start bringing charges against bikers from
rival gangs, their puppet clubs, and many associated
businesses.

But Serge had
to admit the gangs were demonstrating remarkable resilience and
were fighting back with vicious determination. The bikers were
quick to recruit new members, to restore destroyed drug networks,
and to continue pushing narcotics to the public with no noticeable
change in availability or price. They had managed to identify and
eliminate a number of police informants. And several prison
authorities had received accurate lists of their own prison guards
with details such as home addresses and a variety of personal
information. Some of the lists also contained unexplained asterisks
that made a few wardens panic. One arrest had even uncovered a
similar list of all the anti-biker squad personnel and their
addresses.

With that, he
had to acknowledge the one major setback that had recently been
discovered: A mole obviously existed inside the police department.
That was the only possible explanation for where that privileged
information was coming from and also for why so many important
raids had resulted in nothing more than biker’s laughs.

Another
obstacle was those damned gang lawyers—they made so much noise
about the constitutionality of the new legislation, the reliability
of evidence gathered from informants, and the validity of taped
conversations, as well as the importance being placed on
circumstantial evidence.

But most
frustrating of all was the fact that for the top-ranking gang
members business went on as usual; they gave orders, but did not
commit crimes. They were immune to prosecution because there was no
way for the police to prove they had participated in any crimes,
save minor offenses or perhaps possession of small quantities of
drugs. Serge knew that only the arrests of these gang leaders could
substantially damage the biker organizations and possibly end the
turf war. His primary target was now Marcel, the undisputed leader
of the Devil’s Knights. Marcel’s arrest would be possible only with
the testimonies of many witnesses. But who in their right mind
would testify against Marcel?

“Here we are.”
Patrick nodded his head toward an office building positioned in the
distant corner of a large lot full of newer model cars. Patrick
parked close to the entrance, in the place reserved for
management.

“Business is
booming,” Serge said sarcastically as he stepped out of the car.
“So many cars for sale, but no buyers. Weird, isn’t it?”

Patrick nodded.
He threw a sharp look around and followed Serge into the building.
It was cool inside, and only the hum of an air conditioner
disturbed the quiet of the place. A few sales desks had been
arranged along the windows, but nobody sat at any of them. Two
doors in the wall to the right were closed. With resolute steps,
Serge approached one of them, the one with the sign, “Norman
Vincent, Manager” on it. His knock was too loud for a casual
visitor, and a muffled voice from inside responded quickly.

“Come in.”

Serge pushed on
the door, walked through it, and showed his badge to the fat man
sitting at the desk.

“Police,” he
said curtly. “My name is Serge Gorte. Do you mind talking to us,
Norman?”

“No, sure,”
Norman said, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “Please, sit
down.”

Serge took a
chair with a cursory glance around the room. The office was a
typical one for an average car dealership. It had a sizable desk
littered with papers and brochures, a computer terminal, and a
small calculator. A few chairs around the desk and a small table in
one corner with a coffee machine on it took up the rest of the
space.

“What can I do
for you?” Norman asked. His fat face did not show any sign of fear,
but a mix of curiosity and displeasure. He shifted his eyes from
one policeman to the other and finally fixed them on Serge.

“Business is
booming?” Serge asked with a friendly smile.

“Business isn’t
bad,” Norman agreed with indifferent politeness. “Anything wrong
with that?”

“Yes, there is.
There are many things wrong with your business. We’ve arrested a
few car thieves who worked for a man named Marcel. It turns out
that a lot of the cars they stole passed through your dealership.
We know that you intentionally bought some of the cars for cash and
then sold them in the U.S. market. A very simple money-laundering
transaction.” Norman raised his shoulders in surprise. “But this
isn’t the sole purpose for my visit.”

“What’re you
talking about?” Norman directed his stare sideways, away from the
detectives, to the point where the wall met the ceiling.

“You’ll know,
you’ll know soon,” Serge said in confidence. He pulled out a
photograph from the leather binder and placed it in front of
Norman. Norman regarded the photograph with a blank face.

“You must know
him,” Serge said. Norman leaned back in his chair, his face
expressing nothing.

“Who is
it?”

“This is Claude
Pichette, the hit man who killed your wife.”

“Oh?” Norman
did not blink. “Is that right?” He looked at Serge in anticipation
of additional details.

“You don’t
recognize him?”

“How the hell
could I recognize him?” Norman raised his voice in indignation.
“What are you getting at?”

During a
deliberate pause, Serge studied Norman as an entomologist would
examine a rare insect. Norman was the first to break the
silence.

“What’re you
talking about?”

“I’m talking
about the murder of your wife. You paid for it. You know what
you’ll be getting for such a crime, don’t you?”

“I think I’ll
call my lawyer,” Norman said, stretching his arm toward the
telephone.

“That’s your
right. Do you want to call him right now? Or would you rather
listen to the deal I’m going to propose?”

Norman withdrew
his hand and hid it beneath the table.

“You’d better
leave,” he advised.

Serge picked up
the photograph and stashed it back in his binder.

“For the
money-laundering operation and selling stolen cars, you would
normally get a pretty long term. The evidence that we have couldn’t
be contested in any court. For plotting and ordering the murder of
your wife, though, you’d get life. However, with our help . .
.”

Norman’s left
eyelid began to tic, but his lips remained tight.

“We know Marcel
recommended that you contact this hit man about killing your wife,”
Serge continued. “If you agree to testify against Marcel, we’d take
you into the witness protection program. You’d get a substantially
reduced sentence because of your cooperation with us.”

Norman took a
deep breath.

“Fuck you,
gentlemen.” Norman didn’t change his tone a bit. He seemed neither
irritated nor scared. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You
may continue your bullshit in the presence of my lawyer.”

Serge smiled.
Being a realist, he hadn’t expected a quick victory. This was just
a preliminary move in an ongoing, complicated game, the outcome of
which he’d calculated far in advance.

“We’ll talk
soon, when you’re behind bars. With the lawyer, of course—if you
still wish.” He stood up and shoved the leather binder back under
his armpit. “Maybe there you’d be more cooperative, Mister Norman
Vincent. For now, here’s my business card—just in case you change
your mind.”

As they
approached the car, Patrick asked him, “Why didn’t we lay charges
against him for money laundering and trading stolen cars?”

“We could
have,” Serge said, taking his place in the passenger seat. “But
that would be only one small victory. I need him to testify against
Marcel. That’s the target: the gang leader.”

“You’ve already
arranged around-the-clock surveillance of Marcel,” Patrick said.
“Don’t we need to do the same for the other leaders?”

“Don’t we need
. . . ?” Serge repeated, and then sighed.

“We need to do
many things. But we don’t have enough people to do everything. Mind
you, it’s not that easy to pick the right target for surveillance.
The Iron Ghosts have turned out to be even more secretive than the
Devil’s Knights. By the way, Patrick, we need to watch one of them.
Stanley Mathews is his name. Take care of him. It won’t be easy,
though.”

“Do we know his
address?” Patrick asked.

“He has a
house. But he seldom stays anywhere longer than a week at a time.
He’s very close to the gang’s president, but tries to keep a low
profile. I know for sure that he’s very active and efficient. It’s
not for nothing that the Devil’s Knights sent one of their best hit
men to kill him. Arrange surveillance around his house and proceed
from there.”

II

Ominous clouds
had been thickening over Marcel. Damage to the gang had been
enormous—almost all the money from their drug trafficking revenue
went to fund the ever-expanding war with the Iron Ghosts. The
police force was tightening its grip around all full patches. And
at the last meeting, the top-ranking members of his club had begun
questioning his policies, many among them coming out in favor of a
truce with the enemy in order to calm the public, the government,
and the media. Worst of all, even Techie had raised his voice
against him, giving much weight to these specific arguments.

“The police get
funding only when the public screams,” Techie had said in his
chilling, self-controlled manner. “And they did. You remember that
our lawyers assured us that the government would never pass the
anti-gang law because it was unconstitutional. They passed it. Now
the lawyers claim that this law will not be applied and could be
contested successfully in the courts. Just watch, Marcel. The court
will apply this law. They are letting the cops do whatever they
want, even things that are against the law, when nothing else
works. We can fight the Iron Ghosts, but we cannot fight the
government. They will tire us out, no matter what the law or
constitution says.”

After that, the
discussion had gotten rather jumpy. Marcel had at his disposal only
his same old arsenal of arguments: the Devil’s Knights would lose
respect in all the underworld; a truce with the Iron Ghosts would
not last long because low ranks and street dealers, having little
brains, would never adhere to the strict rules of it; a truce would
give the Iron Ghosts time to regroup and recruit more foot
soldiers.

“That might be
true,” Techie argued, “but in the meantime the public would forget
about the whole thing, the politicians would again cut funds to the
police, because they always need money for their own use, and we
would have time to restore our own trade networks.”

At that moment,
Marcel lost his customary confidence and strength. With clenched
fists, he defended his position. He vowed to avenge those who had
been killed. He would not betray those who were still committed to
the fight.

“Even if we
wanted to,” he argued, showing his teeth, “how would we do it?
Invite the Ghosts to the negotiating table? After so many deaths?
Mind you, they are very weak now. Most of their strong people are
in jail. As soon as their remaining top ranks are wiped out, no
negotiations will be needed. Trust me, another few months, half a
year at most, and they will come to terms with us.”

In the end, no
decision was made, but a change in attitude toward the whole mess
was in the air.

A few days
after that meeting, Raymond called. He said that he needed to
discuss something urgent and important. It was not easy for Marcel
to lose the tail following him, but he did lose it far in advance
of the meeting, which had been set up at a family restaurant in a
suburban area. Raymond was sitting at a table when Marcel arrived,
with a cup of coffee. The customary smile that was usually on his
face was gone. He wore no glasses.

“I won’t take
much of your time,” he told Marcel, fumbling with a teaspoon. “I
felt, however, obligated to meet you and explain everything
personally, so you’d understand what I’m doing. I’m going to take a
break.”

“A break?”
Marcel repeated, as if questioning his understanding.