Cause to Run. Blake Pierce
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she heard from the A7. Feels like I have two bosses now, she inwardly groaned.
“What’s our next move?” Ramirez asked.
“Let’s clean the slate with A7 and visit Desoto. Not sure what we’ll find, but if his gang was harassing a bookstore owner, I’d like to know why.”
Ramirez whistled.
“How do you know where to find him?”
“Everyone knows where to find him. He owns a small coffee shop on Chelsea Street, right by the expressway and the park.”
“You think he’s our guy?”
“Killing is nothing new to Desoto.” Avery shrugged. “Not sure if this crime scene fits his MO, but he might know something. He’s a legend throughout Boston. From what I understand, he’s done jobs for the blacks, Irish, Italians, Hispanics, you name it. When I was a rookie they called him the Ghost Killer. For years, no one even believed he existed. Gang Unit had him pegged for jobs as far as New York City. No one could prove a thing. He’s owned that coffee shop for as long as I’ve heard his name.”
“You ever meet him?”
“No.”
“Know what he looks like?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I saw a photo of him once. Light-skinned and really, really big. I think his teeth were sharpened too.”
He turned to her and smiled, but beneath that smile she could sense the same panic and rush of adrenaline she was starting to feel herself. They were heading into the lion’s den.
“This should be interesting,” he said.
CHAPTER SIX
The corner coffee shop was on the northern side of the underpass to the East Boston Expressway. A one-story brick building with large windows and a simple sign, Coffee Shop, served as the location. The windows were blacked out.
Avery parked right near the door entrance and got out.
A darkening had come to the sky. Toward the southwest, she could see the sunset horizon of orange, red, and yellow. A grocery store was on the opposite corner. Residential homes filled the rest of the street. The area was quiet and unassuming.
“Let’s do this,” Ramirez said.
After a long day just following along and sitting in a meeting, Ramirez seemed pumped and ready for action. His eagerness worried Avery. Gangs don’t like jumpy cops invading their hood, she thought. Especially ones with no warrant who are only there on hearsay.
“Easy,” she said. “I’ll ask the questions. No sudden moves. No attitude of any kind, OK? We’re just here to ask questions and see if they can help.”
“Sure.” Ramirez frowned, and his body language said otherwise.
A jingle of a bell came as they entered the shop.
The tiny space held four cushioned red booths and a single counter where people could order coffee and other breakfast items throughout the day. There were barely fifteen items listed on the menu and few customers.
Two old, thin Latino men that might have been homeless drank coffee at one of the booths on the left. A younger gentleman wearing sunglasses and a black fedora was slouched in one of the booths and turned toward the door. He wore a black tank top. A gun was clearly holstered in a shoulder strap. Avery glanced at his shoes. Eight and a half, she thought. Nine, tops.
“Puta,” he whispered at the sight of Avery.
The older men seemed oblivious.
No chef or takeout employee was visible behind the counter.
“Hi there.” Avery waved. “We’d like to speak to Juan Desoto if he’s around.”
The young man laughed.
Quick words were spoken in Spanish.
“He says, ‘fuck you, cop whore and your bitch boy,’” Ramirez translated.
“Lovely,” Avery said. “Listen, we don’t want any trouble,” she added and held up both palms in submission. “We just want to ask Desoto a few questions about a bookstore on Sumner Street that he doesn’t seem to like.”
The man sat up and pointed at the door.
“Get the fuck out, cop!”
There were a lot of ways Avery could have handled the situation. The man was carrying a gun and she guessed it was loaded and had no license. He also seemed ready to engage despite the fact that nothing had actually occurred. That, combined with the empty counter, led her to believe that something might be going on in a back room. Drugs, she guessed, or they have some hapless store owner back there and are beating him to a pulp.
“All we want is a few minutes with Desoto,” she said.
“Bitch!” the man snapped and stood and pulled his gun.
Ramirez instantly drew.
The two older men continued to drink their coffee and sit in silence.
Ramirez called out over the barrel of his gun.
“Avery?”
“Everybody calm down,” Avery said.
A man appeared in a cooking window behind the main counter, a big man by the look of his neck and round cheeks. He seemed to be leaning into the window, which gave him a foreshortened height. His face was partially hidden in dim shadow; a bald, light-skinned Latino with a humorous glint in his eyes. A smile was on his lips. In his mouth was a grill that made all of his teeth look like sharp diamonds. No outward display of malice could be observed, but he was so cool and calm given the tense situation that it made Avery wonder why.
“Desoto,” she said.
“No weapons, no weapons,” Desoto mentioned from the square window. “Tito,” he called, “put your gun on the table. Cops. Put your guns on the table. No weapons here.”
“No way,” Ramirez said and kept his gun pointed at the other man.
Avery could feel the short blade she kept attached to her ankle, just in case she ran into trouble. Also, everyone knew they were headed to Desoto’s place. We’ll be all right, she thought. I hope.
“Put it down,” she said.
As a show of good faith, Avery gently pulled her Glock out with her fingertips and put it on the table between the two older men.
“Do it,” she said to Ramirez. “Put it on the table.”
“Shit,” Ramirez whispered. “This is no good. No good.” Still, he complied; placed his gun on a table. The other man, Tito, then put his own gun down and smiled.
“Thank you,” Desoto said. “Don’t worry. No one wants your cop guns. They’ll be safe right there. Come. Talk.”
He disappeared from view.
Tito indicated a small red door, practically impossible to notice given its location behind one of the booths.
“You first,” Ramirez said.
Tito bowed and entered.
Ramirez stepped through next and Avery followed.
The red door opened into the kitchen. A hallway moved further back. Directly in front of them were basement stairs, steep and dark. At the bottom was another door.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Ramirez whispered.
“Quiet,” Avery whispered.
A poker game was being played in the room beyond. Five men, all Latino, well-dressed and strapped with guns, went silent on their approach. The table was packed with money and jewelry. Couches lined the walls of the large space. On numerous shelves, Avery noticed machine guns and machetes. One other door was visible. A quick glance at their feet revealed that none of them had shoes large enough to match the killer.
On