CHAPTER SIX

At the hotel, Faith and Michael compared notes. Garvey gave them the coroner's report and the police report when she dropped them off, promising to keep them posted if she found anything else.

The report offered little information other than what they already knew. It provided some details such as the fact that the fence was cut with a pair of standard wire cutters and that the shock collar delivered its current via blunt metallic spikes, but the only somewhat useful piece of information was the coroner's belief that the killer was a fairly large and strong man, six-foot-three or -four and over two-hundred-twenty pounds. That made sense since Harris was fairly tall and muscular himself, and the killer had overpowered him.

Of greater interest was the gang connection. They would need to look into that first thing in the morning. Faith wasn't sure anymore that this was a simple hit. The injuries to the two men, especially to Mariano, were unnecessarily harsh, and the revelation that the killer had continued to shock Mariano's dead corpse was sobering. Whoever was doing this hated his victims. This stood in contrast to most of the cases Faith had worked, not because it was more brutal, but because the nature of the brutality didn't suggest insanity but simple hatred. The one case that came closest was the case in Arizona, ironically a case that also involved dogs.

"You think we have another white knight defending dogs?" Faith asked.

Michael shook his head. "I'm not sure. We don't really have a lot of hard evidence on the dog angle. The killer used a shock collar, and Farmer's dog was sedated, but we don't know if the killer sedated the dog or if Mariano did. And Harris didn't even have a dog. I think it might just be tangential."

Faith nodded. "You're probably right, but why sedate a dog that wasn't barking and wasn't even remotely capable of harming him? It doesn't make sense."

"The killer wouldn't know that Macy wouldn't bark."

"True, but how would he have managed to sedate the dog without Mariano noticing? He would have had to know that Mariano was going to be there ahead of time, sedate Macy, then wait for Mariano to arrive to kill him."

Michael sighed. "That would make Farmer the primary suspect except for his alibi. And it still doesn't explain why Mariano cut his way through the back fence or how the killer would have known he was going to be there."

"Maybe we're overthinking this," Faith suggested. "It could be that Mariano was going to steal Macy. So he sedates her, tries to steal her, the killer shows up and protects her."

"By putting a shock collar on him and frying him for dinner?" Michael countered. "No, you were right the first time. This is personal."

"So it's someone who's been hurt by the gang," Faith deduced.

"That's my guess. Someone wanted revenge, and this is how they got it."

"Well, that narrows our suspect pool down to anyone who's used cocaine in the American South in the past ten years along with all of their friends and families."

"Both victims were found in lower income neighborhoods in Atlanta," Michael said, "I think it's a safe bet our killer's from the same area. Probably a member of the gang or a former member or a family member of one. These aren't indiscriminate killings. He selected these two men. We don't know why, but he wanted these two gang members specifically. Harris was leadership, or at least middle management, but Vinny was just a contractor, not a part of the chain of command at all, and he was hurt worse than Harris."

"So how do we find out who wanted them dead?" Faith asked.

"Well, we can start by asking."

"You actually think they'll talk?"

"Probably not," Michael replied, "but we might be able to pick something up anyway."

***

As Michael predicted, the gang members wouldn't talk to them. Most of the known affiliates that Garvey rounded up for the agents in the morning simply said the word "lawyer" and clammed up. Even Turk's menacing growls didn't move them.

A few offered the opinion that it was none of the FBI's business. "H-Bomb was blood," a heavily tattooed man with a stout face told the agents. "When our blood is spilled, we're the ones who spill blood back."

"Are you threatening to retaliate?"

The tattooed man grinned. "I'm not threatening anything, agent. I'm just saying, you don't need to worry about this. We'll handle it."

"Actually, we do need to handle this," Michael said. "Two men are dead, brutally dead, and if you know anything, it will go a lot better for you and your friends if you just tell us."

"You want to know what I know?" the man replied. "I know that as soon as you find the asshole who did this to H-Bomb, you're going to ship him off to prison, then you're going to pack up your shit and go home. And life here is going to go on. People die all the time on the streets, agents. You're not going to save anyone by poking your nose in where it doesn't belong."

"All the same," Faith said, "we're here, and like you said, we're going to find the killer, and we're going to send him to prison. The best thing you can do is cooperate with us."

The man scoffed. "Cooperate? That's why you brought me to jail and sat me in an interrogation room with your dog growling at me every time I scratch my ass? You're not here to cooperate with anyone, agent. Don't try to play me like that."

Faith and Michael shared an exasperated look. "All right, mister…"

"Snake Fist."

"Mr. Snake Fist," Faith said drily. "We'll be in touch."

They stood to leave. On their way out, Snake Fist called, "You have a lovely day, agents," then cackled laughter at the closing door.

Faith, Michael and Turk returned to Garvey, who was watching from the other side of the mirror. Snake Fist grinned and offered both middle fingers to them even though he couldn't see through the two-way glass.

"I take it he's been here before," Michael said.

"Yeah, Snake's one of their pimps. We've had him in a half dozen times for pimping, dealing and assault, but the Syndicate has good lawyers. He's never inside for more than a day or two."

"If they have such good lawyers, why aren't the lawyers here now?" Faith asked.

"They don't usually show up until we charge somebody. It makes people look guilty if they go everywhere holding their counsel's hand."

Faith sighed. "Can we force any of them to talk? Threaten them with priors or something?"

Garvey shook her head. "Not unless we can think of a justifiable reason to detain them."

"Do you have anyone on the inside?" Michael asked. "A confidential informant or something like that?"

"Yeah, we have a CI," Garvey replied. "He's not ‘in' the gang per se, but he hangs around them. Hears things, learns things, tells us enough to keep us from prosecuting him."

"Prosecuting him for what?"

"Well," Garvey said with a wry smile. "He's usually found at Black Betty's. That's a strip club downtown that's well known for providing other, less legal, services to well-paying customers. He'll run errands for the gang, and they'll pay him by giving him some of those services. We don't arrest him for solicitation as long as he gives us information when we need it."

"What's this CI's name?" Faith asked.

"Keenan Washington," Garvey replied. "Odds are, he'll be at the club already."

"At eleven in the morning?"

"Sure. He'll show up looking for work, take care of said work and return in the afternoon so he can… enjoy himself… before the girls have to get to work themselves."

"Sounds like a nice guy," Michael quipped.

"If you're looking for nice guys," Garvey replied, "you're looking in the wrong neighborhoods."

"Fair enough," Michael replied. "You have a car we can borrow, or do you want to come with?"

Garvey shook her head. "I want to lean on these guys a little more. Snake knows you're here temporarily, but he knows I'm here for life. He might be more willing to talk if I start suggesting that we double our patrols on his corner."

Faith frowned. "You're making deals with criminals?"

"Like Snake said," Garvey replied without animosity, "you get to leave when this is all over. I have to stay. Much as I would love to take a strong moral stance and bring the hammer of God down on everyone who sells dope and girls, I don't have the budget or the manpower. So we do the best we can."

Faith didn't reply, but her frown deepened.

"The car?" Michael reminded her.

"You can take one of the cruisers," Garvey replied. "I don't care which. The keys are hanging on the wall next to the bulletin board in the bull room."

The key Michael picked turned out to be to a new Ford model police interceptor SUV. Faith didn't care much for the space-age cars that cops drove nowadays. Give her a good old-fashioned American V8 boat. Simple and modest, but it would run three hundred thousand hard miles as smooth as a kitten.

Michael, however, was relieved to drive something modern and comfortable after hours in an old beat-up Ford Bronco on leaf springs during their last case. He hummed a tune as he pulled into a drive-thru coffee shop.

"You really need coffee now?" Faith asked. "When we're on our way to interrogate a person of interest?"

"Technically speaking, he's a CI, not a person of interest," Michael said, "and yes, I need coffee now."

"Why didn't you drink some at the station?"

"I said I need coffee , not brown water."

Faith rolled her eyes. "Does Ellie put up with your snobbishness?"

"Ellie shares my snobbishness. She doesn't even drink chain coffee anymore after I took her to Morning Glory."

"Good for both of you," Faith replied, "but if Keenan is out running drugs when we arrive, I'm going to hold you personally responsible."

"Works for me," Michael said cheerfully.

Twenty minutes later, coffee in hand—in both their hands, as Michael made sure to point out—they arrived at Black Betty. From the outside, the club looked like the worst dive bar Faith had ever seen. She hoped not to have to see the inside.

Fortunately, her prayers were answered when a man fitting Garvey's description of Keenan Washington walked out of the club with a grin on his face. The grin vanished when he saw the three agents approaching. He looked around for a place to run to, but when he looked back at Turk, his better judgment took over. He lifted his hands and said, "I ain't talking to cops."

"We're not cops," Faith said, "I'm Special Agent Faith Bold and this is my partner, Special Agent Michael Prince. We need to talk to you."

"That ain't my problem," Keenan said.

"Actually," Michael replied, "it is. Now, you can get in the car and come with us, or we can have this conversation in front of your boys. And your girls."

"You can have a conversation with my lawyer," Keenan said, jutting his jaw out."

Faith stepped closer so she could lower her voice. "Or we can have a conversation with your buddies inside," she said, "and tell them all about how much you actually do talk to cops."

Keenan flashed her an irritated glance and whispered, "Man, are you stupid? Arrest me. I can't be seen going willingly. You have to cuff me and take me somewhere else."

Faith and Michael shared an exasperated glance. Then Faith said, louder this time, "All right, Washington. Do you want to do this the hard way? I can make that happen. Turn around and put your hands behind your back."

"Man, fuck you guys," Keenan groused. "I'm tired of this shit. You guys always come harassing us and—"

"Quiet," Michael said and meant it.

Keenan clammed up but refused to turn and put his hands behind his back willingly, forcing Faith to turn him around and clamp the handcuffs on roughly. He protested again, muttering under his breath as they forced him into the car.

A small crowd had gathered in front of the club during this interaction. Faith looked at the flat-faced girls and the hard-eyed men and wondered what kind of life they must have lived to have so much animosity toward law enforcement.

As soon as they pulled out of sight of the club, Keenan said, "Okay, you can take the cuffs off now."

"We'll take them off when we stop," Faith said.

"Hey, come on. That wasn't the deal."

"We don't make deals," Michael said. "We ask questions, and you answer them, and if you don't, we make trouble for you. I strongly suggest that you don't make trouble for us."

Keenan scoffed. "Man, I work with Atlanta PD. What are you gonna do to me?"

"If you really feel you're untouchable," Faith replied, "Please test us."

Turk growled, and Keenan glanced nervously over at the passenger seat. "All right, all right. Look, I'm going to talk to you. Just can you please take the handcuffs off? It's cutting into my wrist."

"We'll be stopping in a few minutes," Michael said. "Hang tight."

"Man," Keenan whined. "You guys are assholes."

Faith had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

Michael pulled into a diner a few minutes later, as promised, and Faith helped Keenan out of the car and took off the handcuffs. Keenan rubbed his wrists and pouted. "This better be good," he said, "I was going to hook up with Yadira today. You oughta see her. She's got tits the size of a—"

"I'll take your word for it," Faith said.

They ordered food and picked a booth near the back of the diner, away from listening ears. When they sat, Faith said, "All right, Keenan. Here's the deal. You're honest with me, I'm fair to you. You tell me what I need to know, and we get you out of here in time for a wonderful afternoon with Yadira, sound good?"

Here I am making a deal with a criminal , she thought.

"Yeah, all right," Keenan replied. "What do you want to know?"

"We want to know who killed Harvey Harris and Vincent Mariano."

"Well, I can't help you with Vinny," Keenan said. "I don't know what he did for the gang, but I know he didn't cross anyone. I also know he wasn't very high up. He was kind of like me, just a contractor. From what I've heard, he was good at whatever it was he did, and he never stole from anyone. I would say wrong place wrong time, but he got messed up real bad. So did H-Bomb."

"Tell me about H-Bomb," Faith said.

Keenan looked anxiously around the diner. Besides the three of them, there was an elderly couple enjoying a lunch date and a younger couple looking harried as they tried to corral three small children who were playing tag around the dining table. There was no sign of anyone suspicious.

He still lowered his voice when he said, "The Syndicate is pretty sure the Bulgarians are responsible for him."

"The Bulgarians?"

"Yeah, man. They're bad dudes. I heard that they had a beef with some guy down in Miami, and they hung him by his toes and took turns hitting him with a baseball bat. Like a pinata. Supposedly, only his legs were left by the time they finished with him. Everything else was spread all over the room."

Faith decided she wasn't hungry anymore. She set down her half-eaten sandwich and said, "Did Harris have beef with the Bulgarians?"

"That's what I heard. H-Bomb… he was… volatile, shall we say? He was better at making enemies than friends."

"What was the nature of their beef?" Michael asked.

"Girls, I'm guessing," Keenan replied. "H managed the street girls in Atlanta. The Bulgarians tried to muscle in a couple of times and H ran them out. The last time he got violent. They ended up beating one of the Bulgarians to death. Then he got cocky and warned the other gangs that they'd end up the same if they messed with him.

"And where was the Syndicate in all of this?" Faith asked. "Did they approve of H running his mouth like that?"

"They let their street captains figure their own stuff out," Keenan said. "As long as they don't bring trouble down on leadership or get the law involved, they stay out of the way. That's why there's no infighting. It's actually a pretty smart way to run things. They get their cut, and they get plausible deniability in case anyone does screw up."

"So why are people acting like they're going to avenge him?" Michael said. "If they like to keep distance between the street captains and leadership, why are people up in arms about Harris's death?"

"Those are all H-Bomb's crew," Keenan said, "Everyone in the projects is H's crew. The Syndicate—the leaders, anyway, they don't come anywhere near the streets. I don't think they're even in Atlanta. They probably live across the country in some mansions in Los Angeles, hobnobbing with celebrities and walking their designer poodles across the Hollywood Hills. See, you gotta stop thinking of the Syndicate as a gang. They're more like a mafia or a cartel. The street gangs pay them tribute and the Syndicate gives them access to lawyers and resources when they need it, but the people who call the shots—the real shots—you'll never see them."