Wicked Ways: Death at the DuMond (A Cozy Witch Mystery Book 1) (16 page)

“Who hired you?”

“You really do sound like a cop,” he said. “Same people who want you dead.”

“Why?”

“Because she was threatening their operation. Just like you are.”

“All because of a painting?”

“Paintings. Plural,” he said. “The market for stolen masterworks of art is huge. It doesn’t make much sense to me. It’s not like you can hang one in your living room and talk about it at cocktail parties.”

“How is Otto involved?”

“Otto authenticates the work. Nobody wants to pay a hundred million dollars for a forgery,” the man said. “The mob brings the paintings in and coordinates the buyer. But every piece of art goes through Otto.”

“And Mrs. DuMond found out?” I said.

“Otto complained that he was getting blackmailed. Mrs. DuMond became a risk. It was a risk Mr. Giovanni wasn’t willing to take. If Otto got pinched, he’d rat out the whole operation to save his skin. Otto is crucial to the operation, so the logical thing to do was take out the old lady.” 

“But you didn’t kill her?”

“No. And that is what puts you and I in the same situation.”

I squinted at him, confused. “I don’t follow.”

“Somebody else killed her. But I took credit for it. I wasn’t about to pass up that paycheck,” he said. “But then you started snooping around. Asking questions. Talking to Big Slim. Big Slim talked to Giovanni. Giovanni started to worry. Giovanni started to think I lied. Then Giovanni wanted to clear up loose ends.”

“How’s Big Slim involved?”

“He’s like an independent contractor. Works with the different families. He helps move and store product. He stays neutral. Reports what happens on the street. The families leave him alone.

“So, you’re saying Giovanni put a hit on both of us?” I asked. 

“You catch on quick.”

I gulped. Even though it was cold, I was starting to sweat. Giovanni was going to send assassin after assassin until the job was done.

“Why did you steal the jewelry?”

“I have a little problem with theft, okay? I see something I want, I take it. Sue me.”

“So, who killed Mrs. DuMond?”

“I’m not telling,” he said. “Not until somebody can guarantee me protection.”

“I can’t protect anybody.” 

“Not you, silly. Your cop buddy. You’re tight with Gibbs. You can get me protection.”

“I can try.”

“Nobody else but Gibbs. Too many weasels.”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you stupid? The department is thick with cops on the take. I’m not handing myself over to just anyone. And Gibbs won’t take me without you.”

“Why?”

“Just set it up. You broker the deal. I want complete immunity. For everything I’ve ever done. In exchange, I’ll give them enough information to take down the entire Giovanni family.”

CHAPTER 26

GIBBS WASN’T TOO happy to hear from me. I think I woke him out of a sound sleep. But the thought of taking down the mob intrigued him enough to meet us at a waterfront warehouse.

The dock was lined with thousands of shipping containers. Giant cranes towered over head. A mammoth cargo ship was moored to the dock. The ropes tying it down were thicker than tree trunks. I sat on the loading dock, waiting for Gibbs to arrive. Stryker was hiding somewhere. 

Gibbs pulled into the entrance and paused. He took a moment to scope things out, then drove closer. Headlights flashed across my face as Gibbs pulled up to me.

“Where’s the rat?” Gibbs asked, as he stepped from the car.

“He won’t come out until he’s sure you’re alone.”

Gibbs spun around, scoping out the scene. Stryker could have been anywhere. Gibbs shrugged exaggeratedly as if to say:
I’m here. I’m alone
.

But Stryker didn’t show.

“Maybe he got cold feet,” Gibbs said.

After another moment, Stryker emerged from behind a row of containers.

Gibbs drew his weapon. “Keep your hands where I can see them,” Gibbs shouted.

“You’re here to help, remember?” I said.

Stryker held his hands high and approached slowly. As he drew near, Gibbs recognized the man’s face.

“Oh, no. No way this lowlife gets a deal.” Gibbs’s face turned red. His veins were popping out. He was almost frothing at the mouth, like a rabid dog. “I should put a bullet in you right here.”

“You’d be throwing away a hell of an opportunity,” Stryker said. “Plus, you know what they do to cops on the inside.”

“Did I miss something?” I asked.

Gibbs’s finger was wrapped tight around the trigger. Sweat was beading off his forehead, despite the cold night air. “This is Flaming Freddy Stryker.”

A thin smile curled up on Stryker’s face. He was enjoying his little moment of infamy. Then Freddy added, “Sometimes also referred to as Five Finger Freddy. But I prefer Flaming.”

“He’s one of the mob’s most accomplished hitmen. He’s
 
killed over a hundred people. But we’ve never been able to pin anything on him,” Gibbs said. 

“Tell her why I’ve got the nickname,” Stryker said. 

Gibbs sneered. “He likes to douse his victims in kerosene and set them on fire.” Gibbs was so mad, he was shaking. “That’s how he killed my brother.”

It was a tense moment. The barrel of Gibbs’s gun was pointing straight at Stryker’s head. The hammer cocked back. Gibbs’s finger wrapped tight around the trigger.  For an instant, I thought Gibbs was really going to shoot him.

Gibbs finally backed off.

“She told you what I want, right?” Stryker said. “Full immunity. For everything.”

Gibbs gritted his teeth. He looked like his head was going to burst. Then Gibbs took a deep breath and finally nodded.

“You’re the only guy that I’m absolutely sure is not on the take,” Stryker said.

“I know. I’ve made arrangements with the feds. Two agents are going to take you into protective custody,” Gibbs said.

“And you haven’t told anyone else in your department about this?” Stryker asked.

“No,” Gibbs said. He knew there was rampant corruption within the department. “I want everything you’ve got. I want names of officers on the payroll. I want the complete organizational structure for the Giovanni family. I want all known businesses and associates.”

“I’ll do you one better,” said Stryker. “I’ve got recorded conversations of every hit I’ve ever been asked to do.” He smiled. “And I’ve worked for a lot of families. There’s enough in those audio recordings to put away the entire mob. I figured one day I’d need an insurance policy.”

“You got that with you?” Gibbs asked.

“Do I look stupid?” Stryker asked.

“I don’t think you want me to answer that,” Gibbs snarked.

“Hey, I can change my mind at any time,” said Stryker.

“Okay. Go ahead. Take your chances out there,” Gibbs said.

Stryker was silent. He knew his chances of survival on the street weren’t good. 

“That’s what I thought,” Gibbs said.

With the amount of evidence Stryker had on the mob, they weren’t going to let him live. It wasn’t about taking down a stolen art ring. That was just a small portion of the mob’s business. The whole organization was going to go down. And these mafia bosses were going to spend the rest of their lives behind bars.

“This is a one time offer, and you come with me right now,” Gibbs said. “All you can take is what you’ve got. No stopping by your place. No picking up things from the store.”

Stryker nodded. “Believe me, I ain’t setting foot in my old apartment.”

We hopped into Gibbs’s car and drove to another seedy warehouse to meet the feds. Two muscular guys in suits, with buzz cuts and mirrored shades. They looked like football players. 

“Detective Gibbs, I’m Special Agent Parker, FBI.” He motioned to his partner. “This is Special Agent Troy.” They flashed their credentials.
 

“Good to meet you.” Gibbs shook hands with the two agents.

“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute? You’ve never met these two?” Stryker asked, panicked. 

“Mr. Stryker, I can assure you, you’re in good hands,” Parker said. “We’ve had over 8500 witnesses in the program, and never lost a single one.”

“Well, lets not screw up that perfect record.” Stryker seemed to calm down.

“Mr. Stryker, we provide 24 hour protection while you are in a high-threat situation. We also provide financial support to cover basic necessities—food, housing, medical. We can even provide job training.”

“Maybe you can train me how to be a fed. I’m pretty handy with a gun.”  Stryker chuckled.

 “I’m sure we can help you find employment that is suitable to your skills,” Parker said.

“With my luck, they’re gonna have me sacking groceries.” Stryker huffed. “That’s okay. I got plenty of cash stashed. That’s part of the deal, right? I get to keep all of my illicit earnings?”

“Detective Gibbs filled me in on your conditions. Tentatively, we are prepared to honor your requests,” Parker said. “Provided, of course, you follow through with your testimony.”

“Don’t worry,” Stryker said. “I’ll rat these guys out.”

“Deputy Troy and I will take you to the safe house. We’ll have some paperwork for you to sign, and we can get you processed into the system.”

Stryker looked at me and smiled. “Well, I guess this is goodbye.” We shook hands. “You watch yourself now.”

“I will,” I said. 

“I’ve always wanted to go to Hawaii. I’ll send a post card,” Stryker said.

“No, you won’t,” said Parker. “You’ll have no contact with your old life. And you won’t be going to Hawaii.”

“These guys are a buzz kill,” Stryker said. “Detective Gibbs, always a pleasure.” He extended his hand. 

Gibbs didn’t take it. He just glared at Stryker. “I hope you live long enough to testify.”

“So do I, Detective Gibbs. So do I,” said Stryker. 

I cleared my throat. “You’re forgetting something, aren’t you?”

Stryker looked at me, perplexed.

“Who killed Mrs. DuMond?”

“When these guys get me to a safe house. Then I’ll talk,” Stryker said.

Gibbs rolled his eyes. 

We left and headed back toward the DuMond. Something was bothering me since the moment we met the Special Agents. But I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. We drove a few miles down the road, then it hit me.
Special Agent
. That was the problem.

“Go back,” I shouted.

“What?” Gibbs asked.

“Turnaround. Now. We have to go back.”

“What for?”

“Because the FBI doesn’t administer the Witness Security Program. The US Marshals Service does,” I said. 

Gibbs smashed the brake pedal and turned the wheel. Tires screeched across the asphalt. The car swung a one-eighty. Then Gibbs mashed the accelerator, smoking the tires. We raced back to the warehouse. I had this sinking feeling that we had just handed Stryker over to the mob. 

When we arrived back at the warehouse, the fake FBI agents were nowhere to be found. But it didn’t take long to find Stryker. He was face down on the gritty warehouse floor with two slugs in the back of his skull. He wasn’t going to be testifying against anyone anytime soon. 

Gibbs and I hovered over his body.

“Freeze! US Marshals Service. Drop the weapon. Put your hands in the air.” Two Deputy Marshals stormed in on us, weapons drawn. They were twitchy. 

We moved slowly. Gibbs explained who we were. Once the Marshals saw his badge they calmed down. We gave them a description of the fake agents, and tried to figure out how this happened.

Gibbs felt responsible. As much as he didn’t like Stryker, he liked the mob even less. Any hope of bringing the organization down was gone.

Gibbs had called his buddy at the Bureau. Special Agent Freeman. A guy he trusted. Agent Freeman had contacted the US Marshals Service and set up the meeting. There were a number of possible scenarios to explain how the mob got tipped off.

Someone in the communication chain could be corrupt. Perhaps someone in Agent Freeman’s office. Perhaps agent Freeman himself. Though, that seemed unlikely, as it would call his credibility into suspicion. For that matter, Detective Gibbs could be on the take. But I just didn’t get that vibe from Gibbs. 

The mob was somehow monitoring the communications of law enforcement. Either tapping Gibbs’s cell phone, or the entire department. Maybe even the FBI. It would take help from the inside to do that.

 Gibbs tried to maintain a cool exterior, but I could see that he was unnerved. If internal communications were compromised, nothing was safe. No one could be trusted.

We headed back to the DuMond. Gibbs escorted me up to my apartment. We stepped off the elevator and turned down the hall. Gibbs froze in his tracks. His face turned pale. 

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

Gibbs drew his gun. “There’s supposed to be a guard posted at your door.”