Day of the Tiger (A Carlos McCrary Mystery Thriller Book 5) Page 7

  “You between girlfriends?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. But I have my eye on a WNBA forward for the Port City Flames. She’s six-two and built like a brick backboard. Graduated with honors from UAC.”

  “Where’d you meet her?”

  “I haven’t exactly met her. She sat at another table at a UAC alumni fund-raiser for the athletic department last month. I caught her eye, but we didn’t get to talk.”

  “I guaran-damn-tee you she knows who you are. Call her. You can’t hurry up good times by waiting for them.”

  “The WNBA season begins in two weeks. They’re in training camp.”

  “They don’t train twenty-four hours a day,” I said.

  “I’ll call her after the season starts.”

  “Tank, you never struck me as the shy type.”

  “I’m not shy. I’m… patient.”

  “Uh-huh, and I’m the president of Patagonia.”

  “Can I come with you tonight or not?”

  “A three-hundred pound, six-foot-six black man wouldn’t make anyone nervous or anything, would it?”

  “I weigh two seventy-five.”

  “Like that’s a biiig difference. Nah, since you’re sleeping alone anyway, stay with Doraleen again.”

  Tank wiped his face with a towel. “I called her on the way over here. She paid Al’s cellphone bill and left the voicemail for Al like you said, but he hasn’t called. Snoop picked her up at school and she’s home safe. Snoop’s with her.”

  “How the hell did Al get into this mess?” I asked.

  The giant shrugged and a towel fell off his shoulders. “One thing leads to another. I remember at UAC, Al was money-hungry. He figured to play in the NFL from the time he was a junior in high school.”

  “Was he that good?”

  “Oh, yeah. State high school All-American as a sophomore. National high school All-American as a junior and senior. Notre Dame offered him a scholarship, and he had offers from Alabama, Florida, and a few others I don’t remember.” He chuckled. “Momma Dora saved the recruiting letters in a drawer and showed them to me when we first met. She was proud of Al. So proud…” He sighed.

  “So he selected UAC?” I prompted.

  “Yeah, he had friends in Port City. The friends were the wrong people for an impressionable young man to hang out with, but that’s another long story.”

  “I have time for a long story.”

  “Not important.” Tank stood. “I’m overheated. I’m gonna shower. I’ll be back in a few.

  “I’ll take a break too.”

  When we returned to the sauna, I tried again. “You were telling me about Al.”

  “Another reason Al stayed in Port City was a girl he was serious about. Al wouldn’t leave her.”

  “They met in high school?”

  “Yeah. Love at first sight he told me.”

  “So what happened to their relationship?”

  Tank shrugged again. “Al didn’t give me the details, but whatever it was, by his junior year, she had moved to New York. Al said she was chasing a rainbow. That was the first thing that shook him so bad that year.”

  “What happened to the girl?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Janice Jackson.”

  “You remember?”

  “Oh, yeah. Pretty as a picture and graceful as a deer. A white girl. Mr. William, Al’s dad, he wasn’t keen on Al dating a white girl, but Momma Dora accused him of acting un-Christian.”

  “So you lost track of her.” I wiped the sweat off my brow.

  “No reason not to. When she was Al’s girl, I saw her a lot. When she left him, I didn’t. Simple as that. Besides, she’d left town.”

  “I think it’s dry in here, don’t you?” I poured water on the rocks.

  “Al wanted to get rich quick. He planned to jump to the NFL a year early, grab a big signing bonus, and buy his parents a new house.” Tank took a long pull on his water bottle. “Then Mr. William got killed.”

  “How did William die?”

  “New Year’s Eve of Al’s junior year, some idiot was shooting bullets in the air to celebrate the New Year. What goes up must come down. Mr. William got hit by a stray bullet. Million-to-one shot.” He crushed the empty bottle.

  “I read about those in the newspapers every year, but I never knew anybody personally that was a victim. That must have been devastating to Al.”

  “And to Momma Dora,” Tank said. “Al and I were in New Orleans to play in the Sugar Bowl. His parents were there and my folks. The team had a curfew like we do before a big game. Coach kept us in the hotel, but he let us stay up ‘til midnight. Then we hit the sack. Momma Dora and Mr. William went out with my parents to celebrate New Year’s in the French Quarter near Jackson Square. Then, maybe two in the morning, while Al and I were sound asleep…” He lapsed into silence.

  “If y’all were asleep at the hotel, how did you learn about the accident?”

  “We didn’t know Mr. William was in the hospital until after the game. Coach put the team’s hotel room phones on ‘Do not disturb’ the night before, and he made us leave our phones in the hotel until after the game so we wouldn’t be distracted. Momma Dora and my parents stayed at the hospital all night sitting in the emergency room, praying for Mr. William.” Tank wiped his eye with the back of his hand. “He didn’t die right away; he hung on for a long time. After the game, Dad waited outside the locker room to take us straight to the hospital where Mom had stayed with Momma Dora. Mr. William died before we got there.” He stood and gathered his towels around his giant frame. “This is depressing, Chuck. I’m ready to shower and hit the shooting range. How about you?”

  We showered, dressed, and retrieved our guns and phones from Ken’s office. I had a text from Bigs Bigelow: BOLO found Rice car. Call me.

  I called. “Bigs, I got your text. Where is Rice’s car""

  “Abandoned beside I-95.”

  “Where?”

  Bigs told me.

  “Are you there now?”

  “No, but we could be in ten minutes.”

  “I’ll meet you there,” I said. “And Bigs, thanks.”

  Chapter 14

  Rice’s old Toyota sat askew on the grass near the shoulder of I-95 northbound. An unmarked car had parked ten yards behind it, red and blue lights flashing. I pulled my minivan onto the grass in front of the Toyota. Tank parked his Porsche on the far side of me. Kelly Contreras and Bigs Bigelow, her partner, were standing to the right of the Toyota, away from the furious traffic speeding by a few yards away.

  Bigs and Tank hugged each other. The back-pounding between the two huge men must have registered on the seismograph at UCLA. “Tank, haven’t seen you since the Super Bowl.” Bigs turned to me. “Hey, buddy. Tank been taking good care of your money?”

  “Absolutely,” I answered. “He padlocked my wallet. Gives me a twenty-dollar allowance every week for school lunches.”

  “If he doesn’t treat you right, you tell me and I’ll come smack him around.” He laughed and turned to Kelly. “I don’t think you’ve met my old friend Tank Tyler. Tank anchored the other end of the defensive line from me on the Pelicans before he became a world-famous CPA and money magician.” He slammed Tank on the back with a blow that would topple an ordinary-sized human.

  Kelly shook Tank’s hand. “Bigs has told me so much about you, Tank. It’s an honor to meet you.”

  “He hasn’t mentioned you at all, Kelly, for which omission I will chastise him severely. Wow.” He turned to Bigs. “You been holding out on me, bro. Why didn’t you tell me you had such a beautiful partner?”

  “Frankly, Tank, I didn’t think about it; I’ve been married all my life.” He winked at Kelly. “You want me to fix you up with her?”

  “Guys, I hate to interfere with the matchmaking,” I interrupted, “but we have a missing man in danger. Can we get back to business?”

  She blushed. “Sure, Chuck. I ran the pla
tes and compared it to the VIN. It’s Al Rice’s car. It’s locked, and there’s no sign of foul play. From what we see through the windows, it looks as though Rice was living in the car.”

  “He was,” said Tank. “I know that for a fact.”

  Kelly nodded. “Al Rice’s driver’s license is suspended so he cannot legally drive. Of course, we have no proof of who drove the car here.”

  I pointed at the traffic cameras overhead. “Anything on the traffic cams?”

  She shook her head. “They’re monitored in real time to spot traffic accidents and other tie-ups, but they’re not recorded. I spoke to the traffic control guys; they didn’t notice who got out of the car.”

  I walked around the Toyota, inspected the interior. I didn’t notice anything Kelly hadn’t seen. “Hell, maybe he ran out of gas.” I peered through the wire fence beside the freeway. “Maybe those businesses over there have security cam footage of this area.”

  “I wish I could spend the time to check them, Chuck,” said Kelly, “but there’s no evidence a crime was committed here. Unless we can tie this to Moffett, we have other cases to work. I’ll call a wrecker to take this car to impound. When you find your friend, tell him he can reclaim his car there.”

  “I will.”

  “And, Chuck, about that description you texted me last night, did you get my reply?”

  “No. When did you send it?”

  “At nine this morning.”

  “Sorry, never got it. These cell phone thingies will never catch on. They’re too undependable.”

  She laughed. “The guy you asked about is a bad dude named Teddy Ngombo who works as muscle for Moffett.” She referred to her phone screen. “His real first name is Tegumetosa.” She spelled it.

  “For real?”

  “Yeah, he’s from someplace in central Africa.”

  “What else can you tell me about him?”

  “He’s from a warrior tribe in his home country, which explains the ritual scars, and he likes to work with a knife. He’s cut a few people pretty bad but nothing we can prove. The good news is he hasn’t killed anybody—yet.”

  “Is he an illegal?” Tank asked. “If we catch him, will INS deport him?”

  “You’re out of date, Tank,” I answered. “INS is now ICE, Immigration and Customs Enforcement.”

  “Whatever. Can some three-letter agency of the U.S. government deport him? Maybe CIA, NSA, DIA, IRS, or even FTC?”

  “Nah,” Kelly answered. “He has a green card. He’s our problem to handle.” She put her hand on my forearm. “Watch your six with this guy.”

  Chapter 15

  Tegumetosa “Teddy” Ngombo studied the screen from the driver seat of a Jeep Grand Cherokee. He was tempted to throw the tablet computer out the window. It was no tool for a hunter, no tool for a warrior. Where the hell was Rice’s car? He had placed a GPS tracker under Rice’s Toyota while Moffett smashed Rice’s hand at the Tri-Patron facility. The GPS battery was supposed to last a week. Ngombo had checked the location of Rice’s car every day. After a week, he used the tracker to find Rice’s car, and he changed the tracker’s battery. It should be good for another week, but nothing was showing. Nothing. He was a warrior, a hunter, and he had lost the trail. He slammed the steering wheel with his palm.

  He had a backup—a special app he’d installed on Rice’s phone in case the GPS tracker failed. Parents used the app to track their teenagers. He checked the tracker app. Nothing. That couldn’t be unless Rice’s phone battery was dead.

  Moffett would be livid. He feared to face his boss and tell him that he, Tegumetosa Ngombo of the most famous warrior clan in central Africa, had lost his quarry. In desperation he cruised the parking lot of the Orange Peel, but the Toyota was gone.

  Ngombo double-parked and pulled an Atlantic County map from the glove compartment. He put one finger on the spot where he was now. Where could Rice be? Perhaps he went back to his place at the Albemarle Arms. Ngombo slammed the Cherokee into gear and squealed from the lot.

  ###

  The African climbed the stairs to the third floor. He checked both ways. No one in sight. He stopped at the door of apartment 3-H and knocked. Knocked again. Looking both ways again, he smashed his boot heel into the door next to the lock. The door slammed inward as splinters flew from the shattered jamb.

  Crap! The apartment was empty. Rice had moved.

  He trotted downstairs to the office, knocked twice, then called the phone number on the office sign.

  “Albemarle Arms. This is Reggie speaking.”

  “I should like to speak to the manager.”

  “There ain’t no manager; I’m the super.”

  “Then I should like to speak with you. Where can I find you please?”

  “Here at the apartments. I’m always here; I live here. You wanna rent an apartment?”

  “Yes, please. I am here at the apartments. I do not see you.”

  “I’m taking out the trash. Where are you?”

  “At the office.”

  “Be right there.”

  Ngombo turned in a circle. The nearest witnesses would be on the sidewalk next to the street, but many pedestrians used that walk. Too close. He needed to get the “super,” whatever that was, out of sight. He waited.

  Reggie appeared from around the corner. “Hey there. You the guy what called me?”

  “Yes. What is a… ‘super’?”

  “Super. It’s short for superintendent. I do the maintenance around here. Keep the place tidy and the like. What can I do for you?”

  “I wish to rent an apartment.”

  “What size?”

  “What size? I do not know. How big are your apartments?”

  “One bedroom and two bedroom. Both our three bedrooms is rented. What size you want?”

  “Uh, two bedroom please.”

  “C’mon. I’ll show you a real beauty.” He led Ngombo toward the front of the property.

  “Do you have a unit further from the street? I like my privacy.”

  “Sure. I have another two bedroom in the rear, but it ain’t as nice.” He headed toward the back. “In here.” Reggie unlocked the door and pushed it open. “See for yourself. Eight hundred a month, water included. You pay for electricity.” He gestured Ngombo through the door.

  Ngombo walked into the first bedroom and turned around.

  Reggie stopped near the front door.

  That would never do; Ngombo needed to lure him away from the door. “Excuse me please, what is this here?” He pointed to something off to one side.

  “What’s what?” said Reggie, walking into the bedroom.

  “I will show you. Wait here.” He walked into the living room, closed the front door behind him, and pulled a knife. “Where is Al Rice?”

  Reggie’s eyes got big as silver dollars. “What the hell? Who are you?”

  The African warrior advanced toward Reggie, brandishing the knife. “Where is Al Rice?”

  Reggie held his hands out in front. He backed up until his legs hit the bed, then lost his balance and fell backwards.

  Ngombo stepped closer to the bed, held the knife where Reggie could see it. “Where is Al Rice?”

  “How the hell should I know? I evicted that deadbeat bastard over a week ago. I ain’t seen him since. You let me up; I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  Ngombo stepped back and Reggie sat on the edge of the bed. “Why is everybody interested in Al Rice today?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You the second guy come looking for Rice, but the other guy, he din’t pull no knife on me.”

  Ngombo grabbed Reggie by the arm and waved the knife in his face. “What other guy? Who else is looking for Al Rice?”

  Chapter 16

  I answered my phone, “Chuck McCrary here.” I pulled my van to the curb. No point getting killed talking on the phone.

  “This is Reggie Larkin, super at the Albemarle Arms.”

  “I remember you, Reggie. You got something
for me?” I pulled a notepad from the console.

  “You said if I learned anything else about Al Rice to call you.”

  “You learn anything else?”

  “Bring another hundred over here, Chuck, ‘cause I got some good stuff for you.”

  “What stuff?”

  “Not until you give me the hundred you promised.”

  “Give me a teaser, Reggie. Convince me it’s worth my trouble to drive all the way over there.”

  “You remember you told me some bad dudes were looking for Al Rice?”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “Well, one of them bad dudes, he come by here. Said he was looking for Al Rice.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “A real scary-looking dude.”

  “This scary-looking dude got a name?”

  “Gimme my hundred first.”

  I referred to the dashboard clock. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  I called Tank.

  ###

  Back in the Cherokee, Ngombo called Moffett. “This is Teddy Ngombo.” The words caught in this throat like swallowing a burr. God, he hated the nickname “Teddy.”

  Tegumetosa meant “walks with lions” in his native language. “I can’t pronounce Tegu—however the hell you say it,” Moffett declared. “From now on, your name in my organization is Teddy.” Ngombo salved his wounded pride somewhat by adding his surname whenever he identified himself.

  “I have bad news,” Ngombo continued. “Rice’s GPS tracker stopped working. The battery must have died. I cannot find his car.”

  “Did you try the tracker app on his phone?”

  “It is not working either. Rice must have let the battery die.”

  “Did you check his apartment?”

  “Yes. He was evicted over a week ago. The apartment superintendent told me another man was there looking for Rice this morning. A private detective named Carlos McCrary. I have his business card. I shall give it to you when I see you next.”

  “McCrary? What did he want?”

  “The super said McCrary was trying to protect Rice from some bad men who were looking for him.” Ngombo laughed.

  “The guy say who hired McCrary?”