Don Pendleton - Baltimore Trackdown

“Stay here, Sanders. We have to talk. Sit down and make yourself comfortable.”

He wiped his sweaty forehead and sat in the client’s chair beside his desk, where he almost never sat.

“I understand you were legal counsel for Capt. Harley Davis. He left certain documents with you that were to be turned over to the police in the event of his untimely death. I’m here to pick them up.”

“I had no connection with any Harley Davis. I am certainly not his lawyer.”

Bolan sighed and rose. He stepped to the chair and stared down at the lawyer.

“Mr. Sanders, I’m hoping that such an obvious lie doesn’t mean that you’ve already disposed of the documents to a higher bidder. I know the Mafia don, Carlo Nazarione, would pay plenty to have those papers and pictures. Have they thought to contact you about them yet?”

“No. They haven’t contacted me because I have nothing they might want — certainly nothing involving Mr. Davis, whoever he is.”

“Good try, Sanders. Acting class was obviously your best subject. Don’t try it again. I don’t have a lot of time.” Bolan took a five-inch knife from the sheath inside his boot. The narrow finely-honed blade glistened in the brightly lit office.

“Sanders, I once read an FBI seminar brochure that said it is not productive to try to encourage a person to give out information by what they called digital trauma. You can figure out what that means.”

Sanders shrank in his chair. “If I knew this Davis, I’d be glad to cooperate.”

“I don’t agree with the FBI. Putting fingers out of joint can be a fine way to encourage a man to talk.”

Sweat appeared on Sanders’s forehead.

“What was the name again?”

“Capt. Harley Davis of the Baltimore Police Department.”

“My secretary takes care of all of those ‘in case of’ files. Let me contact her and see.”

Bolan shook his head. He touched the tip of the knife to the lawyer’s shoulder.

“No way. That valuable file is right here in your office. All you have to do is stand up, get the file and hand it to me. How much did Nazarione offer you for it?”

“A hundred thousand. I’m a businessman.”

“And you told him two hundred thousand and he dickered and you hung up.”

“Something like that.”

“You’re a brave man, Sanders. I’ve known Mafia dons who would have you turned into turkey meat for a cute trick like that. You’re also lucky. I’d say a week in the Caribbean should put you in the clear. Baltimore is going to be extremely unhealthy for you for the next week.”

“I was just trying to make a couple of dollars!” Sanders was blinking back the tears.

“They would kill you right now if they knew how to get the documents and photos. I’m going to turn them over to the police, so let’s have them right now.”

Sanders put his head in his hands and cried. He looked up, tears on his cheeks. “He suckered me into it three years ago. I have lots of ‘in case of death open and deliver’ files. But this one kept growing and growing. It was sealed, but I opened it and made copies. Man, he certainly had the goods on these Mafia goons! He could nail them to the wall anytime he wanted. I knew they were paying him off. The problem was they wouldn’t pay me off for the same material. I jacked up my price to Davis a little and he never even noticed. The file got so thick I stopped looking in it. When he died, I didn’t know what to do. Being an officer of the court I was honor bound to turn over evidence to the court, the D.A., the police. But I held off. Then Nazarione himself called me. We met and talked. He gave me a packet of twenty one-hundred-dollar bills as a tip. Said there was lots more.”

“Nazarione needs those papers,” Bolan said.

“Last night he called me at home. Asked about my three kids and my wife, and while there was no threat, I certainly got the idea they might not be safe if I didn’t do what he said.”

“The files, Sanders. Get them now. Nazarione will probably be here this morning with a wrecking bar to take your office apart.”

Sanders stood up like an old man. He was about forty. He went to a wall safe and spun the dials. When it was unlocked, Bolan eased the lawyer aside and opened it. Inside was a .38 revolver. Bolan took it out, then let Sanders reach in. He brought out two cardboard boxes.

“I could copy everything and give you the originals and give the copies to Nazarione...“

Bolan shook his head. “No time. Anyway, he would check for that.” The Executioner opened the first letter-size cardboard file and leafed through some of the papers and pictures. It was hard evidence. He closed the file and picked up both boxes.

“I suggest you call your wife and meet her and the kids away from your home. Then drive to Washington and take the first flight to Nassau. You deserve a vacation.”

Bolan carried the two boxes out of the office and took the stairs down the five flights to the street. He met no one coming up.

A mile away from the building, he stopped at a telephone booth and called Assistant Chief Jansen.

“This is your bloody buddy. Has the chief turned up yet?”

“No. We’re worried here. His wife hasn’t heard from him for two days.”

“Forget him — he’s dead, captured or scared. I have something you need for the show tonight. Meet me in twenty minutes in that McDonald’s just down from your headquarters. Alone, right?”

“You got it. The other two assistant chiefs are starting to show their muscle around here.”

“They won’t after tonight. Anything on Assistant Chief Vincent?”

“We’ve put his arraignment off until next week. I had a talk with the D.A., explaining what I think happened. I said things should be more clear after tonight. We might be able to withdraw the charges and get him back on duty yet.”

“Good. Twenty minutes.”

Bolan was there in five and watched from an inside booth. He saw no sudden influx of male civilians, no prowling unmarked police cars. Jansen was keeping his word.

The chief came in five minutes later, bought a milk shake at the counter and looked for a place to sit. He saw Bolan, walked up and sat across from him. They greeted each other.

“What’s the procedure tonight with the mayor?” Bolan asked.

“Usually he presents his speech for the audience and the TV cameras and then an open city-council meeting begins.”

“How does your police commissioner fit in?”

“He’s the politics end. He works with the mayor and gives directions to our chief, who implements them through the department.”

“So the commissioner and the mayor make the policy and the rest of you carry it out.”

“Right.”

The Executioner lifted a file folder from one of the boxes beside him and slid it across the table to Jansen.

“Here’s the file that shows and proves the Mafia’s penetration into the Baltimore Police Department, including the two assistant chiefs. Here’s a list of who is on the take and why. There is also a complete rundown of some ten or twelve top-echelon Mafia types with names and dates and evidence to back up killings, briberies, assaults and a dozen other crimes never charged against them before.”

He let Jansen look through the file.

“This is a bombshell! It will blow the department wide open!”

“Not if the district attorney goes at it slowly and the department does a lot of internal housecleaning. I was hoping we could set off the first bomb tonight with the mayor’s speech.”

“He’s probably still writing it,” Jansen said.

“Good. Maybe we have time. First, make copies of everything in these files. Then take the originals to the D.A. and explain the whole thing. Then take some select items to the police commissioner and see if he can get something in the mayor’s speech about law enforcement, the new crackdown on the Mafia, and mention a couple of cases. It might work. I didn’t see any mention of Police Commissioner Williams in any of the material. He must be clean.”