Tracking Evil A Podcast Pt 13A

Authors note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Since this story has moved beyond the length I initially envisaged, adding additional characters and scenarios as its grown, I am opening with a quick character summation for the series so that it's less confusing to those who might only be reading it for the first time or those who haven't read earlier instalments in a while.

Tracking Evil, A Podcast: Part 13

Prologue: "You are young... Your bitter recollections have the time requisite to change into the happiest of memories - Alexander Dumas, The Three Musketeers."

Erica had learned something about herself. She hated awkward conversations. This one had the potential to be extremely awkward but unfortunately there was no way of putting it off. She looked over her breakfast cup of coffee at her friend Arlene who was engrossed in the local paper. Sat alongside Arlene at the kitchen island was Sondra, as deeply absorbed in stripping and cleaning one of her guns as Arlene was in reading.

"Can we talk?" Erica tapped Arlene's hand lightly with her own to get her attention.

"That doesn't sound good," Arlene replied but she folded over the paper anyway, setting it aside to give Erica her undivided focus.

"It's about this road trip with the Romanian... mercenary," Erica began.

"Uh-huh, what about it?"

"I don't want to go."

In unison, Arlene and Sondra broke into soft laughter, the two women sharing a knowing smile as they tossed a glancing acknowledgment to one another.

"What?" Erica was peeved at the response of her friends, "What's so funny?"

"You are," Sondra replied simply, picking up pieces of the gun to begin reassembly. Arlene waited a heartbeat for Sondra to continue, when she didn't, the eldest of the three women turned to the youngest to explain the joke.

"Erica, it's kind of obvious that you aren't too fond of Denisa. That's all."

"It's not a question of being fond of her, I don't trust her, or her father. You heard Lincoln, they are mercenaries. They are in this for themselves. He said they sometimes help criminals out for fucks sake."

"You are right, but I heard everything Lincoln said, as did you" Arlene answered, "Gheorghe and his daughter Denisa have contacts among criminal elements but that's a big step away from committing crimes themselves. They agreed to help and we are against the clock here, we need any help we can get. Besides, the real reason you don't like Denisa is because she reminds you too much of yourself."

"What?" Erica said incredulously.

"Young, good looking, talented and driven professionally, you two have more in common than you care to admit."

Erica shook her head; the conversation was getting away from where she'd envisioned it going and she didn't want to cloud the issue with talk of the Teodoro father and daughter.

"Look, forget about Denisa," Erica said, "It isn't about Denisa. It's...it's difficult to explain."

Sondra set aside her gun once more, sharing another telling glance with Arlene. Erica had been through a lot for someone her age, taking on this hunt for serial killers, being kidnapped, threatened, seeing friends killed, going undercover. Both Arlene and Sondra had shared their private concerns about their young friend already. If Erica had a problem, they wanted to hear it.

"Okay little sister," Sondra said, "no more teasing, what's the problem?"

"Please. Please don't get offended by this, either of you," Erica began, pausing till the two women agreed with silent nods.

"It's just that all of this, it all started with us chasing down Butterman, looking to stop the killing. Then looking to avenge Amos after Butterman killed him. Now, now we are all over the place, chasing down Elvin because of him killing Destry, chasing down leads on this guy Adin Hodzic or Adam Hughes or The Hockey Fan... whatever you want to call him, because of what he did to you Arlene. I get it, I want revenge as well. I just feel we are splitting our focus, forgetting what got us into this."

Arlene took a sip from her mug, gathering her thoughts before replying.

"You're not wrong, we've been fire fighting ever since Butterman killed Amos, running after him and whatever other leads we've chased down, tripped over or been handed on a plate. That's, that's the nature of an investigation though, we go where the strongest lead takes us, even if it isn't where you want. If we get Hodzic then maybe we get a lead on his boss, from him we get info on Elvin, Butterman and God only knows how many other sick bastards that are involved in all this."

Even as she spoke, Arlene could see that Erica wasn't completely convinced. It occurred to Arlene that maybe letting Erica make a call on what happens next would be good for her, after all it was Erica who had discovered so much, figuring out patterns that seasoned cops had missed. Given her head, who knew what the young reporter might discover.

"Okay, I can see it's still not sitting right with you. So, tell me, what do you think we should do?"

Erica gave Arlene a quick smile of gratitude, leaning forward with an intent look on her face. Sondra grinned at the sight of it, Erica looking more her old self already.

"Arlene, you need to go see Zeke and his friend the Judge. You said it yourself; we need to get some advice on where we stand with the evidence we've accumulated. Right now, we can't avail ourselves of law enforcement, searches, phone taps... all the tools that might help us build a case. Maybe the judge or Zeke can steer us in the right direction, tell us if we have reached a threshold where a prosecutor might take on the case."

"Agreed," Arlene said, thankful that so far Erica was in step with her way of thinking.

"Sondra, I think you and Trent should go with Denisa and Gheorghe to run down some of their contacts. You'll fit in better with them in that world than I do. We've got three days before the possibility of The Hockey Fan finding out that we have his current alias occurs. That is our window to find him."

Sondra nodded. In truth she was happy with that arrangement, she needed to keep busy in order to stop thinking about the child growing within her, the father of her child lying cold in his grave. Rousting lowlifes for information was a perfect cure for the blues.

"What about you?" Sondra asked, "What are you going to do?"

"I want to go back to basics with the search for Butterman. When we were tracking him, we knew he was a creature of habit, I want to go back over the files, maybe reinterview people in his life. Somewhere there is a clue as to what he is up to, if there is, I'm going to find it.

Chapter One: "Everyone knows that God protects drunkards and lovers - Alexander Dumas, The Three Musketeers."

Sondra leaned back in the passenger seat of the SUV; face turned to look out the window at the passing scenery. Midtown had disappeared in a blur of grey buildings and the pink smudges of pedestrians faces. The SUV had weaved through the traffic like it was a car half the size, slipping from one gap in traffic to the next, somehow fitting into spaces that had seemed too small at first.

Behind the wheel, steering the big black SUV like she was auditioning for a job as a Hollywood stunt driver was Denisa Teodoroiu. When Sondra had agreed to work this part of the investigation, she had imagined she would be pairing up with Denisa's father Gheorghe, an ex-Romanian special forces operative. Instead, the older man had insisted that Trent accompanied him while Sondra went with Denisa. Gheorghe had claimed he wanted to talk with Trent about his time in the US military but Sondra suspected that he just didn't want his precious daughter spending time with the good-looking black former soldier.

Lincoln had brought Erica, Arlene and Sondra to meet with Gheorghe and his daughter immediately after they had learned that The Hockey Fan was utilizing connections with European criminal groups based on the east coast of the US.

The meeting had started poorly, the two 'security' specialists unwilling to get involved in a matter that wasn't their concern. Arlene had given them the hard sell, showing them folder after folder to outline the scope of the murders being committed by the men they were hunting. That however had seemed to stiffen Gheorghe's resolve, he didn't want to bring trouble down on himself, his family or the organization he had spent years building.

Erica had managed to sway him. She deposited one last folder on the desk in front of Gheorghe, flipping it open to show two pictures inside. One was a photograph of Amos, young and in his prime, staring intently at the camera while in his full-dress uniform. The other picture was of Amos, older, slumped on the ground.

"The police said it was a mugging, we know it was the work of one of these killers," Erica had said. She'd then lifted the picture of Amos, dead, and placed it in Gheorghe's hands. "One of the last things that man did was save my life," Erica continued, "Now are you going to help me bring him a measure of justice?"

Gheorghe had looked from Erica to his daughter and then back again.

"No way for a soldier to die, certainly no way for a hero to go out," Gheorghe had muttered. He then placed the picture back, almost reverently, before reaching out to pat Erica comfortingly on the arm.

"So, what can I do to help you?"

The 'help' was to bring them to every dirty, criminal contact they had. There was quite a list, it seemed between drugs, guns, human trafficking, smuggling and just simple robbery, there was a long list of European affiliated groups in operation. Gheorghe had split the list, he took the Eastern European based groups, Trent accompanying him. Denisa had taken the Western based groups alongside Sondra.

So began a long-ass day of frustration.

Sondra and Denisa had hit up two groups from the United Kingdom, a German operation dealing with military grade explosives and firearms and a Greek gang that had apparently brought smuggling to an art form. Each meeting had generated no leads at all. Denisa seemed to be capable of holding conservational dialogues in Greek, German and obviously English as well, chatting away familiarly with each group before shaking her head to Sondra indicating another dead end.

Outside of these meetings, Denisa had been content to remain silent, focusing on her driving while Sondra sat moodily beside her.

Sondra filled in the boring downtime observing the young woman beside her. Denisa was nineteen, moving to live in America with her father two years before. Apart from being multi lingual, Lincoln had told Sondra that she was also considered a bit of a demon with a shotgun. She carried one filled with bean bags for non-lethal suppression and Lincoln had told Sondra a story involving the young Romanian woman, a bar full of drunk bikers and of course a pump action shotgun.

Not that she appeared to be hell on wheels, aside from her driving that is. Maybe five feet three in height, slender in build but Sondra could see Denisa's muscled arms and developed shoulders through the short-sleeved crop top she had elected to wear that day. Coupled with the toned legs beneath the short blue skirt, Sondra would have put money on Denisa being a swimmer or water polo player when she'd lived in Romania. One point in her favor, something that reinforced the reputation for business like efficiency that Lincoln had labelled her with, Denisa wore her straight black hair shoulder length, no jewelry except for a small silver crucifix at her throat and a plain silver stud piercing her navel. The simplicity in style indicated that, like Sondra, this young woman was more inclined to leave an impression on people through her actions rather than her appearance.

As if aware that she was being scrutinized, Denisa turned to look at Sondra, her brown eyes reflecting her own boredom at the task they'd been set.

"One last stop," she said. Her English was perfect but she still carried the clipped accent of her mother tongue when she spoke.

"Thank fuck," Sondra answered, my ass is going numb sitting here. Which group of life's losers are we meeting now?"

"French losers," Denisa answered. "To be precise, French Senegalese. Small outfit, they have fingers in many pies like you say here. Drugs, guns, protection."

"Dangerous?"

"It depends. My father and I have had dealings with them in the past. We wanted information on bounties we were seeking. This gang was happy to cooperate, for a price, so they have little in the way of loyalty to those outside their immediate organization. Still, they can be touchy about outsiders, it would be best to follow my lead."

"Fine by me," Sondra agreed.

<0>

The SUV turned onto a side street and Denisa pulled up, killing the engine. In front of them they could see a barber's shop, a small table outside occupied by two black youths whose body language fairly screamed 'sentries'.

"Okay, lets go play one more time," Denisa said hopping out. Sondra followed, checking the gun in the small of her back as she closed the passenger door.

The two women walked briskly towards the barber shop, the men outside noting their approach but only rising from their seats when the women were just a few feet away.

"Sorry, you want the hairdressers next block," the nearest man said, "only do men's hair here."

Forewarned, Sondra could hear the thick French accent on the man, in a bar with a drink in her hand it would have been enough to get her attention. On the sidewalk, looking for answers, it just pissed her off. Before she could open her mouth however, Denisa spoke first.

"Looking for Ibrahima, he here? It's business."

The second man started toward the door of the shop but he was stopped by his compatriot's raised hand. The first man looked Denisa up and down speculatively, sucking on his front teeth as he did.

"What business you got with him eh?" He lifted a hand to touch the hem of Denisa's crop top, fingers brushing her toned mid-section. "Early for whores to come selling themselves."

Denisa rapped his knuckles with the hilt of a small knife that had miraculously appeared in her hand.

"Sticky fingers get sliced off," she said dead pan.

"Bitch!" the first man spat, hand reaching behind him to draw whatever weapon he had concealed there.

"Ah-ah-ah," Sondra chided him, her hand already filled with the grip of the Sig Sauer she'd been carrying. The young black man showed enough sense to halt his draw.

"Touchy about outsiders, you weren't joking," Sondra remarked.

"Outsiders yes, but business acquaintances are always welcome," a new voice said. Sondra looked to the door of the shop, open now with a black man in his late forties standing there.

"Ibrahima, nice to see you again," Denisa said brightly.

"And you. Your father is well?"

"Very, thank you for asking. Would it be possible to have a word with you, inside?"

"Of course, Denisa, won't you and your friend please enter?" He stepped back to allow the two women inside, Denisa and Sondra disappearing their weapons as they entered. Behind them, Sondra heard Ibrahima snarl an order in French before closing the door. He led them through the empty barbershop to a back room which in turn led to a brightly lit basement that was outfitted with a number of entertainment systems and a few padded leather settees.

Sondra tuned out as Denisa and Ibrahima chatted amicably in French, the tone indicated it was merely small talk and Sondra was glad enough to be able to avoid it.

"So, what brings you to my place of business?" Ibrahima asked. Sondra had watched as he set out a low table, Turkish coffee and a plate filled with sticky dates proffered as refreshments.

Sondra and Denisa took up one of the settee's, small cups held in their hands while Ibrahima sat opposite. Two men, not those they had met earlier, joined them and busied themselves setting up a couple of Shisha's.

"We are looking for someone, someone you might have had dealings with," Denisa said.

"Ah, another bounty. As before, ten percent on the contract," Ibrahima said.

"Not this time, there's no contract. This is more a personal matter, a favor we are doing for my new friend here," Denisa said pointing to Sondra.

"Well, she is no friend of mine and I owe her, you and your father no favor's. So, what's it to be? I run a business, not a charity." Ibrahima said in a friendly but dismissive way.

"True, but then we don't even know if you can help us," Sondra interjected.

"Yes, well said. No deal can be struck without knowing the value of the goods involved," Ibrahima commented. "Very well, who do you seek?"

"A man calling himself Adam Hughes," Sondra said. She held up the picture that Trent had taken of The Hockey Fan, enlarged, blurry but still good enough for Ibrahima to nod in recognition.

"I know him, we've had limited dealings. He isn't part of my group so yes, I can give you information, a phone number by which he can be reached. Now, the price."

Sondra was tongue-tied, Arlene and Erica had never discussed setting a price, she didn't even know how much she had in her wallet. Denisa however was smoother than that, she sat back in the settee and quirked an eyebrow at Ibrahima.

"What were you thinking?"

"Five thousand."

"Ridiculous, Two hundred."

"Four thousand."

"Ibrahima, please. It's a phone number, not the combination to arm a nuclear missile. Four hundred."

"Two thousand, the worth is to the buyer, not the seller my dear Denisa."

"Fine" Denisa said, "Two thousand. However, what about our usual stakes. Double if I lose, nothing if I win."

Ibrahima laughed and clapped his hands, all expansive gestures.

"I hoped you would have the time to engage in this. Yes, I agree. Our usual stakes."

This had all blown past Sondra; she didn't know what was in her wallet but she was shit sure it wasn't no two thousand dollars. What the fuck was this Denisa playing at? What stakes?

Her questions were answered soon enough, Ibrahima pushing the coffee and dates to one side so that he could set up a cheap looking chessboard in their place. He caught Sondra's staring at the board and misread her puzzlement.

"Yes, a cheap set, but one I have owned since I was a boy so it is rich in memories."

Soon Sondra was sitting back, watching as Ibrahima and Denisa dueled on the battlefield of sixty-four squares. One shisha was set between Sondra and Denisa, another beside Ibrahima. Curious, Sondra took a pull on it, flavored smoke filling her mouth. She inhaled and let it out, the pleasant aroma and taste refreshing. There was a second pipe extending from it so she passed it to Denisa who puffed away on it absently, focused as she was on the game.

After twenty minutes, Sondra found that she was relaxed, really relaxed. By now she had begun to suspect that the Shisha contained more than simply tobacco. There was every chance it was liberally dosed with pot as well. The problem being that by the time she realized there was pot in it, she no longer cared that there was pot in it. Grinning broadly, Sondra settled back to enjoy.

<0>

Denisa squinted at the board in front of her. By rights she should have checked Ibrahima five moves earlier. It was that, and the sleepy smile that she received from Sondra, that convinced her that Ibrahima was cheating, lacing the Shisha with pot to put her off her game.