That evening at nine-thirty, Assistant Chief Gene Vincent finished work, signed out at the front desk and went to his car. Lately he had been working overtime on a secret report on gambling in Baltimore and how it had touched even some police officers. There still was a lot of work to do, but he was making progress.
Vincent entered the official car and locked it. His mind was still on his report. Yes, he was right in presuming that the more money offered, the more takers you would find in any kind of a bribery situation. Just what it took to push a normally honest cop into going on the take, he was not sure. If he were lucky, he might find out.
He left the parking lot and headed for the expressway. As usual during the forty-five-minute drive home, he would relax totally.
He turned right and took his usual shortcut along a side street toward the highway’s access ramp. He saw a car coming up fast behind but decided it had time to slow down.
It did not slow down.
The other car rammed the chief’s rig, slamming it across the curb and into a pole. The seat belt held, but Chief Vincent swung forward and hit the steering wheel with his chest and the windshield with his head. It was not enough to make him lose consciousness. His first thought was that he would be terribly late getting home.
The car stopped, and someone ran to it, banged on the door, then smashed the window to unlock it.
Vaguely he saw a face over him, then felt something wet splashed over his face and suit. It smelled strange — whiskey! He was being soaked with booze! He tried to call out, but his mind was still foggy from the knock on the head.
He was being held in place. He heard the car keys come out of the ignition, the trunk opening and closing, the keys shoved back in the ignition.
For an instant his vision cleared and he saw two men staring at him, and then a .45 automatic moving toward him. The blow on his temple didn’t seem hard, but the whole scene suddenly became too difficult for him. He saw the darkness closing in and then he relaxed and let it come and fell into a drifting, uneasy unconsciousness.
Something sharp, painful stung his nose. Chief Vincent turned away but the smell followed, stringent, biting, strong. He moved his head once more but the smell again followed. Vaguely he recognized the odor as smelling salts.
“I think he’s starting to come out of it,” a voice said from a long way off.
“Chief! Chief Vincent!” The voice was closer this time and he blinked and saw lights.
Pain darted through him as his eyes opened.
Assistant Chief Gene Vincent knew he was alive.
“What...”
Then he heard a soothing and familial voice.
“Take it easy, Chief. You don’t seem hurt bad. Knock on the head where you hit the windshield. Don’t see how you didn’t get battered up more since you didn’t have your seat belt on.”
Chief Vincent blinked again, and stared at the fuzzy shapes and forms. He shook his head and the pain knifed through him again.
He blinked and his vision cleared. Leaning into the car over him was Capt. Harley Davis, the gambling specialist.
“Davis,” Chief Vincent said. “What happened? Somebody rear-ended me?”
“Chief. We got it all under control. You sure did get a jolt in the backside, but whoever it was tore out of here. A patrol car has already sent in a report. We got cops all over the place, so just relax.”
“Head... hurts like hell.”
“Yeah, lacerations. Doesn’t seem too bad. Can you move? Try your arms.”
He moved his arms, then his legs.
“Get me out of here, Davis.”
“Yes, sir. We’ve got an ambulance on the way.”
Slowly they pulled him from the small space between the seat and the steering wheel. The wheel had not collapsed or crushed, Vincent noticed. Wasn’t it supposed to?
He swung his legs to the sidewalk and remained seated.
“Chief, you smell like a roadhouse. We found an open bottle of bourbon on the floor. You taking a little shot on the way home?”
“No, I haven’t had a drop. Give me a breath test right now.”
“No need for that, Chief,” Davis said. “Just wondered.” He reached in and took the keys from the ignition. “We need to check the trunk to be sure there aren’t any internal fuel-line or gas-tank leaks. That rear end got jolted pretty good. Hope we can get the trunk lid up.”
Sirens wailed and more police cars arrived. When Vincent looked up the next time he saw Larry Jansen watching him.
“Hey, Gene, relax. It doesn’t look all that bad.” He glanced away. “What?” he called to someone.
Captain Davis came to his side.
“Chief, I think you better come and look at this.”
The two officers went to the rear of the car. Davis pulled back an old blanket in the trunk to reveal a plastic-wrapped bundle. Chief Jansen bent in and inspected it.
“Is that what it looks like?” he asked Captain Davis.
“I’m not sure, sir. I was just checking for a gas leak. I thought you better look it over.”
Jansen lifted the wrapped bundle. Beneath several layers of clear plastic, a white powder was clearly visible.
“Look at that marker on the side,” Davis said. “It’s a recording number from our narcotics vault where we keep the impounded evidence.”
“I see it, Davis. That’s the forty thousand dollars’ worth of cocaine we took three days ago. What’s it doing in the chief’s trunk?”
“Sir, I think we better ask Chief Vincent that,” Davis said. “We have half a dozen officers who saw me open the trunk just as you drove up.”
Jansen closed his eyes. Davis had set up Vincent, then suckered Jansen to give the final shot to end Vincent’s career. No matter what happened in the investigation, Vincent was finished as a law officer. Davis had taken out another top management officer who would not be blackmailed.
Captain Davis cleared his throat. “Sir, do you want me to handle this, since you are such close...”
“Yes, Captain, take Vincent downtown and book him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“First let me have a word with him.” Jansen went around the car. He looked at Chief Vincent and shook his head.
“Gene, there’s a package of cocaine in your trunk. It’s been stolen from the department’s drug storage lockup. Did you know it was there?”
“Cocaine? Hell, no. And I remember somebody pouring whiskey all over me just after the wreck and somebody smashed the window to unlock the door, then reached in and took the keys out of the ignition....”
“Remember that, Gene. Right now, we’ve got to book you. We’ll get it all straightened out. We’ve got some criminals wearing uniforms right now. We’ll get them all blasted loose. Hang in there with us, and remember what you just told me.”
He stepped back and motioned to Captain Davis, then got in his car and drove with elaborate caution toward the police station. He did not want to be in any “accident,” as Gene Vincent had been. No matter what would eventually transpire, Gene was probably finished with the department, unless they could prove a lot of things quickly. Damn!
Half an hour later Assistant Chief Jansen was back at headquarters. Chief Smith had not been to work all day. No one knew where he was. That in itself was unusual.
By midnight, Smith still had not come in. A phone call came through to Jansen’s desk. It was the first time the phone had rung.
“Yes?”
“Chief Jansen?”
“Uh-huh.”
“This is the guy who pulled you out of that bloody situation yesterday.”
“Yes, again my thanks. They just wiped out another assistant chief. Planted some cocaine in his car.”
“They also tried to kill Chief Smith this morning. I think we need to talk, somewhere safe. I’m allergic to police stations. Can you walk north on Greenmount just north of Thirty-third? I’ll be along to pick you up. No escort, no visitors — just us two.”
“Of course. After what you did for me, there’s no chance that I’d double-cross you.”
“Good. I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.”
Sixteen minutes later Mack Bolan pulled a rented Buick to the curb and blinked the lights. A tall man in a suit approached, looked through the car window and got in.
“All hell is breaking loose. Vincent is in jail, our other two honorable assistant chiefs are being blackmailed and now you say Chief Smith is in hiding? They actually tried to kill him?”
“You must have seen the report about his driver being gunned down this morning and a Mafia crew wagon being burned to a hulk.”
“Yes, but I never connected it.”
“Chief Smith is safe up north a ways in a motel. Looks like it’s up to you to run the store for a while.”
“They’re going to attempt the takeover soon,” Jansen said. “When would they have a better chance?”
“With you out of the way. Be careful the next couple of days. Is there any chance you can tie down Captain Davis?”
“I don’t know how, other than charging him with a felony of some kind, and for that I’d need proof.”
“And he’s too slick for that. I’ll take care of Captain Davis when I have a few spare minutes. Will you be running things until Chief Smith gets back?”
“I’m the senior, so I guess it’s up to me. I’ll put out a notice tomorrow that the chief is taking a few days’ emergency leave because of his ulcer. He’s had one for years and does have to take off a day or two now and then. But what about this takeover try? What are they going to do — blow us all away with bombs or just gun us down?”
“My guess is it’ll be more subtle than that. They’ll have to get rid of you somehow, so be careful. You might inspect your car before driving home, and be sure you don’t get in any car wrecks.”
“Or go into any dark warehouses with Captain Davis as my backup,” Chief Jansen said.
“Right. Now I’ve got to get in touch with my contact inside the Mafia machine and see what their next move is going to be.”
“You’ve got a contact inside Nazarione’s Mob? How in hell did you do that? I’ve been trying to do that for five years.”
Bolan told him briefly how they turned around the man. By the time the Executioner had finished the story they were back at the spot where Bolan had picked up the chief.
As Jansen got out, Bolan told him he would keep in touch.
“And be careful, Jansen. Don’t even trust your best friend.”
It was well after midnight when Don Nazarione met with his number-two man in his third-floor office.
“At least we have some good news,” Nazarione said. “Captain Davis tells me the frame-up on Assistant Chief Vincent went off like a military maneuver. The chief is in jail, booked on suspicion of possession of cocaine, theft of cocaine from the police lockup, drinking while driving and a few other charges they’re still working on. That eliminates one more. Now there’s only Chief Jansen to bother us.”
Scimone nodded. “But remember, we need somebody to help run the place who knows how. You don’t just wipe out the whole management staff of a new business when you take over. We need one or two down there besides our patsies.”
The Mafia boss grunted. “We’ll have Davis up as an assistant chief just as soon as possible. There’s an opening now.”
“Davis said he wants three more men eliminated as soon as possible. We’ll worry about that down the line.” Scimone took a drag from a long cigar. “What we have to do is give the impression that all is moving along smoothly, that everything is normal and routine. Any changes will have to be done slowly and look reasonable.”
The phone rang. At a signal from Carlo, Scimone picked it up. He listened for a minute, then hung up.
“Somebody rammed a pool cue through Jo Jo’s heart at that pool palace place. He’s in the morgue waiting for an autopsy.”
“Bolan?” Nazarione asked.
“Has to be. What about Jo Jo’s wife?”
“Send a couple of cars over there and bring her and the two kids over here. She’s a handful, and I’d rather a lot of nosy reporters don’t get to her. You know how sloshed she usually is.”
Scimone moved toward the door.
“I’ll go myself. We’ll put her and the kids in the south wing. They won’t bother you from there.”
Nazarione waved and headed for his private elevator. For just a few hours he wanted to get away from business.
Ardly Scimone took one man and a crew wagon and drove to the Albergetti residence. The police had been there, had talked to Angela and left. When Scimone arrived, Angela was lying in the middle of the living room, her blouse open, a drink in her hand, an empty Scotch bottle beside her. They bundled her up with the two kids and took them back to the Nazarione estate.
At first Angela barely said a word. She looked drunk, but in fact the booze had not yet affected her. She stared at Scimone and began swearing. By the time they approached the big house she had worn out her immediate anger.
“I’ll kill him!” she shouted. “I’ll kill the son of a bitch who did this to my husband. I’ll kill him!”
When Angela got out of the car, she couldn’t walk. Scimone had to carry her upstairs. The farther he carried her, the more relaxed she became as the alcohol finally took over her body.
Scimone set her on the bed in the wing where she would stay with her children, then hurried out the door. He locked the door from the outside. They were going to have trouble with that one. He had seen widows go this route before. When she sobered up she would be a real hellcat.