The Contractor Ch. 11-12

I knocked on the door to 1002 fairly firmly. Nothing happened for what seemed like a long time and I was just about to knock again when the door opened a crack and I saw a very disheveled Rosalind Baynes peer out to see who it was.

"Mom ... let us in, please," Sally pleaded.

I saw the door close and hear the security chain before it slowly opened again. Sally pushed through first and looked at her mother in shock. She was wearing a dressing gown and looked like she had just gotten out of bed. But it was almost four in the afternoon. I looked her over more closely.

Her eyes were sunken with dark circles around them, making her look years older. Her stare was vacant, as if she wasn't really aware of who or where she was. Sally quickly embraced her and held her tightly, but Ros didn't react.

I pulled out my secure cell and pushed in a pre-set number.

"It's Rick, Barry. I need an ambulance quick to apartment West 10th. Possible drug overdose. Female, approximately fifty years. We need a full tox screen and you'd better give her a complete examination. You'll have a passenger too."

"Welcome back, Rick. The ambulance is on its way."

"Thanks. I'll be along later to fill in the blanks."

"Got it. See you then."

I turned to a worried Sally. "An ambulance is on its way. You go with Ros. I have some business to attend to."

"Rick ... I think she's on drugs," she said with a bewildered look. "Mom has never taken drugs. Never!"

"Okay ... here's the good news. She'll be taken to a private hospital and it'll have full security. They'll take care of your mother. You can trust them."

She nodded, still with a very worried appearance.

It took twenty minutes for the ambulance to arrive. No surprise considering it was a weekday rush hour. We buzzed the attendants in and they quickly put Ros on a gurney and whisked her out and down the elevator. Sally was right beside her, holding her hand. Through it all, Ros looked completely lost, unaware of her surroundings or what was happening to her.

I closed the door to the apartment and began a search. For what, I wasn't sure. Perhaps the drugs that she had been given. Perhaps other things. I started in his bedroom, the usual place that things would be hidden. I came up empty. I surveyed all the rooms for a ceiling hatch and found none. I checked the laundry room and storage areas. Still nothing. I left the kitchen to last. The last place to find what I was looking for was in the pantry.

The nine foot ceilings allowed several additional shelves that would be out of reach without a step ladder. I found a three-step ladder in the laundry room and moved it into the pantry and began a systematic search of the top shelf. I found what I was looking for in a carton supposedly holding an electric griddle. Instead, it was filled with several packages of what I guessed was heroin, along with a 9mm Makarov semi-automatic pistol. I checked the gun and found it was loaded.

I wasn't that familiar with the street value of heroin, but uncut, the two-plus kilos in the box would be worth a great deal. What I needed now was to give the police probable cause to search the place and find the stash. With any luck, the gun would be unregistered and that would be added to the charges.

I was about to put the ladder back when I heard the front door open and close. It would seem the tenant had returned.

"Rosalind!" he called in an unfriendly manner. "Where are you, you stupid bitch?"

Not exactly the heartfelt greeting I would have expected. I slipped my Beretta out of my back holster and waited to see where he would go. When he discovered Ros was gone, my guess was he would come right for the pantry to make sure his little box was still untouched. He would get a surprise.

"God damn it, Rosalind, where are you?" he hollered, clearly beginning to lose his temper. I could hear him stomping around the apartment, mumbling to himself as he looking for the missing woman.

He was finally convinced that she wasn't anywhere to be found and I heard him enter the kitchen. I knew what to expect next and I was ready for him.

As he opened the pantry door, I drove my fist into his face, my hand wrapped around a can of tomato paste. He dropped like a stone, blood spurting out of his nose and mouth. I stepped out and checked him for a weapon, not finding one with my one-handed frisk. He was beginning to regain his senses and looked up at me. It took only a second or two for him to recognize me.

"What the fuck are you doing in my home?" he spat, wiping blood from his face with the back of his hand.

"I just dropped in to say hello," I said, looking down at him.

He began to try and stand, but as he got half way, I kicked his feet out from under him and he slammed back down on the marble tile floor. I'm sure it must have hurt.

"You've been a bad boy, Johnny. Or should I call you Janus? I wonder what the INS will say when they find out you are using a false name and a false passport. Of course, they'll have to stand in line after the DEA and the NYPD"

"What are you talking about?" he growled, now having more trouble speaking from a fattening lip and a broken nose.

"I found your little box of happy powder and a gun that I'm guessing doesn't have a permit. I also took a very drugged woman out and sent her to hospital. I'm sure she'll be willing to tell us all about your activities when she's feeling better."

"They can't search this place," he grumbled. "There's no probable cause."

"Ah, but there is. It's called a material witness and since she was invited into your home, she can blow the whistle on you. I was invited in by her, so you don't have any complaint there either."

"I have people who take care of guys like you," he growled, attempting to sneer by not able to pull it off.

"Johnny, I never told you what part of government service I was in, but trust me, you don't scare me. In fact, if you knew, you'd be shitting your pants."

I had grabbed a couple of sets of plastic ties before we left Barnstable and took care of disabling his arms and feet. It would keep him immobile until the police arrived and I could explain what was going on. I walked to the kitchen phone and dialed a number I was familiar with.

"It's Rick, Solomon. I need a couple of reliable detectives to the following address." I read Johnson's address out. "The resident has a stash of heroin and has been feeding it to a woman without her knowledge. She's in a secure hospital now. The resident is also using a false passport and has a pistol that I would bet a large amount of money is unregistered. And in case you're wondering, I was invited into the apartment by the woman who was living here."

"Okay, Rick. Take it easy. I know you want this handled. Just sit tight until our guys arrive. We'll deal with the passport issue when we take him into custody."

"Good ... thanks, Solomon. Just like the old days, huh?"

"Not hardly. I'll see you later."

To Be Concluded