No Mercy

Chapter 1

Saturday, June 30, 10:31 pm

Jordan Grabel stuffed a twenty-dollar bill into a stripper’s G-string. Hey baby, you want some action after work? he asked, with a leering smile.

You’ll need more than this! the stripper said scornfully, waving the twenty-dollar bill in his face. Her name was Crystal Wiggins, a pole dancer at the Starlight Nightclub in Portland.

He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket. I have more where this came from, he said, placing his money on the bar where she could see it. He stared at her through beer-glazed eyes, longing to caress her D-cup breasts.

Grabel took a slug of Widmer Brothers Ale, his fifth bottle of the high powered brew. Crystal Wiggins was getting on his nerves. That bitch is not worth $300, he thought. I’ve had hotter girls than her for half as much. Maybe if I add some coke to the deal, she might come around. He’d laid every other hooker in the joint, but Crystal always thought she was a high-class ride.

He got up from the table and headed for the bathroom, a dingy room at the back of the building. He went into a toilet stall, and reached into his left hand pocket, where he found his cell phone and a packet of cocaine. He pulled out the phone, sprinkled some coke on the case, and sniffed the powder through a cocktail straw. He rolled his eyes a couple of times, then turned around and took a leak in the toilet. His cell phone started buzzing, and he opened it up.

Big flash mob at Holladay Park. It was the fourth message he’d gotten about that party. Scoring with Crystal would have to wait for another night. A party like that was a license to sell drugs. He had a kilo of coke in his car. We can sell that coke in a couple of hours, he thought. He glanced at his watch, surprised that it was already twenty before eleven.

He walked back to his seat at the stripper’s stage, where a dozen Skull Busters gangsters were gathered. They were drinking and yelling while the girls gyrated on their poles. He

motioned to the guys. There’s a big party at Holladay Park, and we should be able to move some coke over there. How many of you want in?

Half of the guys raised their hands, and Grabel said. We can take my rig. Let’s get going before it gets too late.

Eight guys went out the Starlight’s back entrance and walked to Jordan Grabel’s car, a 2011 Cadillac Escalade. Grabel pressed his remote control and opened the doors. He and his guys piled into the vehicle three rows deep. Once they were on their way, Grabel started talking. There’s a box on the seat with all of the coke. Everybody needs to take ten, and we need to get at least a hundred for each packet.

They arrived at 11:00 pm, and pulled into a parking lot adjacent to the park. The guys each pocketed their share of the cocaine, and before they left the car, Grabel said, Be sure to keep your phones on. If we have any trouble, I need to get hold of you. Grabel reached into his right front pocket, and grabbed his thirty-eight caliber Smith and Wesson revolver. Of the seven guns he owned, it was the easiest one to conceal. He didn’t plan on using it, but he never knew what might come up.

The gang split up, heading to different areas to sell their drugs. Grabel walked to the MAX train station, where a lot of druggies hung out. He went up to several partiers, and hit them with his usual pitch. I got some dynamite snow, he said.

Everybody he talked to turned him down, telling him they were already good. During the next half hour, Grabel worked his way through a mosh pit, where hundreds of people were partying in a drunken, dazed stupor. He only sold two packets of coke, and that was royally pissing him off. He found his friend Teddy Barnbrook, and they went to the center of the park.

Just as they arrived, a group of guys came out of nowhere and blocked their path. They were wearing 49er’s hats, the headgear for The East Side Boys.

The biggest guy in the group walked up to Grabel, face to face, and shoved him in the chest. You need to get the fuck out of here! the guy yelled. If you hang around, you’re dead!

Grabel counted ten angry guys staring at him. He inched his hand toward his gun, then pulled it away. Some of them might be packing, he thought, so he said, All right, and walked away from the group. He headed toward his car, incensed that another gang could intimidate him. There were way too many of them to fight. Goddamn it! he swore, under his breath, and when he reached his car, he started texting his gang.

We need to leave — meet me at the car, he texted. All of his guys showed up within ten minutes. After they arrived, Grabel pulled out his gun. These fuckers are going down! he hissed, seething with rage. Nobody does that shit and lives!

Cool it! snapped Teddy Barnbrook, who grabbed Grabel’s arm. We’ll get even some other time. This is not a good place to do it.

Grabel was livid. They hang at the Grand Emporium, he said. We’re going over there.

No one in the gang said a word. They knew better than to cross him. They got into the Cadillac, and Grabel started the engine. He tore through the side streets like a race driver, weaving his way to Grand Avenue, where he headed south on the one-way street. He turned east onto Morrison, and drove to the Grand Emporium. He circled the block, and found a parking space on 9th Street, along the end of the building.

Grabel got out of the car, with his hand on his gun. His guys bunched up behind him. He came around the corner, and saw a woman standing at the end of the building. He stared at the woman, who quickly turned around and went inside. He strutted down the sidewalk toward the entrance. When he arrived, a man came out the door and looked at Grabel.

We’re getting ready to close, he said.

You talking to me? Grabel snarled.

The guy backed up a step, and held up his hands. I guess so, he muttered.

Grabel shoved him in the chest. Get out of my way! he yelled.

The guy staggered backwards. We’re closing, he repeated.

Fuck you! Grabel yelled. He pulled his gun and fired twice.

The man screamed, and fell to the sidewalk, with blood gushing from his head. Grabel stared at his guys, who stood there wide-eyed and stunned. Let’s go! he shouted, and he sprinted the length of the building, with his gang members close behind. They jumped into his car, and as they sped away, Grabel hissed, You breathe a word of this, you’re dead!

Chapter 2

Sunday, July 1, 12:22 am

It was the worst kind of murder to investigate. The kind that happens in plain sight, with lots of witnesses. Only these witnesses weren’t talking, in fact, they all just disappeared.

Homicide detective Brett Murphy pulled up in front of the Grand Emporium at 12:20 am. The place was mayhem, with police cruisers everywhere, crime scene tape, and red and blue lights flashing. A plastic tarp covered a body that was lying on the sidewalk.

Murphy saw Jim Stanton standing next to the body. He walked up to Stanton, a good friend from way back. What the hell do we have here? Murphy asked.

The victim’s name is Doug Lambert. He was the night manager at this place. A waitress stepped outside just before closing at midnight, and she saw a bunch of guys coming around that corner, over there, he said, pointing down the street. She went back inside and asked Lambert to check them out. So Lambert went outside, and someone shot him twice in the head. Nobody saw anything, except for the bastards who ran off!

She’s our only witness?

That’s right. She heard two shots from inside the club. She came running out and found him dead. Stanton stopped for a moment, and asked, You got that so far?

Sure, said Murphy. What else do you know?

She started screaming and ran back inside. The bartender called 911, and when we got here, all we saw was this body and the guy who called us.

It sounds like a gang, said Murphy.

That wouldn’t surprise me, Stanton replied.

Brett extended his hand. I need a flashlight, he said.

Stanton pulled a flashlight out of his belt and handed it to Murphy.

I have to check this guy out, Murphy said. He took a deep breath before he pulled back the tarp. He shined the light on Lambert’s head. Two dark holes stared back at him, one on each side of his forehead. The back of his head was a mess, a splatter of brains and blood on the pavement.

He probably saw the shooter, Brett observed. He slowly turned the body back and forth, searching for more bullet holes. When he didn’t find any, he looked at Stanton. Right in front of the door, he said.

They made no effort to conceal it, Stanton replied.

Murphy felt tired already, and rubbed his eyes. He walked down the sidewalk alongside the Grand Emporium. It was a big building, stretching nearly fifty yards along the street. There weren’t any windows in front, the only glass was the double doors at the entrance. Unless someone was coming out the door, they couldn’t see anything from inside, Murphy said. He was starting to feel hopeless. Have you been in there yet?

I went inside right after I got here, said Stanton, but I’m afraid it’s a dead end. We secured the whole place, figuring there’d be plenty of witnesses. But obviously that’s not the case. Nobody inside had any connection with the people outside. The waitress was the only one who heard the shots.

When they walked through the entrance door, Murphy was surprised by what he saw. The Grand Emporium was a striking place, with bowling lanes, a bar and grill and a game room, all grouped together under one roof. There were big screen TVs on all the walls, and lots of booths lined the aisles. Murphy turned to Stanton. Where’s the witness? he asked.

She’s over there, he said, pointing to a booth near the bar. They walked to the booth and Stanton said, You’re Sandy Preston, is that right?

I’m Sandy, she replied.

This is Detective Murphy, Stanton continued. He’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.

She nodded her head and Brett studied her for a moment. She was trim and attractive with long brown hair. Her eyes were bloodshot and she had traces of mascara running down her face. I’d like you to walk me through this, said Murphy, what you saw and where you saw it.

It was awful! she exclaimed. One minute he was here, and the next minute he was gone. Her mouth started to quiver while she spoke. I took a break about fifteen minutes before we closed. I went outside to have a cigarette.

Brett nodded his head. We need to go out there so you can show me where you were, he said. He guided her toward the front door and they stepped outside. Preston glanced at Lambert’s body and grimaced. She walked a few steps away from the door.

I was having a cigarette right here, she said, and I saw a group of guys come around that corner. She pointed east on Morrison to the end of the building. One guy was out in front, and he was staring at me. I put out my cigarette and went back inside. I didn’t want to be out here alone.

Was there anyone else around, other than these men?

I didn’t see anyone. It was quiet by that time of night.

Did you get a good look at them?

No, I didn’t, she replied. The only light was these streetlights, and I didn’t get a close look at any of them.

Could you tell what they were wearing?

Mostly dark clothes, and a couple of baseball caps. The guy in front wasn’t wearing a hat.

Did the caps have any logos, like sports teams? he asked.

It was too dark. I couldn’t see any.

Did you see any women, or was it all men?

I didn’t see any women.

Could you tell if they were black or white?

I don’t think they were black. I probably would have noticed that.

How close did they get before you went back inside?

She walked east on Morrison about thirty feet from the entrance. They were about right here, she said.

What did you do when you went back in the building? asked Brett.

I went to the bar and saw Doug. I told him there were some guys by the front door, and I asked him to check them out. So he said sure, and he went out the door.

She suddenly started crying. God! she wailed. I shouldn’t have asked him to do that! He didn’t wait at all. He came out here right away!

When did you hear the shots?

It was less than a minute! she exclaimed. So I ran back out here.

What did you see?

I saw Doug lying there, she said, pointing at his body underneath the tarp. I could see blood around his head. I started screaming and I ran back inside. Then Jerry called 911, and the police showed up a few minutes later.

Did you see anyone out here when you found Doug?

She shook her head. I didn’t see anybody, but I was scared someone would kill me, so I ran back inside.

Okay, said Murphy. Let’s go back to the booth. I have a few more questions.

Once they were seated, Murphy asked Sandy, What can you tell me about Lambert?

Doug was a great guy. He worked here nights and weekends, and he could do everything in this place. He ran the computers and the bowling equipment. He had a day job as a computer consultant. Sandy shook her head sadly. He’s engaged to a nice woman named Joanne Hudson. Doug brought her here for dinner a few times, and I waited on them. I guess you’ll have to tell her what happened.

Were there any problems tonight? Brett asked. Did Doug have to throw anybody out of here?

No, he didn’t! she said. We have a pretty nice crowd in here. We haven’t had a fight in three or four months. It’s a bowling and Blazers crowd, and they just aren’t that bad.

Brett nodded his head. I guess we can wrap this up, he said. I’ll have two officers escort you home, and they’ll be staying in front of your house for a couple nights. Here’s my card if you can think of anything else.

She grabbed his card. I hope you catch these guys right away! she exclaimed. What they did was terrible!

Murphy’s expression turned fierce. I’ll find the killer, if it’s the last thing I ever do. You can count on it!

Thank you, said Sandy, who left the booth and walked to the bar.

Murphy saw Jim Stanton talking to two patrolmen. He walked over to Stanton and said, I need two men to escort Sandy Preston home, and I want to station a cruiser outside her house for the next forty-eight hours. It looks like she’s our only witness.

Stanton nodded his head. I’ll get Parker and Jensen, he said.

Murphy looked around and noticed about fifteen people still inside, talking in groups of three or four. Try to get a statement from everybody here, he said, motioning around the room. If anything comes up, let me know.

I’ll get right on it, Stanton replied.

Murphy watched as Stanton went back outside to gather his patrolmen. He felt unbearably frustrated. It was a horrible way to start a murder investigation. An utterly senseless murder, and all the witnesses just disappeared. How could they cover for a killer? Worthless bastards, that’s what they were! They’d get no mercy from him when he tracked them down.

Chapter 3

Thursday, July 5, 11:37 am

Brett Murphy felt like his week was going nowhere. The harder he worked on the Doug Lambert murder, the further he felt from solving the case. He looked at his boss Ben Carter, who sat across from him at a desk. Carter was reviewing the Doug Lambert case file. How are you coming on this one? he asked Murphy. I’d love to get this one off the books.

It’s a black hole, said Brett. I was there until nine on Sunday morning, and I don’t have any suspects. The only evidence I found were the bullets. They’re thirty-eights, probably a Smith and Wesson, so we can get a match if I find the murder weapon.

What about witnesses, Brett. Who do you have?

My only witness was a waitress named Sandy Preston. She saw a group of guys outside just before closing, but they all disappeared after the murder. She heard the gunshots from inside the building, but no one else heard a thing. I sent Stanton’s guys through the neighborhood, but nobody saw anything.

What’s in the coroner’s report?

I just got that back a few hours ago, and there were no signs of a struggle. Lambert took two bullets through the brain, and they were well-placed shots, one on each side of the forehead. I’d say the shooter knew what he was doing.

You checked all the overnights for Saturday? asked Carter.

I sure did, said Brett. It was a crazy night. There was a brawl near a MAX stop on 82nd Avenue, and a rape at the Springwater Corridor. A dozen kids went crazy near Reed College, and they were arrested for cocaine possession. They were out yelling in the middle of the night, so the neighbors called 911. Talk about a bunch of morons.

It happens every year at that school, said Carter.

I saw one thing that might have a connection, said Brett. There was a big flash mob party at Holladay Park that started about eight o’clock. That place was rocking by eleven, and there must have been close to a thousand people there. A couple under covers were working that gig, but they only busted a few kids. They were afraid of a riot if they cracked down on the mob. The party didn’t break up until four in the morning.

That place is a zoo! Carter exclaimed. They push more drugs at Holladay than any other park.

Tell me about it, said Brett. One of my informants said the East Side Boys were there all night, and they sold a ton of drugs. They have a stranglehold on that part of town, and my informant didn’t think any other gangs were around. The party was still going strong when Lambert was murdered, so I don’t think the East Side Boys were involved. I’m guessing they didn’t want to leave.

That’s a big gang, said Carter. Maybe some of their guys went to the Grand Emporium.

I don’t think that happened, said Brett. But I’ll check it out.

What about the weekend gang reports?

God, what a dead end, said Murphy. There was nothing else going on in that area.

Damn, said Carter. This one really sucks.

I’m leaning on every informant in Portland, said Brett. I’m offering to clear some warrants if they can give me a lead. Somebody in this town knows something. I just have to find out who it is.

Chapter 4

Thursday, July 5, 7:03 pm

The woman who answered the door had been crying. Her face was streaked with tears and her lips were quivering. He did not look forward to this meeting. It was never easy to comfort a grief-stricken woman.

Brett studied the woman before talking. She had shoulder length blond hair that was tied in the back with a hair band. Her face was angular, with deep blue eyes that were red and swollen. She wore copper colored eyeglasses that complimented her hair, and her face was devoid of makeup, etched with a sadness that Brett could only imagine.

Brett stood in the doorway and said, I’m Brett Murphy. Are you Joanne Hudson?

I am, she replied. Come on in. She stepped aside as he entered the home. He glanced around the living room, which was decorated with modern furniture and colorful art. Have a seat, she said, motioning to a leather chair along one wall.

If this isn’t a good time, I can come back tomorrow, Brett said.

That’s okay, she said dully. This is as good a time as any.

Thank you, he replied. It’s nice to meet you. I wish the circumstances were different.

Isn’t that the truth, she said softly.

‘I’ve been told you’re Doug Lambert’s fiancé. Is that correct?"

That’s right, she said.

I’m really sorry about Doug. I know this has to be horrible for you, and I appreciate you seeing me tonight.

Joanne wrapped her face in her hands and started crying, and Brett sat there quietly, not sure what to say. She eventually stopped sobbing and looked up at Brett. I still can’t believe it, she said. How could a stranger just kill him like that?

He’s a monster, said Brett. There’s no other way to explain it.

You’re right! she agreed, wiping her eyes. I’m sure Doug didn’t provoke him.

That’s what makes this such a terrible killing, said Brett. I’ll do everything in my power to avenge his murder.

I appreciate it, she said.

This is one of the most cold-blooded murders I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen some terrible things in my life. Doug only had time to step outside, and then he was shot. It happened within seconds.

That’s what I read in the newspaper, she said.

This is a death penalty murder, but that means nothing in Oregon, because no one ever gets executed, said Brett. The last time that happened was in 1996, and only then because the killer volunteered.

I didn’t realize that, said Joanne.

It’s an outrage when these killers avoid execution, said Brett.

You’re right about that, said Joanne. It sounds like a travesty to me.

It is, but I can do something about it, said Brett. He hesitated for a second. I want to ask you a question, and I need an honest answer, okay?

Sure, said Joanne. Go right ahead.

Would a prison sentence be enough punishment for the man who killed Doug?

Joanne shook her head. Not at all, she said.

If I can find Doug’s killer, do you want him dead?

A spark of anger flashed in her eyes. Of course! she replied.

Good! said Brett. One way or another, I guarantee that will happen.

I sure hope you find him, she said. I don’t want him to get away with this.

Don’t worry, said Brett. He’s as good as dead already!

Chapter 5

Tuesday, July 10, 4:03 pm

Frank Peralta was the head of a business that brought in millions of dollars a year, but his name didn’t appear in the Business Journal or the local news. He had more than two hundred employees, but he didn’t pay workmen’s compensation or unemployment. He had thousands of clients, but he didn’t have a website or a company brochure. He made lots of money in music, but he didn’t stage concerts or own a record label.

Most of his workers hadn’t met him, in fact they didn’t even know his name. Secrecy was his stock in trade, and he was invisible to the outside world. The bottom end of his business was all cash, the top end all numbered accounts. His products were the things that people craved, meth and coke and heroin and weed. Frank Peralta was head of The Club, Oregon’s largest drug ring.

Frank Peralta ran The Club like a business, which indeed it was. His operation was digitized, using the most secure systems that money could buy. Every drug purchase, every money transfer, every dead drop ran through his digital machine. None of those back alley deals for him!

Peralta wouldn’t let just any drug dealer join The Club. They had to be successful and they had to be smart. He ran background checks on his members that rivaled the FBI. His dealers couldn’t be addicted, they couldn’t be boozers, and they couldn’t gamble their lives away. They had to have savings and property, too. People with nothing to lose were a terrible choice.

He compared his operation to the Portland street gangs. They killed each other for dime bags! During the past few months, they’d been on an absolute tear. Someone insulted a dude’s girlfriend, and suddenly a gangster was dead. Or someone got killed for no reason, like that night manager at the Grand Emporium. It was complete madness, they were all raging psychos, carving up a smaller and smaller pie.

His dealers lived in another world entirely. They’d order their product, they’d pick it up at the drop, they’d wire their payment to The Club, and sell all the dope to their friends. Their customers were people with money, willing to pay top dollar for the best drugs in the world. The payments came in every month, just like an annuity. And once his dealers were part of The Club, they’d rarely go back to the old violent ways. There were no back alley meetings and no guns in the belt.

Frank Peralta owned a company that was his business face to the outside world. The company’s name was FTP Trading, and it had offices in the Pearl District of Portland. It was a commodities house that traded investments like oil and gold futures. It was the perfect shield for his drug operation.

Frank Peralta’s biggest charade in life was the illusion that FTP Trading was a legitimate business. It was one of those enterprises that people didn’t understand. And most people thought it made Peralta a lot of money, especially since he lived in Portland’s most expensive neighborhood.

He had six employees working in FTP Trading, making more money than any other trading house in town. His profits from The Club subsidized the operation, and none of his FTP employees knew the nature of his real business. Peralta kept his office in the same building, in a separate suite of rooms, but his private office was a fortress that people rarely entered.

From his secure enclave, Peralta directed his enterprise like a conductor leading a symphony. In addition to his network of dealers, Peralta had a lock on the Pacific Northwest’s music festivals. They were prolific money machines that made millions every year. He’d been working on the Oregon Death March music festival for two weeks.

He knew just the mix of drugs the users out there would desire. The last of the dead drops would be going out tonight, and they would produce a half-million dollar payday in just three days. But what looked like Nirvana was in fact Fool’s Gold. The wreckage from the Oregon Death March would threaten everything he loved, from his Forest Park mansion to his trophy wife Allison to his motor yacht Serenity.

Chapter 6

Wednesday, July 11, 1:38 am

Butch Hobbs checked his rearview mirror to make sure no one was following him. He crept through the woods on Old Germantown Road. The road wasn’t frequented by police, but they always seemed to be around at the wrong time. He didn’t like these rural dead drops. It was a pain in the ass to drive out there in the middle of the night.

He searched for a red reflector, and saw it up ahead on the right. He turned into a little dirt road, barely more than a path, and followed it into the woods. He guided his Jeep around rocks and potholes, grateful for the four-wheel drive. The road ended about a half mile from the highway. He saw a tall, thick fir tree at the end. A faint trail disappeared into the woods alongside the tree. He grabbed a flashlight, climbed out of the vehicle, and walked down the trail for about one hundred yards, stepping over a couple of fallen tree limbs along the way. It was the kind of place where he could bury a body that never could be found.

Hobbs came to a small clearing, with an area of brush off to his right. He shined the light into the brush and found the package, a sturdy cardboard box wrapped in shrink wrap. He picked up the package and headed back to his car. He unlocked the rear gate and placed it inside. He had a tight deadline, and he had to get that box.

He returned to the main road and checked for lights in both directions. Seeing none, he turned left and drove carefully toward Portland. He would never want to be caught with that package in his possession. It took him 30 minutes to reach his home on the southeast side of town.

Hobbs lived in an older two bedroom bungalow, not far from Portland’s trendy Hawthorne District. There was a detached two car garage next to the house, with a driveway in