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Spielberg took notes. He was disappointed. He wanted to find Jessica and her boyfriend. They handed Brandy their business cards and instructed her to get in contact with them if any new information came about. She lied, saying she would. The agents and Spielberg made their exit.
Brandy sighed with relief. But deep inside, she knew it was far from over.
24
Maserati Meek felt like he was on fire in the hot seat. The bullet in his shoulder hurt like hell. Another bullet grazed his head. The pain was searing. He bled profusely all over the backseat of the Escalade. The driver saved his life, though. His reaction time was on point when Meek dove headfirst into the backseat and screamed, “Go! Go!”
The driver slammed his foot against the accelerator and screeched tires, speeding away from the shootout. The front end of the Escalade smashed into a parked car, but they continued moving. Maserati Meek hollered from the pain and collapsed on his back against the leather. His breathing was frail. It felt like his arm was about to fall off. The right side of his body had gone numb, the hole in his flesh from the 50 cal was gaping, and there was blood on his head. Although the pain was agonizing, he was still alive. He had escaped death by the skin o
f his teeth.
“No hospitals!” Meek had told his driver.
He knew their policy was to contact the authorities when treating gunshot wounds. The last thing he needed was cops in his face.
“Oh, these sneaky muthafuckas,” he said. “They come at me and miss, eh? I’m gonna kill their families.”
He didn’t get a good look the culprits that attempted to take his life. They’d killed two of his men, and his money—two million dollars—was left on the sidewalk for the vultures to pick apart. He had an idea who was behind the attack. Panamanian Pete. He was the only one with the money and reliable sources to track him down. Somehow, Pete had caught him slipping, but no more.
“Take me to Westchester. I already got a doctor on standby,” he told the driver.
***
Twenty-four hours later, Meek sat in the swanky doctor’s home with thick bandages on his shoulder and head. The trusted doctor had stopped the major bleeding by applying a tourniquet to the wound and then cauterizing the injury by applying hot metal to it in two- to three-second bursts. It was extremely painful, but it was needed.
Meek had to stay calm, which he was. Allah wouldn’t allow him to die. The doctor had removed the bullet from his body, cleaned his wounds, sewn him up, and applied a few gauze pads to the damage. Now he needed to rest. The doctor had a spare room in his home where Meek could recuperate—all for a generous price of course.
The only company Meek wanted around him was his Muslim brothers. He wanted to plan more attacks. He wanted to find Panamanian Pete and show him the true wrath of Allah. Two million dollars of his money was gone because of Pete, and it made Maserati Meek sick.
***
The call came in to 26 Federal Plaza from the East Brunswick Police Department before noon. A detective asked to speak to an agent. It was urgent. Within five minutes of calling, Agent Seitz answered the call from New Jersey.
“Agent Seitz here, what’s the reason for this phone call?”
“My name is Detective Hint from East Brunswick PD, and I’m calling because we have a body here—a Jane Doe—and I think she’s the woman the FBI has been searching for. She might be Jessica Hernandez.”
Immediately, the Jersey detective had Agent Seitz’s ear. The news reached the primary detectives on the case and Spielberg, and within two hours of the phone call, they were arriving at the East Brunswick Municipal building. The FBI in the area was a big deal. They walked with certainty into the building, and Spielberg was right behind them, riding their coattails, watching and learning. He was critical to them because he was the arresting officer of Jessica at the tunnel. He’d had words with her. He knew what she looked like. He was there to identify her body—to make sure it was her in the morgue.
They soon met with Detective Hint, a tall, slim white male with piercing blue eyes and a sandy goatee. He was dressed sharply. The conversation between him and the agents was brief. They were guided to the city morgue, and inside the cold, gray room, the medical examiner pulled a body out of the freezer. She removed the white sheet and presented to them a naked Hispanic female that had been shot in the head, which left her face a little disfigured.
“We found her a few days ago on the side of the road—Helmetta Boulevard. It’s a secluded place in the park. A jogger discovered her early in the morning. She had no I.D. on her, and her fingerprints weren’t in AFIS,” said Detective Hint.
Officer Spielberg instantly knew it was her. She was a pretty girl, but now she was cold and her face contorted with death. Despite that bitch that she was, he was sad to see her like this.
“Yes, it’s the same girl I arrested the other day. It’s Jessica,” Officer Spielberg confirmed.
“Shit!” an agent uttered with frustration.
Someone had gotten to her before they could. It was a disappointment to them. Whoever these people were, they were definitely covering their tracks. Officer Spielberg couldn’t help feeling accountable somewhat—if only they had gotten to her before her arraignment, maybe she would still be alive. But there was still someone else to track down—Eshon. Now it was essential that they find her before she was killed too.
The medical examiner covered the body and the men left the room. They smoked a cigarette outside the building, talked amongst themselves, and then piled back into the car to drive back to the city. Next move, find Eshon Williams. They barely had a description of her, and they couldn’t put out an APB or go to the media. They typed her name into the computer, and nothing came back. Eshon Williams had no pictures, no warrants, and no priors—nothing. So far she was clean. It was frustrating, like hitting a brick wall, and there was no way around it.
They needed this girl alive. If she knew that they were looking for her, chances were she might run. So the feds had a few tricks up their sleeves, and one was tapping Brandy’s cell phone. Trick number two? Surveillance. Eshon was out there, and maybe Brandy might lead them to her. It was one reason why they didn’t detain her. They needed her free—she would be their trail of breadcrumbs.
While driving back to NYC, Officer Spielberg was quiet with his attention fixed on nothing in particular out the passenger window. His mind was spinning with thoughts. Then it dawned on him—the girl that came to the precinct looking for her friend—looking for Jessica. Though she’d said her name was Stephanie Brown, he believed the woman was actually Eshon.
In a way, it all started to add up to him. But something was wrong. He had to piece it all together—he had to, and he wouldn’t rest until he had Eshon in his clutches and got to the bottom of everything. For terrorists to attack a nightclub, and then a project building in Harlem—it didn’t make any sense to him. Why? Why these two locations, when the city had so many other prime targets that would make a stronger statement?
