The Fall and Rise of Cain. Greg T. Nelson

into Houston traffic. The trip toward Granger's house was almost as tense as the flight had been. Clifford was pissed at being chewed out by a gimp in a bathroom. Without asking I lit a cigar and cracked the window before addressing the problem, “Let’s agree that you don’t like being called an asshole and I don’t like being ordered around, especially while I’m pissing.”

      It must have made some sense to him or maybe he just remembered he was stuck with me cause he eased up on the gas and mumbled, “OK, but open the window some more will ya.” I complied and settled back for the twenty-minute ride to Granger’s house.

      In addition to five pro sports franchises, the largest theater district next to New York and the world’s largest annual rodeo, Houston also has about four and a half million people and it always seems they’re driving at the same time. This did not trouble Clifford Childs in the least. While the rest of humanity struggled through the infamous Houston snarl, Clifford cruised up and down back streets and little-known shortcuts with the ease of a studied expert. With skill usually acquired by years in a cab or a patrol car, he timed lights, cut through parking lots and crowded slower cars out of his preferred lane. I was silently impressed when he turned into River Oaks ten minutes quicker than I could have without a siren.

      The house was just like I remembered, huge. Complete with pool and guesthouse, it was walled all around and crowded with nicely trimmed pine trees towering over always-mowed grass. The white columns framed a front door big enough to drive the Lincoln through. Judith had never lived on the estate. Granger had brought it after she went to college. She had grown up on a dozen different military bases. Oh, she had keys and gate codes but I sometimes got the idea she never went there unless I was with her. It wasn’t that she was afraid of her father. She just seemed to act tougher when around him. Like she had to wear emotional armor to be near him. I had talked with him a few times while Judith and Carol were out of the room visiting but even though he was civil enough it was obvious he never liked me. Always a snide remark here and there about how stupid he thought cops were or how stupid he thought Texan’s were or how really stupid Texas Cops were. I had always assumed it was suspicion on his part. Of me, a man twice her age, spending so much time with his little girl. I mentioned it to Judith once and she got a dark look about her, “Screw him Rich, what he thinks doesn’t matter.”

      Clifford parked at the front door and I got out with my bag and followed him up the steps. Clifford opened it without knocking and waited till I was inside before closing it behind me. He gestured down the hall, “General Granger left something for you to see in the office.” I can move pretty fast on the cane when I have to but it tends to wear me out so I let Clifford outpace me. I arrived at the office door after he had opened it and stepped inside. I wished I’d stayed at Barnaby’s.

      Chapter 3

      The room was dark and there was a ten-foot projection screen against the far wall. It was an action film but there were no star players. On the day Judith had gotten killed there was a news crew covering a strike at the Ship Channel and a very unlucky cameraman had dutifully covered the whole mess as it unfolded. I had been told about the tape but I was never tempted to watch it. I had seen the whole thing a thousand times in nightmares awake and asleep. I watched now, shocked to see Judith alive and standing beside me, her only friend, the guy who was supposed to take care of her.

      The video had started with a pretty reporter, Loren something, speaking to the camera about security problems and striking workers but the Cameraman had whispered something to her and his pointing finger came into view. The picture swiveled to center on Judith and me, as we stood low behind my Crown Victoria, guns were drawn. Beyond us, about two hundred feet away four men with machine guns were standing over three armored truck guards that were laying prone on the ground.

      My breath caught in my throat and I could feel my heart pounding. In the blink of an eye, Philly Granger’s office was gone, I was back on the ship channel pier living it all over again. There was the smell of rank seawater and gull crap and metallic taste of adrenaline. I heard the tugboat horns felt Judith’s shoulder against mine as we watched hell unfold.

      I was the Sergeant of the Violent Offenders Task Force. That meant I could make my own cases and draw resources as needed from the SWAT or patrol divisions. But when Judith recognized a pattern to a series of armored car heist there was too much going on to get any help. The Major League Baseball All-Star Game was in Houston that week and the mayor had cops doing important stuff like crowd control and arresting ticket scalpers near the new stadium. Judith had worked out that five robberies, all in the ship channel area, all on paydays and all at about 2 p.m. were the same bad guys. We were supposed to just cruise around and look for anything odd and scream for help if anything started to happen. If no help came, fine. We’d just watch the robbery like tourists and maybe try to follow the bad guys home. It didn’t work out that way. I parked the city’s car behind a row of double stacked barrels when we had spotted one of the Pro Security Armored trucks parked near a container ship. They did that a lot. Pick up high dollar items from Europe and Asia stored in vaults aboard cargo ships. Stuff too heavy or too delicate to fly. I got on the radio as soon as we saw the black van approach from the other end of the pier and stopped about 100 yards away from the truck. It was all too far away from us to stop without getting the guards in the middle of the fight.

      “Victor 12, Central”

      “Central, go ahead Victor 12”

      “Two man car at Atwater and Jamison Pier 10, Agg robbery in progress, need assistance.”

      It seemed like forever but I knew the task force dispatcher was using other radio channels to find us some help and after a few seconds,

      “Victor 12, DPS and SO units enroute will contact you this channel.”

      I waited and after another few seconds...

      “Tom 16, Victor 12, we’re on the way ETA 10 minutes.”

      “That’s Clear Tom 16, ten minutes.”

      There was nothing else to say. 10 minutes meant 10 minutes and nothing I could do would make them get here any quicker. So Judith and I just leaned against the car and watched the show. Sweat was running down my neck and there was no hint of a breeze.

      As two armed guards made their way down the gangway from the ship, one pulling a two wheel dolly and the other carrying a shotgun and looking bored, the black van eased slowly toward them. When the two guards made it to the truck the back door opened and a third guard got out to help. It was then that the van sped up and screeched to a halt in front of the armored truck, blocking its escape. The driver of the black van stayed at the wheel and four men wearing simple gray coveralls filed out the side door. They each wore a blue backpack and each carried a UZI assault pistol. Moving with practiced speed, they were on top of the guards before any reaction was possible. All the guards wore holstered pistols but only one had a shotgun in hand. He never got a chance to use it. The leader of the van’s assault team hit him square across the forehead with a machine pistol and snatched the shotgun as he fell.

      We were too far away to hear any voices but the two remaining guards raised their hands and after being relieved of their pistols, they lay down next to the injured man. One of the jumpsuits stood guard as another quickly handcuffed each of their hands behind their backs. The other two made several trips, moving canvas bags and aluminum cases from the dolly and the armored truck to the back of the van. The whole thing took maybe two minutes.

      Judith was as frustrated as I was, “We just going to watch this Sarge?” She called me Sarge like she was pissed but I understood and replied calmly, “Well kid, we got maybe 60 rounds between us and they got machine guns with a hundred rounds apiece, so Yeah we’re just going to watch.”

      It was a good plan, wait for the troops to get here and take ‘em on the only road off the piers. It was three miles long with no turnoffs, time was on our side. Then time switched sides on us. Instead of turning and going back the way it had come, the van drove right for us. We tried to look small behind my Ford. I had noticed the news crew when they arrived but didn’t think about them now.

      It was then the cameraman’s bad luck came into play. The driver of