Massacre

by Steven Henry

  “That’s what you tell yourself?” she replied, curling herself against him. They were sitting on her couch, glasses of Glen D scotch on the table. Rolf, damp and bedraggled, sulked in the kitchen. The NYPD hadn’t figured out how to train a dog to like being bathed.

  “Aye,” he agreed pleasantly. “My priest, on the other hand, tells me to stop sinning so much. Then he gives me a few Hail Marys and Our Fathers as penance.”

  “You do that?” she asked, straightening and turning to look at him.

  “Aye,” he said again. “Don’t you? You’re a Catholic lass.”

  “Well, yeah, but not regularly.” In point of fact, Erin couldn’t quite remember how long it’d been since she’d been to Confession. “You’re one of those gangsters, huh?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Just what are you meaning by that, darling?”

  “Commit crimes six days of the week, go to church, repent, and call it a wash?”

  She’d said it in a half-joking tone, but Carlyle didn’t smile. “You think a lad doesn’t worry about his soul, just on account of being in the Life?” he asked quietly.

  “No, that’s not what I meant,” she said. Then she paused. “Well, maybe it is. I don’t know. I guess I don’t quite see how you can go to church, doing… what you do.”

  “You told me I was a good man, once upon a time,” he said.

  “Yeah,” she said. “But…”

  He waited.

  Erin laughed ruefully. “Okay, you’re right. I’m prejudiced. And maybe I’m feeling a little weird, because I haven’t gone to church in a while.”

  “You could come to Mass with me.”

  “This is a funny line of conversation from a guy who’s hoping to get his girl in bed with him,” she said.

  Then he did laugh. “That’s something I’m not meaning to say at Confession.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to confess all your sins?”

  “Aye, but I’ll not lie to my priest, nor to God. I can only confess them if I’m repentant. I don’t regret a moment of time I’ve spent with you, Erin.”

  She kissed him. “I bet you could talk your way out of Purgatory if you had to.”

  “Maybe,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “I’ve talked my way out of rooms where I knew at least one lad meant to kill me. And those lads were a sight less forgiving than the Almighty. It’s a fine skill, and one you’d do well to cultivate. You don’t know when your life may depend on your ability to talk a gangster around to your point of view.”

  “I don’t know how you do it,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. “Hang out with guys like that.”

  “You’d be surprised what you can do, when you’ve no other choice. And on that subject, I’ve spoken with Liam.”

  Erin sat up again. “You set up a meeting?”

  “Aye. Not at the Corner, I fear. Mr. McIntyre is otherwise occupied tomorrow, but he’s agreed to clear up a bit of time. He’ll be at the Amsterdam Billiards Club over on Eleventh Street, expecting you at eleven.”

  “You think he’s got anything useful for me?”

  “We’ll not know until we talk to him.”

  “You’re planning on being there?”

  “If you’ll have me. Liam’s a mite twitchy, as you well know, and he’s not accustomed to talking to coppers under social circumstances. I’m thinking I can steady him down a bit.”

  “Should I meet you there?”

  “I’m thinking that’s best.”

  “How romantic,” she said. “Inviting your girl to go hang out with a drug dealer the next morning.”

  “It’s hardly my idea of fun either,” he said. “But it’s business. However, I did say business could wait for morning.” He drew her in close.

  Erin set aside her thoughts on the case and surrendered to the moment. Here and now, she was with the man she loved. That was good enough for her. Carlyle was right. Tomorrow could take care of itself.

  Chapter 5

  Erin woke to the harsh buzz of her alarm. She reflexively rolled over and stabbed a finger onto the snooze button. Beside her, Carlyle stirred slightly but didn’t wake up. He was an alert, perceptive man, but he wasn’t a morning person. She eased her way out from under the sheets and slipped into her running clothes. As she pulled on her sweats, she glanced back at the man sleeping in her bed.

  It was crazy, she knew it. He shouldn’t be there. She shouldn’t have let him into her life, let alone her bedroom. But she couldn’t help smiling at him. His face, so alert and watchful when he was awake, was relaxed. He looked younger when he was sleeping, more at peace with himself. And the fact that he trusted her enough to fall asleep in her apartment touched her. He lived in a damned reinforced fortress with armed men protecting him, but he let his guard down for her.

  Erin shook her head. “Come on, boy,” she whispered to Rolf, jingling his leash. He was already on his paws, ready and willing, the indignity of his bath forgiven.

  She and her partner left her apartment building and started jogging, angling through the park across the street. A slim young man in a dark gray coat was standing by a park bench. He nodded politely as she passed him.

  Erin skidded to a halt as recognition hit her. “Ian?”

  “Ma’am.”

  She instinctively checked his hands. They were in his pockets, which could be because it was a brisk March morning, or he could be holding a pistol. Ian Thompson was one of Carlyle’s guys, a bodyguard and driver. He was also a former Marine Scout Sniper and, according to Carlyle, the single most dangerous man in New York City.

  He certainly didn’t look dangerous. He was smaller than average, face neutral, manners flawless. He carried a sort of stillness with him. But Erin had been a cop for twelve years, and something about Ian set off all her street warning signals. He was a little too still, and under that stillness was tension, like a high-voltage cable.

  It couldn’t possibly be a coincidence that he was here, while his boss was sleeping inside. But he’d also protected Erin in the past, and had never been anything but polite. She honestly didn’t know what to make of him, but couldn’t help liking him a little.

  “Just in the neighborhood?” she asked.

  “Working, ma’am.”

  She gave him a look. “You haven’t been out here all night, have you?”

  Ian shrugged.

  “It’s thirty degrees,” she said.

  “After a while you don’t notice the cold. It helps keep you awake, if you keep moving. I’ve been out on worse nights.”

  “You could get picked up for loitering.”

  “I move around.”

  “That’s a little creepy.”

  “No excuse, ma’am. Sorry for disturbing you.” He turned and walked away from her, along the sidewalk in front of her building.

  Erin shook her head again. Carlyle trusted Ian completely, a rare thing in the Mob. If he wanted to spend all night on a Manhattan street, who was she to argue? And oddly, she did feel a little safer knowing he was out there. Rolf was looking at her, wagging his tail, ready for their run to continue. She obliged him.

  She let herself back into the apartment, gave Rolf his breakfast, and climbed into the shower. By the time she came out, wrapping one towel around herself and another around her hair, Carlyle was up and pulling on his trousers. He’d been woken by the running water.

  “Morning, darling,” he said, coming over to give her a kiss. She ran her hands over his shoulders, savoring the feel of his skin against hers.

  “Morning,” she replied. “I ran into your boy Ian outside.”

  Carlyle sighed. “I told the lad he could go home. He seems to think I’m in some sort of danger.”

  “Aren’t you always?”

  “It’s a matter of degrees. He’s of the opinion the unsettled atmosphere in this city is making it more likely someone’s intending to take a shot at me.”

  “Why you?” Erin asked. “You’re not in the drug business.”

  “I asked him th
at myself,” Carlyle said, buttoning his shirt. “He said incoming fire doesn’t discriminate.”

  “Could just be hyperawareness,” she said. “That happens to a lot of combat veterans. They get really nervous all the time, assuming threats are out there.”

  He nodded. “That doesn’t make him wrong, but I imagine you’re right. I’m not particularly worried. If I thought I’d bring trouble, I’d not have come to your home last night.” He looped his necktie around his throat and knotted it with swift, skillful movements. “No matter how much I wanted to,” he added.

  “You want any breakfast?” she asked.

  “I’ll eat at the Corner.” He tied his shoes, pulled on his coat, and walked to the door.

  “See you in a couple of hours,” she said. She caught him in the doorway and gave him one more kiss. He drew her into his arms and smiled. For just a moment, they were like any couple in love, heading off for work.

  “Grand,” he said. Then he was gone.

  Levine had been up all night, working on the bodies the FDNY had pulled out of the wreckage. The fruits of her labor were waiting for Erin on her computer. While Erin was looking over the results, Webb stalked into the office.

  “We’ve got IDs,” Erin announced.

  “Great,” Webb said. “Coffee first.” He disappeared into the break room. A minute later he was back with a steaming cup in his hand. “Sorry. City of New York won’t let me smoke indoors, I have to get my stimulants somehow.”

  “They should put cocaine in the vending machine downstairs,” Erin deadpanned.

  “Bad idea. It already won’t take money half the time. You’d have junkies breaking the glass every day. What’ve we got?” He walked to her desk and stood looking over her shoulder.

  “Three of the burn victims are Colombian nationals,” she said. “Sebastian Alvarez, Javier Montero, and Francisco Contreras. They’re known associates of Diego Rojas, the guy Agent Johnson was asking about.”

  “What about Rojas himself?” Webb asked.

  “Looks like it was his lucky day. He’s not one of our bodies. I guess he wasn’t inside.”

  “Or he’s still buried somewhere onsite,” Webb suggested.

  “The Colombians were found around this table,” Erin went on, pointing to a floor plan of the building annotated by Levine. “There was a fourth body also at the table, but according to the doc, he’s definitely not Rojas. She doesn’t have a positive ID on him yet. All four also suffered multiple GSW, both ante- and post-mortem.”

  “The shooters kept firing after they were dead,” Webb said. “Just to make sure.”

  “Well, one of them was shot twice several minutes after his heart stopped beating,” she said.

  “Ah.” Webb put down his coffee and rubbed his temples. “That’d be Neshenko’s one-sided gunfight.”

  “Yeah. At least he hit the guy he was aiming for. Of the other three bodies, two were in the kitchen, tentatively identified as cooks. Federico Greco and Cristian Rossi. No extra holes in them. Looks like cause of death was third-degree burns and smoke inhalation. Levine appended a report from Skip Taylor. Skip says the firebomb sent flames through the swinging doors and ignited a whole lot of shit in the kitchen, cooking oil and stuff. Apparently the gas stove blew up, too.”

  “Ouch,” Webb said. “That’d do it.”

  “The last victim was the only woman,” Erin finished. “Arianna Rossi. She died in the dining room, in the middle of the floor, shot to death.”

  “Same last name as one of the cooks,” Webb observed.

  “Probably related,” Erin said, already checking the city records. “Yeah, looks like she’s Cristian’s daughter. It was a family restaurant. Geez, she was just seventeen.”

  Webb looked away and didn’t say anything. Erin remembered he had a pair of daughters from his first marriage, probably about the same age as the victim.

  “Okay,” he said. “How firm are these IDs?”

  “Levine’s got our good facial-recognition program,” she said. “She gave the Colombians a probable match of ninety-seven percent based on the photos I gave her. The others didn’t actually get ID’d in the morgue. Vic talked to some folks in the neighborhood and figured out who was working that day. He shot Levine the names at three-thirty this morning. Levine says she’s waiting on a DNA match or confirmation from relatives to be sure.”

  “I guess that’s why Neshenko’s not in yet,” Webb said. “I’m surprised he bothered to go home at all.”

  Erin nodded and stood up. “That coffee smells too good,” she said. “I’m getting some.”

  She walked through the break room’s doorway, put a cup under the nozzle, and started filling it. Then she did a double take. She turned, looked at the couch for a moment, then went back to her drink. She came out and returned to her desk.

  “Vic didn’t go home,” she informed Webb. “He’s in the break room, on the couch.”

  “Oh.”

  “You didn’t see him there?”

  Webb shook his head.

  “He’s pretty big, sir.”

  “In my defense,” Webb said, “I hadn’t actually drunk any of my coffee yet.” He thought it over. “Neshenko’s on that couch?”

  “Yeah. Should I wake him up?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been tired enough in my life to risk falling asleep on that thing,” Webb said. “Let him rest.”

  There was a lot of activity in the Major Crimes office, but very little progress. Captain Holliday passed through on the way to his office, disappeared inside, and dove into an endless stream of telephone conversations. CSU techs kept showing up with new pieces of evidence from the scene, including some cartridge cases, bits of broken glass from the Molotov cocktails, and a blackened nine-millimeter automatic found on the floor near the dead Colombians. The detectives looked everything over as it arrived. The shell casings would be useful if they could match them to a weapon, but Erin was sure the perps had gotten rid of the guns.

  Vic wandered out of the break room, rubbing his eyes, a little after nine. He stopped, stared at the window, and blinked.

  “It’s morning,” he said, sounding surprised and a little offended.

  “You noticed,” Erin said.

  “Solve the case yet?”

  “We don’t even have a suspect. We’ve just about identified all the victims.”

  Vic looked at the whiteboard, which Erin and Webb had updated with their new information. He stared at it for a long time.

  “This wasn’t a hit,” he said at last.

  Webb and Erin looked at each other, then back at him.

  “I think I misheard you,” Webb said. “Explain.”

  “The point wasn’t to kill one of these guys,” Vic said.

  “It sure looked like it out back,” Erin said.

  “I don’t think so,” Vic said. “They want to kill one guy, why have their expert shooter waiting out back? Hell, they don’t even know if he’s gonna run that way. Nah, they wanna pop one guy, they send their ace right through the front door, smoke their target right in the face, use the firebombs to cover the retreat if they wanna torch the joint. The point wasn’t to kill Conti. The point was to kill everyone.”

  “Why?” Webb asked.

  “The hell do I know?” Vic replied. “Do I look like a hitman?”

  “Kind of,” Erin said.

  “Not my point,” Vic said.

  “You kill one guy, it stops the drug deal,” Erin said. “Temporarily. Wipe out the whole meeting, on both sides, it’s likely to wreck the whole transaction.”

  “That makes as much sense as anything,” Webb said. “Which means this could be the first shot in an out-and-out gang war.”

  “Or maybe not the first shot,” Erin suggested.

  “Good thought, O’Reilly,” Webb said. “Take a look at recent gangland hits, especially anything Mafia-related. Maybe this is a retaliation, not a first strike.”

  So Erin scanned homicide case files until a little after 1
0:30, finding nothing unusual. Then she stood up.

  “Going somewhere?” Vic asked.

  “I’ve got a CI who might know what’s going down in Little Italy. He said he’d meet me at eleven.”

  “Get us something,” Webb said. “I hate organized crime hits. They’re the hardest cases in the world to close.”

  “I don’t think that’s true, sir,” she said. “Homicides in minority neighborhoods, especially in the poorer parts of Brooklyn—”

  “If I wanted police stats, I’d have kept Jones in the department. I don’t want to hear it, O’Reilly. I just want to solve this case.”

  Amsterdam Billiards was a corner lot with a wraparound light-up sign over the door. The joint was just opening when Erin and Rolf arrived. The billiard hall was dimly lit, finished in polished wood with a red carpet of interlocking circles. It was a little early in the day for playing pool, so the place was nearly deserted. Erin took her partner toward the bar, picking a spot where she could see the front door.

  “Is that a service animal?” the girl behind the counter asked.

  “Not exactly,” Erin said. “Police K-9.”

  “Bad ass.”

  Rolf sat beside Erin and gave the girl a look as if to say that he was, indeed, a badass.

  “Y’know, we don’t have drugs or anything in here,” the girl confided.

  Erin raised her eyebrows.

  “So there’s nothing for him to sniff out,” the girl explained.

  “He’s not a drug dog,” Erin said.

  “So, does he bite people?”

  “Only the ones I tell him to.”

  “Bad ass,” the girl said again.

  The door swung open and Carlyle came in. He saw Erin and acknowledged her with a polite tilt of his head.

  Behind him, Ian entered and stepped off to one side. The bodyguard swept the room with his eyes. Seeing nothing unusual, he took up a flanking position along the left-hand wall. He stood in an apparently relaxed posture, but Erin could see he wasn’t quite leaning against the wall and was tenser than he looked.