by Ty Patterson
‘Davis.’ He spat out the name like a curse.
‘What happened to him?’
‘He and his men got arrested. At the bar where we met.’
Mease froze. He scanned Park Avenue rapidly, and when Gunner pointed at a vacant space, drove into it.
‘That’s not good.’ His voice sounded calm, still. That was good. Panic and fear were the enemy of reasoning. He was famous for never losing his cool. He breathed quietly and placed his hands lightly on his thighs. They didn’t tremble. ‘He’s seen me.’
‘You are not a public figure. He doesn’t know your name.’
‘He’ll be able to recognize me.’
‘I told you to stay in the backseat. Don’t drive. You didn’t listen—’
‘Gunner.’ Mease didn’t raise his voice, but Sheller stopped talking immediately.
‘Davis needs to be taken care of.’
‘He’s important to us. His gang controls a big part of Brownsville.’
‘I’m not asking.’
‘It won’t be easy.’
‘We have our cops in the NYPD.’
‘We can’t risk them.’
‘We can’t risk him giving me or you up.’
‘He won’t do that. He’s been in the business for a long time. Neither he nor his people have ever revealed they’re part of us.’
‘You don’t know he’ll keep it that way.’
‘We have a code.’
‘We also have a code for punishing people when they make mistakes.’
‘It’ll be difficult.’
Mease looked at him impassively. Gunner was smart. People often took in his big size and mean-eyed look and thought he was all brawn. Those folks were wrong.
‘We have a few people in the 73rd Precinct. That’s where they’ll be taken.’
‘Do it. You and I, both, have our contacts in the NYPD—high up. Many of them are Lions as well. We can get them to cover this action.’
Gunner made a few calls, seemed to find the right police officer, and issued instructions.
‘I spoke to our friend, in OnePP.’
Mease nodded. He knew who the gang leader was referring to. A senior leader in the ranks who had sworn allegiance to the outfit.
That was how they worked.
‘He’ll find a cop in the precinct who’ll do the job.’
‘Remind me who this man is, the prisoner.’ Mease commanded when the gang leader had finished. ‘All I know is you had to give him some stock.’
‘Do you really want to know? You want to keep distance between us and you and our friend.’
‘I want to know anything that might affect his chances.’
‘This has nothing to do with him.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’
‘I told you. Davis is our chapter head in Brownsville. He’s good. I was thinking of promoting him to take over all of Brooklyn.’
‘He lost a shipment, didn’t he?’
‘We aren’t selling soap or screen wipes. There’s some loss in our business.’
Gunner didn’t drop his eyes or look away when Mease pinned him with his stare. That was good, too. The man wasn’t scared. He was a bull. He ran his nationwide gang with an iron fist. Nothing happened on the streets, his turf, without him knowing it. Every thug of his swore allegiance to the Lions and were aware of the dangers of violating the code.
Mease’s eyes lingered on the patch of pale skin, lighter than the surrounding flesh, on the man’s neck, which shone in the lights of a passing car.
Where once a lion’s tattoo had been inked.
* * *
Police Officer Pete Martinelli licked his lips as he went to the holding cells. The instructions he had received were specific. He went closer to the barred door and surveyed Davis. Walked down the hallway and returned, just as he would for any other well-being check on arrested suspects.
He turned his back on the nearest camera and found that this time, his shuffling had woken the prisoner.
‘Take my gun.’ His lips barely moved. He brought his hand up to scratch his neck and in doing so, pulled down his collar to show the lion’s head. ‘Hold me hostage.’
Davis didn’t move.
The cop went out and returned an hour later. Repeated the same action. Thrust his right hip forward to present his weapon.
The prisoner got up.
He acted on the officer’s third pass.
His fingers shot through the bars, caught hold of the gun and whipped it out.
Martinelli didn’t react the way he had expected.
‘GUN!’ the officer yelled and dived to the side. ‘HE’S GOT MY GUN.’
Davis looked perplexed. ‘What—’
‘DROP IT!’ an officer roared as cops flooded the hallway and covered the prisoner.
‘But—’
‘DO IT. NOW!’
Davis moved.
‘HE’S GOING TO FIRE!’ Martinelli screamed.
His warning was drowned in the crash of shots.
17
Cutter caught the news when he was finishing cleaning up after breakfast the next day.
Prisoner shot in 73rd Precinct, the caption ran. CCTV footage that the channel had somehow obtained.
His plate fell into the sink with a clatter. He wiped his hands on his jeans and lunged toward his phone.
Surely it was a coincidence. Let it not be Leader, he prayed as he thumbed numbers and dialed. The prisoner was indistinct in the clip as it played on repeat.
His call connected just as the man’s name came on screen. Leon Davis. It meant nothing to him.
‘Brian, Cutter, yeah, yeah,’ he cut through the greetings. ‘Davis, the prisoner who was shot at night. Where was he arrested?’
He swore loudly when his worst fears were confirmed. Apologized to the cop and hung up. Dialed another number.
‘Difiore.’
‘That’s the second prisoner you’ve lost,’ he told her bitterly.
‘What? Grogan? That you? What are you talking about?’
‘Leon Davis, the prisoner who was killed in the 73rd Precinct.’
‘I heard that. What about him? It’s not my case.’
‘Check his body, Difiore,’ he raged. No more first names. He ended the call before she could retort.
He washed his dishes, the mechanical actions calming him. Fool, he told himself when he had regained composure. He hadn’t lost it when outnumbered and under heavy fire in Syria or Iraq. There was no reason to take out his anger on the detective.
He made to call her but stopped himself.
She’ll call me.
* * *
Detective First Grade Gina Difiore was seething when Grogan hung up on her. Who did that fixer think he was? She glared at Poser, who was looking at her curiously. Counted to twenty and got her pulse back to normal.
Okay. What was all that about? Why would he care about some prisoner? And why should she check his body?
She read the shooting report. Several precinct officers were on administrative leave pending an investigation. That was standard procedure for an incident of that nature.
She read about Leon Davis. A few priors for possession and dealing. Served time. Was violent and ruthless. He ran his own gang. She tapped her teeth with a pen. That wasn’t normal. There were very few independents in the city. Almost every thug belonged to a larger gang. Why would it be different in Davis’s case?
No, she decided, the more she thought of it. The previous detectives hadn’t recorded gang affiliations, or Davis had been a good liar. Her eyes narrowed at Davis’s description. He was white, but that wasn’t what held her attention.
Now she knew why Grogan mentioned his body.
Another lion tattoo.
‘There has to be some connection,’ Quindica surmised when the detective broke it down for her. ‘Nothing in our system, though.’
‘Grogan knows something.’
‘There’s something you should know about him.’
&n
bsp; ‘What?’
‘Not on the phone.’
* * *
They met in Battery Park, the FBI SAC and the detective, both women radiating such authority that tourists skirted widely around where they were seated.
‘What did you find out about him?’
‘It’s classified. I ran it past my grand boss and he cleared you to receive it.’
‘Grand Boss? The Director?’
‘Yeah.’
‘He can do that?’
‘There isn’t much Bart Jamison can’t do.’
Difiore nodded. The FBI Director was a legend in law enforcement circles. America’s Sheriff was how Time Magazine had described him once.
‘Color me surprised and interested.’
Quindica went through Grogan’s file, leaving nothing out, and when she had finished the detective was silent. They watched ferries depart with travelers, some bound for Ellis Island and the Statue, others for a loop of the city, all of them packed with camera-wielding tourists and excited families. Making memories that would linger in their minds. And, if those memories started to fade, there were digital proofs to fall back on.
‘That’s …’ Difiore trailed off, her face pensive. ‘Yeah,’ Quindica nodded understandingly. ‘I had to read it a few times to take it all in.’
‘Why did Jamison share it with you?’
‘He wants us to know who Grogan is. What makes him tick.’
‘And perhaps he wants us to team up with Grogan?’
‘That thought crossed my mind. However, the fixer’s an external party. A civilian. The only part he plays is by telling us what he knows.’
‘Good. We’re agreed, then.’
‘Yeah. We cut him no slack.’
18
Cutter went for a run after his call with the detective.
Early morning in Central Park was his preferred time and route. That was when the city was still slow and the air the freshest. A fast five-mile lap, followed by sets of martial arts moves, wing chun, jiu jitsu, alternating between fast and slow until sweat poured like a river over his body. Over time he had gained a few fans, regulars who stopped to watch him practice, and a few kids tried to ape his moves.
He didn’t go to the park. He hit the streets, a backpack over his shoulders, strapped tightly, threading through people, running in automatic mode, letting his mind float free of his body, heading to the East River and then the Hudson, a wide loop that spanned the breadth of the city. He walked the last few blocks, allowing his body to cool.
His footsteps echoed in the basement car park of his building. Lines of vehicles, a few vacant spaces, no other person. He went to his SUV and brought out the empty water bottles for refilling.
‘We’ve been waiting—’
He let go of the bottles, which crashed to the concrete and rolled away. He dived to the floor, twisting his body as he fell, reaching back with his left hand to yank his backpack to the side, his right hand reaching inside its partly open mouth to come out with his Glock. He landed on his chest, one hand to brace his fall, the other straight and true, training the weapon on the speaker. Muscles and limbs and eyes and brain working together seamlessly in one long, smooth move, executed flawlessly and completed even before the fallen bottles had stopped moving.
He relaxed when he took in the figures his barrel was pointing at.
Two women, both in suits. One of them was Difiore; the other, a stranger.
‘Impressive,’ the detective’s companion said.
‘Grogan has many talents.’
‘As we are finding out.’
Cutter got to his feet and returned his Glock to his backpack.
‘I hope you’ve got a permit for that.’ The cop stopped a rolling bottle and kicked it back toward him. He ignored her comment. Stooped and collected them with one hand.
‘You were waiting for me?’ He took in the second woman. Silky, dark hair cut straight to her shoulders. Black eyes that studied him expressionlessly. Light complexion. No makeup. Lips thinned in a flat line. The same height as Difiore. The same build, even. Lean, straight posture, the suit’s well-cut jacket falling to her waist. A glint of a belt buckle. Leather shoes that gleamed in the garage lights.
‘Nah, we were out, taking in the sights,’ the detective replied sarcastically.
‘How can I help you?’
‘You can tell us what you know about this tattoo,’ the stranger said.
‘You got Davis,’ he replied, addressing Difiore. ‘You can start from there.’
She’s some kind of cop as well. Senior. But heck, he wasn’t going to respond to the newcomer. Not unless she’s introduced. He could play their game.
‘He’s dead.’
‘I can’t help you anymore.’
‘You wanted a week.’
‘And I delivered in two days.’
The detective’s brows came together in amazement. Then her face cleared. ‘You called it in!’
He didn’t answer.
‘Grogan,’ the other woman said softly, dangerously, ‘You had better tell everything you know. NOW!’
A man entered the car park from the elevator entrance. He looked at them, startled. Read their body language and skirted wide of them before heading to his car.
‘And you are?’ he challenged her.
‘FBI. Special Agent in Charge Peyton Quindica.’
Cutter sized her up, and then the detective. ‘Task Force.’ He recalled what the cop had said when they had met at her parking lot.
‘Yeah, Peyton heads it. I report to her.’
‘What’s this about?’
‘Need to know,’ the SAC sneered. ‘And you don’t need to know.’
‘It was good meeting you,’ he told them and headed to the elevator.
‘Grogan,’ Difiore sighed. ‘We need …’
‘I’m listening.’
‘You’re obstructing a federal investigation,’ Quindica growled.
‘Arrest me.’
‘Don’t think I won’t.’
‘Grogan, you do us a favor, we might be able to help you sometime,’ the cop cut in quickly.
‘I won’t need your help.’
‘We know about Yanartas.’
That detached feeling swept over him instantly as he spun on his heel, his hand instinctively reaching for his backpack to draw his weapon.
STOP!
His hand fell away limply. He breathed. In, out, in, out, until the thundering of his blood faded and the city’s sounds returned.
They’re doing their job. I would have used that intel if I was in their shoes.
The door behind him opened. Another office-goer, talking loudly on his phone. He barely gave them a glance as he ordered someone to buy all the stock of some company.
‘We can go to your apartment. Sixth floor, isn’t it?’ The detective waited until Stock Buyer drove out. ‘This place will get busy.’
‘Only my friends come to my apartment,’ he told her pointedly.
‘We’re stuck. Dead end.’ Quindica’s hands twisted in the smallest gesture of helplessness.
Cutter thought about it for a moment. What do I have to lose? He was good as long as he didn’t mention Darrell or Carmel. Besides, it didn’t hurt to have more cop and FBI contacts.
He nodded and led them to the elevator and up to his apartment. Noticed the way they took it in quickly. Saw the surprise in their eyes, which they hid just as quickly.
They must have thought I live like a slob.
‘I need to shower,’ he told them. ‘Kitchen’s over there.’ He nodded toward the hallway. ‘Help yourself to coffee.’
‘This place would go for millions,’ Quindica mused. ‘How is it that a soldier can afford it?’
‘Money laundering. That’s my main gig. The fixer business, that’s just a cover.’
He couldn’t help but chuckle at her look. Pinned Difiore with his eyes. ‘Don’t steal the silverware.’
‘We’re the good people,’ she told him cut
tingly. ‘It’s the other side that does that.’
‘Yeah, and all cops are clean, aren’t they?’ he tossed back.
He had meant it flippantly, but his smile evaporated at the fast look they exchanged.
Crooked cops? That’s what the task force is about?
19
They had made him a cup of coffee as well when he returned to the living room.
He took an appreciative sip. Difiore on the couch idly flipping through a magazine, Quindica at the window, looking out pensively.
‘Nope.’ The SAC felt his eyes on her. ‘We didn’t steal anything.’
‘There would have to be something to grab in the first place,’ the detective said with a smirk. ‘Clearly, Grogan is into minimalism.’
He sighed. One snarky detective he could just about deal with. Now there was Quindica, too.
He was halfway to the kitchen before he stopped. Living alone for too long did that. Made him forget his manners.
‘Let’s talk there,’ he jerked his head. ‘I’m going to rustle up something. You want to join me?’
‘Depends.’ The detective patted her belly, which rumbled loudly. ‘Are you a good cook?’
‘He might poison us,’ the SAC said.
He threw his hands up and went to his fridge. Brought out several wraps, bell peppers, onions, baby spinach and a chunk of cheese. Placed them on the island. Grated the cheese efficiently while they pulled up chairs and watched him silently. He sliced and diced the veggies and spread them over each wrap. Added generous dollops of hummus and sprinkled spices. Rolled the wraps tightly and cut each end. Placed them on a tray with bowls of salsa and brought out fresh plates and cutlery.
‘Mexican pinwheels,’ he presented the preparation to them.
‘Talk,’ Quindica ordered after her first bite.
‘You’re in my house, eating my food,’ he told her. ‘You go first.’
‘I can shoot him,’ Difiore told her companion. ‘We can make it look like he was threatening us.’
The SAC wiped her lips. Exchanged an indecipherable look with the detective and reached for the orange juice Cutter had poured them. She took a swallow and settled back.