by Ty Patterson
Wind rushed past him as he fell with his left arm outstretched. It caught the sill of the window beneath Martinelli’s and broke his fall with a jarring shock to his shoulders.
He dropped again as a head appeared and shot at him wildly. Another ledge to break his fall. Desperate twists to shake the thug’s aim, and then he was on the ground, rolling, stumbling to his feet.
He ran around the building’s corner. Got to the front. A quiet street. A brown Ford that was half on the sidewalk. No heads peering out of windows. The sounds of shots hadn’t registered on residents yet.
He hurried to his SUV, thankful that he’d had the presence of mind to slap false plates on it. Got inside his vehicle and tore away. Memorized the Ford’s number as he drove past.
* * *
‘Who was that? What did you tell him?’ Nails asked the cowering cop.
‘I DON’T KNOW! WHO ARE YOU?’
The gang leader reached forward almost lazily, caught Martinelli by his shoulders and lifted him effortlessly.
‘What did you tell him?’ he hissed.
‘NOTHING, I—’
The officer choked when Nails punched him in the throat. He fell to the couch and wheezed desperately. Tears ran down his cheeks as his hands shook and his body trembled.
‘He had a few minutes with you. Surely you told him something.’
‘I swear. I don’t know who he was. I asked him if Crump had sent him—’
Nails stiffened. ‘You used his name?’
‘WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?’
The gang leader shot him in the forehead.
‘Put it across his body,’ he snapped at his thug, who was pulling a note out of his pocket.
He tied a scarf across his face and brandished his weapon as his men joined him outside. Neighbors scrambled into their apartments at the sight of them, and by the time the cops were called, Nails and his men were away.
* * *
Cutter drove to the nearest fast food joint. He parked in its lot and hurried to the restroom. He checked that he was alone and washed his Glock in the sink. Dried it against his jacket and holstered it.
Returned to his car and drove back to Martinelli’s building, to find it was flooded with cruisers and FDNY vehicles.
He nosed into a space, grabbed his now-cold cup of coffee and joined a bunch of onlookers.
‘What’s up?’ he asked a bystander.
‘Neighbors heard shots.’
‘That happen often here?’
‘Nope. You’re new?’
‘Just moved in across the street. Wondering if I made a mistake. Wife will be joining me in two days. She’ll give me hell when she finds out about the shootings. Find a quiet place, she told me.’
‘Buddy, this is New York. Shootings happen everywhere here. You wanted quiet, you should have stayed in—’
‘Missouri.’
‘Yeah, there. Wherever it is.’
New Yorkers. They had that welcoming attitude.
Cutter’s eyes narrowed when he overheard a soft conversation nearby. A woman talking with her friends.
‘Yeah, I knew him. Martinelli. Same floor. I heard the shooting. Called the cops. Looked out to see these men with masks. Went out when they had gone. His door was open. I called for him. Went inside and saw he was dead.’
‘You should go to the cops,’ one friend urged. ‘Give your statement.’
‘No way.’ She shook her head stubbornly. ‘I’m not getting involved in whatever went down. Those men looked like gangbangers.’
Cutter drifted away and dumped his cup in a trash bin.
Martinelli was alive when I jumped out. Those hoods must have killed him. Why? How did they arrive just then?
Was he being followed?
No. Checking for tails came naturally to him, and he would have gotten that warning feeling.
Martinelli. They were watching him.
How did they know I was with him?
He thought about it as more cops filled the street.
They didn’t, he concluded. They must’ve known who the residents are. Saw I was a stranger. Decided to check on Martinelli.
It was how he would have played it.
* * *
Difiore and Quindica arrived at ten-thirty pm in the detective’s unmarked vehicle.
He watched them as they conferred with the cops and went into the building. He was still there when they returned forty-five minutes later.
He moved deeper into the darkness, using other bystanders as cover when the detective searched the street with a hard glance. She nodded at a cop, spoke to Quindica, and the two returned to her car and drove away.
Eleven-thirty pm, driving to Manhattan, when his phone rang.
He didn’t pick it up.
Difiore left a message.
Grogan, I know you are involved. Call me!
He shook his head. There was no way the cops could place him at the scene. They would have tracked him down if they knew. The detective was playing her usual hard self.
His smile disappeared when he recalled what Martinelli had told him.
Crump.
He had a name to check out.
52
‘No way of knowing who that man was?’ Gunner mused when Nails called and briefed him.
‘No, boss.’
‘You say your men saw him and followed him to the precinct?’
‘Yeah. But he’s got dark windows. They couldn’t make out who he was. They didn’t get a good look at him on the street.’
The stranger had jumped out of Martinelli’s window. That showed quick thinking. He hadn’t fired back, even though he had a gun. That showed control.
Was it Grogan?
He ended the call and dialed his tech wizard. Twelve am. It wasn’t too late for the geek. The night was when he was most active.
‘Yeah?’ Cray mumbled.
‘You know that building where Martinelli lived?’
‘What about it?’
‘Check if there are any security cameras. Find out who entered the building tonight.’
‘Why?’
‘Martinelli’s dead.’
‘Who killed him?’
‘We did.
‘Why?’
‘He was a liability, Cray. Stop asking questions and get to work.’
Crump.
He fired off a text, and a moment later his phone buzzed.
‘You heard what went down?’
‘YOU KILLED A COP!’ Despite the late hour, the assistant chief of the NYPD sounded awake and alert. And furious.
‘How do you know that?’
‘WHO ELSE WOULD? YOUR GOONS SHOT HIM AND MADE IT LOOK LIKE A REVENGE KILLING.’
‘What have the detectives found?’
Crump seethed and raged for a minute before he got hold of himself. ‘They’re treating it like a gang killing because of that note. Doesn’t look like they have much to go on. No witnesses, at least none who’ll come forward. No camera evidence, nothing. Difiore’s the detective. She’s smart, tough, won’t back off for anyone.’
‘She won’t get anything. It was a clean kill.’
‘I hope so, for your shooters’ sake. Something’s a little off. There’s a Fed hanging out with her.’
‘An FBI agent?’ Gunner looked up and stared blankly at the TV, which was muted and playing reports of the shooting.
‘Yeah.’
‘Who is he?’
‘She. I don’t know. No one knows. She wasn’t introduced. She flashed her badge at the scene and that’s how we know.’
‘Nothing about her in the system?’
‘No. She’s got no role in the investigation.’
‘It could be anything.’
‘Yeah. That’s what I’m assuming. Not everything’s related to us. BUT WHY DID YOU SHOOT HIM?’ The cop exploded. ‘I CALLED HIM PERSONALLY. HE WAS GOING TO KEEP HIS MOUTH SHUT. MARTINELLI WAS A GOOD OFFICER. HE WAS A LION. HE WAS ONE OF US.’
‘There were complications,’ t
he Lions’ founder told him coldly. The assistant chief needed reminding who was in charge. ‘Nothing can get in our way.’
‘OUR WAY? IT LOOKS LIKE YOUR WAY. You could have told me. I could have done something. But you had to act bull—’
‘STOP!’ Gunner roared. ‘Don’t forget your place.’
‘YEAH? YOU DON’T FORGET WHO YOU’RE TALKING TO. I’M AN ASSISTANT CHIEF IN THE NEW YORK POLICE DEPARTMENT.’
‘You’re a Lion first.’
‘I’m wondering how that helps me in any way,’ the cop said bitterly. ‘Killing a cop is a big deal. What was the complication? I could have helped with it.’
‘There’s a stranger nosing around in our business.’ Gunner gave it to him. ‘He was in Martinelli’s apartment, who mentioned you. By name.’
He grinned evilly at Crump’s sharp suck of air. You’re not yelling now, are you?
‘How do you know?’
‘We were watching Martinelli. We thought this dude would approach him. My suspicion was right.’
‘That’s why you killed him.’
‘Yeah. We did it to protect you.’
‘The window … it was broken. I read Difiore’s initial report.’
‘That’s how that man escaped when our people entered.’
‘NYPD doesn’t know about this person.’
‘Keep it that way.’
‘Why?’
Because Grogan, if arrested, could reveal his suspicions. If Difiore was as smart as Crump made her out to be, she would pursue that angle. And that Fed with her might get involved, too.
‘I’m dealing with it.’
‘Can I do anything?’ Crump turned conciliatory. ‘Who is this man? Is he a journalist?’
‘No. NYPD knows him well. Cutter Grogan. He works out of Lafayette—’
‘The Fixer. He intervened in those bodega attacks. Yeah, we know him.’
‘He’s got a record?’ Why hadn’t Cray let him know about that?
‘No,’ Crump corrected him. ‘In fact, he’s helped out in a few cases. I know some detectives farm out cases to him, where we can’t help. And then, he’s been at the scene of some attacks. Randomly, like at that store.’
Was that by chance? Cray was looking into it.
‘You’ll handle it?’
‘I will,’ Gunner promised.
He called another number when the cop ended the call.
‘Clint,’ he told another of his Brooklyn cell leaders. ‘We have a problem. I need you to take care of it. Personally. Take your best men.’
He gave instructions and went to bed satisfied.
It looked like the thorn in his side would be pulled out soon enough.
53
The TV was all over it the next day.
REVENGE KILLING.
DRUG GANG HITS BACK.
The banners rolled on as reporters and talking heads covered the story breathlessly.
Commissioner Rolando came on and warned the public not to leap to conclusions. It was an active investigation, he said.
His words had no effect.
The killers had left a note on Martinelli’s chest. One word scrawled on it.
PIG!
That was enough for journalists to draw conclusions. Davis’s gang had retaliated. Since the outfit had no official name, the media had dubbed it the Brownsville gang.
That’ll help Sheller, Cutter thought sourly. A different identity meant any link to the Rising Lions would get buried even deeper.
He was surprised Difiore and Quindica hadn’t pounded on his door yet.
I left no trail. Even if street cameras captured me, I was unidentifiable.
He thought he had recognized one of the shooters from his hair, a criminal who hung close to Nails. But he wasn’t sure. It had been no time to stop and ask for identification. And he wasn’t going to volunteer information to the detective.
Not unless I want my butt in prison, he smiled as he washed his breakfast dishes and wiped his hands.
Crump. He had a name. It was unusual enough that he could narrow down who Martinelli had been referring to.
He went to his computer and searched for the name. A real estate agent. A finance company. An insurance salesman in New Jersey. A few political connections came up. The opposition party’s spokesperson was a Crump. A lobbyist in DC had the name.
Cutter tossed a tennis ball high in the air and caught it as he leaned back in his swivel chair. He couldn’t track all those people down and check them out.
Perhaps there was an easier way.
‘How can I be of service?’ Beth asked him sweetly when he called.
He stared at his phone suspiciously. Had he dialed the right number? That response was too saccharine.
‘Uh—’
‘Your personal secretary is awaiting your instructions, Cutter,’ she told him.
That snarky attitude was more like it.
‘That software you have—’
‘Werner. It’s got a name.’
‘Yeah, Werner. It’s AI, right?’
‘Not just AI, Cutter. It’s the best in the world.’
‘Got it. Can it make correlations—’
‘There’s not much it can’t.’
Sarcasm, he decided. He would take the twins’ attitude any day over this overly sweet and helpful approach. He hoped this was a passing phase, but he didn’t tell her that.
‘If I give a name—’
‘Yes, Cutter. Werner can tell the probability of such a name connected with a particular case.’
He nodded and then realized she couldn’t see him.
‘Who is it? I don’t have all day,’ she told him. The slightest trace of impatience in her voice.
‘Crump.’
‘Is that the first name or second?’
‘No clue.’
Do I hang up and wait for her to get back?
He was still thinking about it when she spoke. No sweetness, no sarcasm.
‘Cutter,’ she breathed, ‘this feels ugly.’
‘Why? Who is it?’
‘Dennis Crump is who it is. Assistant chief in the NYPD.’
* * *
It made sense, Cutter mused.
Sheller was into details, a micromanager, but he wouldn’t communicate with Martinelli directly. That would be someone else. Who better than a senior cop in the department?
Crump was the Assistant Chief of Crime Control Strategies, a rung away from the head of the department. He had power, access to intelligence on operations across the NYPD. He wouldn’t have interfered in Martinelli’s investigation, but he could have subtly influenced it.
How high do the Lions go? Cutter thought bleakly. Do I tell Bruce?
What could the commish do, however? It’s just my word, and I was present at a crime scene. They’ll treat me as a suspect.
Going to his friend wasn’t an option. He would have to tackle Crump.
Hard, fast, give him no time to react. That was the quickest way to get answers and find out where Sheller was.
* * *
New false plates on his SUV, which was an anonymous gray color. A fake nose, brown contacts in his eyes, and blond streaks in his hair. Body armor beneath his Tee and jacket, giving him a bigger appearance, and gloves over his hands.
It was late evening when Cutter drove out of his building to Brooklyn, to the address Beth had given him.
A rowhouse on Linden Boulevard.
He parked his vehicle a block away and walked as night fell. Checked every parked car on the street. There was no way he was going to be caught unawares again.
No figures in any of the vehicles, no suspicious-looking men.
Crump’s house was the first in the line, to the right. A high wall separating it from the next block of residences. A small front yard with a waist-level gate. Red-brick wall at the front that looked brown under the street lighting. Dark windows at the front.
Cutter passed it once. Saw nothing out of the ordinary and returned for another recon ru
n.
The cop lived with his family, he recalled from Beth’s info. Wife, two school-age daughters. Clean financials.
It was on the third pass that it came to him.
54
Crump’s driveway was empty, which was odd given that he had left OnePP. A call to one of Cutter’s NYPD’s contacts had confirmed that. Had also affirmed that the assistant chief was very much a family man. He went home straight after work; no deviation from his routine, which was the subject of many stale jokes.
That door and gate.
Both were open a crack. A dark line at the jamb where the former would have sealed shut normally. There could be any explanation for the wrought-iron entrance to the yard, but the main entrance?
He carried on walking, checking everything out with a heightened awareness.
He circled back when nothing triggered his animal sense, reached into a pocket as if checking an address, and slipped inside the gate.
No outcry of alarm. Floodlights didn’t turn on to pin him down.
Cutter went down the side path that ran parallel to the boundary wall, which was so close he could stretch out his arms and touch it as well as the outer wall of Crump’s house.
Windows at eye level. He could make out the dim outline of the entrance hallway. The next room seemed to be the living room. He squinted to see past the reflection. That flat shape was a TV. A couch, another long seater. Some shapes on them. He cupped his hands to the glass to see better.
Stumbled back in shock at what he saw.
‘YOU!’
Two men came from behind the house, down the path he was on. Three others emerged from behind him.
They were in the house. Waiting for me.
He was trapped between two groups of masked men, all armed but with guns pointing downwards, so sure were they of his surrender.
Don’t bet on it.
Cutter drew and fired, at the two men and then at the three behind him. Shooting deliberately wide, over their heads, making some of them drop, the others dive for cover.
A slim opportunity for escape that he grabbed with both hands.