Once In, Never Out

by Dan Mahoney

  However, there was a small problem. The woman’s foot had slipped off the brake as she died and the car glided slowly across the intersection and hit a parked car. There was some noise as a result of the minor collision, but the sound still fell within acceptable parameters as far as Mulrooney was concerned. He liked showing off a bit, so for the sheer fun of it, he ran around the intersection shooting at the traffic lights. Nineteen seconds and twelve bullets later he had shot out each red, yellow, and green signal on each side of the traffic light.

  That will give McKenna something to consider, Mulrooney thought as he reloaded. Fourteen targets hit and only fourteen shell casings lying on the ground. He holstered his gun and calmly resumed his stroll.

  It took another five minutes for Mulrooney to return to his car, but he was gratified not to hear the sound of sirens as he walked. He again sat watching the van through his binoculars and listening to his scanners. If the detectives inside were any good, they would have two radios and would be monitoring two frequencies—the Major Case Squad’s and the 114th Precinct’s. He didn’t have long to wait. As he had expected, it was the 114th’s dispatcher who first got the news. “In the 114th Precinct, we have a report of two persons shot on the street at 74th Street and 33rd Avenue. One-fourteen units to respond?” came over his local scanner.

  Three 114th Precinct units radioed the dispatcher that they were responding, and Mulrooney heard the sound of many sirens in the distance. The next transmission he heard pleased him and justified his faith in his detectives. “Team Nineteen to Headquarters Base.”

  “Go ahead, Team Nineteen.”

  “We’re getting a report over the division radio of two persons shot at 74th Street and 33rd Avenue, right around the corner from us. Request permission to respond.”

  “Go ahead over and take a look, Team Nineteen. Let us know if it has anything to do with the subject.”

  “Will do.”

  Mulrooney was happy that the two detectives had decided to leave their van parked and run around the corner to his new crime scene. Everything was going according to plan. It looked like only one team had been assigned to the surveillance of O’Reilly’s house for the slow evening hours, but one thing concerned him slightly. If this is Team Nineteen, exactly how many men does McKenna have hunting for me? he wondered. Must be hundreds.

  He smiled. He’s going to need them all if he’s ever to get me, he thought. He opened the briefcase on the seat next to him and removed a small object he was very proud of, one half of his latest and greatest invention. It was a black metal rectangular box, about the size of a pack of cigarettes, and he had made many of them. There was a magnet attached to one flat side, the number 28 was painted on the other side, and a switch with a tiny LED light was on top. As the 114th Precinct patrol sergeant was reporting to the dispatcher that there were two dead civilians, both shot through the head, Mulrooney flipped the switch and the LED light shone a bright green. It was time to bring fun to a higher plane.

  Mulrooney put his wig back on, started his car, and turned onto 73rd Street. As he passed 33rd Avenue, from the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of many police cars a block away at his crime scene. When he got to the surveillance van, he stopped alongside and got out of his car. It took him only seconds to attach the magnet on his device to the gas tank of the van, and then he was back in his car and on his way again. He passed O’Reilly’s house, drove four more blocks, and parked.

  For another ten minutes Mulrooney waited in his car, listening to 114th Precinct units at 33rd Avenue and 74th Street request the medical examiner, the crime scene unit, and the duty captain. All were on their way, but Mulrooney was growing impatient. It was close to two o’clock and he had to meet Ambery and Crowley at three to complete the night’s work. Then came the transmission he had been waiting for. “Team Nineteen to Headquarters Base,” sounded through his Major Case Squad scanner.

  “Go ahead, Team Nineteen.”

  “We’re back on location.”

  “Those shootings have anything to do with our man?”

  “There’s a good chance of it, Base. One thing we can tell you is that there’s a murderous marksman loose in this neighborhood. We’re breaking out the big guns, so let us know anything you hear on your end.”

  “Will do, Team Nineteen.”

  Mulrooney opened his briefcase again and removed the other half of his invention. It had once been an ordinary cellular phone before he had modified it to fit his needs. He turned it on and the small LED screen lit up. Then he punched in the numbers 2 and 8 and they showed up on the screen, but were replaced by a seven-digit number after he pressed the Recall button. He put his invention on the seat next to him, then took Winthrop’s phone from his pocket, turned it on, and dialed the information number for Washington, DC.

  “Directory Assistance. What listing?” a mechanical voice asked.

  “I’d like the home number for the British ambassador to the United States, please.”

  It took a moment for a real voice to come on the line. “I’m sorry, sir. The number you requested is unpublished. Would you like the general information number for the British Embassy?”

  “No, that’s all right. I just thought he’d like to know that a brown van on 73rd Street is going to blow up seconds from now,” Mulrooney said. He turned off his phone, then picked up his invention again and looked in his rearview mirror. He was too far away to make out the van at the moment, but knew he’d be able to see it shortly.

  “Team Nineteen, Team Nineteen, get out of the van! He’s close to you and he’s got it wired to blow!” came over the Major Case Squad scanner, again and again.

  That transmission clearly answered Mulrooney’s second question. Ah, McKenna, you do have my phone. You’re a cagey bastard, so you are, he said to himself as he kept his eyes glued to his rearview mirror and his finger poised over the Send button of his invention. “Kill them, don’t kill them? Kill them, don’t kill them?”

  Mulrooney decided not to kill Team Nineteen after all. He figured the two detectives would be miserable enough toiling over paperwork for the next month, at least.

  “Team Nineteen to Base, we’re clear. We’re clear and running,” was the transmission Mulrooney heard before he pressed his Send button. Then he saw the van in his rearview mirror, brightly and briefly.

  Thirty-Three

  McKenna knew there was a big problem brewing when the racket woke him and Angelita at two-twenty in the morning. The phone on his nightstand, his cell phone in its charger on his dresser, and his beeper somewhere in his dark bedroom had all gone off at once. Worse, the din woke up the twins and they started wailing.

  McKenna got up and rushed for his cell phone. “Sorry to wake you up, buddy, but we’ve got big problems,” Brunette said, but McKenna could hardly hear him.

  “Hold on a minute, Ray.”

  The phone on the nightstand stopped ringing, so McKenna knew Pao had picked it up in the living room. Angelita got up and found the beeper, still attached to his belt on his pants hanging in the closet. Then she picked up the twins and cradled them, one in each arm, trying to calm them down.

  McKenna took the phone into the living room. Angelita had insisted that Pao sleep over since he would be returning shortly anyway, but Pao was up now, dressed in a pair of McKenna’s pajamas, listening on the phone, and writing in his notebook.

  “Okay, Ray. What’s wrong?” McKenna asked.

  Brunette told him about the murders and the explosion that had taken place in O’Reilly’s neighborhood.

  “Any other injuries?” McKenna asked.

  “Fitzhughs and Sullavan are having trouble hearing, but they’re not going sick. Aside from that, there were another two parked cars destroyed and some windows blown out on the block.”

  “So he knows we’ve been listening in on him and he knows we’ve been watching O’Reilly,” McKenna said.

  “Yeah, and he also knows we can track his location whenever he’s using his phone. The ba
se told Fitzhughs and Sullavan that he was close when he dialed Washington information.”

  “Worse than that, I’m sure he’s eventually gonna suspect that we’ve got all those phone numbers from Page America.”

  “That means we’re wasting time watching Ambery’s sister, Brenda McDermott, and those pubs in Woodlawn. They’ll never go near those places again.”

  “They won’t go near Margaret’s house, I’ll give you that,” McKenna said. “But I think we can still get lucky with Brenda McDermott. I don’t think Mulrooney knows we’ve got her number.”

  “Why wouldn’t he? It’s on the Page America list and he’s called it himself three times.”

  “I’m sure he knows Brenda, but if I’m right, he doesn’t know her phone number. I think Mulrooney thought he was calling a pay phone when he called Crowley at Brenda’s place.

  “You’re gonna have to explain that one to me,” Brunette insisted.

  “Okay, bear with me. Mulrooney can’t be certain that we know he has Crowley or Ambery with him or that we know who they are. He suspects that the IRA did the boat captain in Donegal, and he might even suspect that either Learey or his mate told them about him and Ambery before they died. But he can’t be sure. He knows we’re watching Ambery’s sister right now because he called her himself this morning and he knows we’re monitoring his calls. But that doesn’t mean we know who Ambery is. Maybe all we really know is that Mulrooney’s connected somehow to somebody named Billy.”

  “All right, but if he thinks about the pagers, then he also has to know that we’ll find out about Crowley’s connection to Brenda McDermott,” Brunette reasoned.

  “Not necessarily. Mulrooney can’t suspect we know about Crowley because he doesn’t know that Ambery got drunk in Iceland and told Learey about him. Like McGuinn said, Ambery was so drunk that he probably doesn’t remember himself that he told Learey about Crowley. Now, except for the calls to Brenda’s number and O’Reilly’s number, what do all the rest of those beeper calls have in common?”

  “They’re all beeped to pay phones.”

  “Right. I’m figuring that Mulrooney told Ambery and Crowley to always use pay phones, just to be safe. Now Ambery hates Mulrooney, but he’s afraid of him. Besides, Mulrooney knows his sister and has her number. So every time Ambery wants to get in touch with either of the other two, he goes to a pay phone—even if he’s at his sister’s house in Levittown. He gets up and goes out.”

  “I see where you’re going,” Brunette said. “Crowley doesn’t always follow the plan. When he’s at Brenda’s and he’s either tired or just doesn’t feel like going out, he beeps them to Brenda’s phone. When they return his call, he tells them that he’s at a pay phone.”

  “Like maybe he did this morning when he returned Mulrooney’s beep,” McKenna said. “He told Mulrooney that he was calling from a pay phone, remember? If that call shows up on Brenda’s phone records, we’ll know I’m right.”

  “On two counts. If you’re right, Crowley disobeyed orders and Mulrooney can’t suspect we know about Brenda. I’ll have Tavlin check on her local usage first thing in the morning, but where does that leave us? Once Mulrooney tells them that we know about his phone and the beepers, Crowley would be crazy to go near Brenda’s again.”

  “That’s if Mulrooney tells them.”

  “You think he won’t?”

  “Why should he? He’s the one who screwed up by using Winthrop’s phone, and he thinks Crowley and Ambery have been following his orders to the letter. He thinks there’s no danger if all we’ve got is pay phone numbers to go on, so why would he admit his mistake to his underlings?”

  “Buddy, you could be right again,” Brunette said. “Maybe all is not lost because of one thing. I’m beginning to believe that you’re so far into his head that you know what he’s going to do almost before he does himself.”

  “Yeah, I’m into his head, but it’s not a nice place to be. It’s pretty grimy in there.”

  “So where do we go from here?” Brunette asked.

  “I’m going to Jackson Heights. I think it’s finally time to talk to the O’Reillys. They’re in for quite a horror show when I show them the pictures of what Mulrooney’s done.”

  “Then you’ll be meeting Sheeran there. I woke him up right before I called you. I’ll have somebody pick you up and take you there.”

  “What about you? Shouldn’t the police commissioner be making an appearance at the scene of a terrorist bombing?” McKenna asked.

  “Yes, but I can’t tonight. I just got home when this happened and that press conference really tired me out.”

  “Was it that bad?”

  “I don’t know what they’ll print, but they went into a real feeding frenzy on me when I told them who Mulrooney was. You can imagine the questions.”

  McKenna could. “You didn’t tell them that we’d get Mulrooney before he blew something up, did you?”

  “Not in so many words. That was one of the many questions I tried to sidestep. What I did say was that there was a chance we’d get him before then, but Mulrooney has just proven me wrong. I’m sure the mayor is going to be on my ass for that one during the whole parade.”

  “I didn’t know you were marching with him in the parade,” McKenna said.

  “Then you’re the only one. He announced it last week while you were away. Of course, he might withdraw the invitation after he reads the morning papers. His Honor might not wanna be seen with me in public.”

  “Go to bed, Ray. You’re so tired that you’re hallucinating. You always make him look good and he always wants to be seen with you.”

  “You’re right. Good night.”

  It had taken McKenna only a short time to shower, shave, and dress, but longer than he had wanted to explain to Angelita why he had to leave her alone again with the two howling boys. In the end, Angelita had understood and then she had gone even further, telling him to quit dragging his feet on the case and get Mulrooney.

  When McKenna was ready to go, Pao told him that Cisco had already been waiting downstairs for him for ten minutes. Then he tore two pages from his notebook and handed it to McKenna. “This all I need to make me look brilliant when I get there?” McKenna asked.

  “Not exactly brilliant. It’s just everything that dumb fuck Kotowski knows so far,” Pao answered.

  McKenna knew Pao well and wasn’t surprised at the reply. Captain Kotowski wasn’t a bad guy, he just hadn’t made it with Pao. Very few did. In many ways, Pao was like those German shepherd war dogs who could establish absolute loyalty to only a limited number of handlers. Every other person was the enemy as far as Pao was concerned, a danger to be snapped at or bitten whenever they got close. McKenna was proud to be included in Pao’s small circle, but every once in a while he felt like scratching Pao’s ear to calm him down.

  McKenna was at the front door when he realized he had forgotten the briefcase containing his case folder. He went back into the bedroom to get it. The twins had calmed down a bit, but Angelita was still holding them as she rested in bed. Janine had woken up and had crawled into bed with them. McKenna tarried a moment longer to give all another kiss goodnight.

  Cisco Sanchez was the picture of the successful detective: Well dressed and well groomed, he always carried himself proudly, like the man in charge. He was a flamboyant man-about-town who thought he was the best detective in the NYPD, which meant, according to Cisco, that he was the best detective in the world. Unfortunately for the many bosses who despised him, Cisco frequently solved difficult cases and got his man so often that they sometimes begrudgingly had to wonder if Cisco was right.

  Unlike most of the bosses, McKenna liked Cisco, appreciated his many talents, and used them whenever he could. The two men were close friends, so close that McKenna didn’t mind that Cisco sometimes treated him as the detective who was so lucky with his cases that he qualified as the only legitimate Pretender to the Throne.

  As soon as he got into the car, McKenna knew he was in f
or it. “So, Big-Shot, Very-Lucky Detective McKenna thinks he can leave His Majesty, Most-Excellent Detective Cisco Sanchez, waiting in the car like a common lackey, huh?”

  “Sorry, Cisco. If I had known it was you down here, I would’ve rushed down in my pajamas.”

  “Lucky for you, Cisco accepts your humble apology. Unfortunately, Cisco now has to make up for wasted time, so prepare for liftoff,” he said, then attached the magnetic red light to the roof of the car.

  Besides skydiving, hang gliding, scuba diving, ski jumping, semiprofessional boxing, womanizing with many jealous, high-strung Spanish ladies, and every other sport Cisco could think of to kill himself in his spare time, he was also a stock car racer of some local renown. “Never been in an accident, but probably caused hundreds of them,” was the way McKenna liked to characterize Cisco’s driving. He fastened his seat belt, braced himself, and closed his eyes until they were on the East River Drive, siren blaring and headed north toward the Triborough Bridge at terrifying speed. When the G-forces pressing McKenna into his seat abated, he turned on the overhead light and read Pao’s notes. It was an account of what the Queens detectives had learned so far, what specialized units were on the scene, and which department big shots were there or en route.

  The Crime Scene Unit and the Bomb Squad were there, but the two famous luminaries from those units hadn’t yet arrived when Pao had taken the notes. Lt. Simon Finan, the CO of the Bomb Squad and the NYPD’s leading expert on explosives, lived far Upstate. Det. First Grade Joe Walsh, universally recognized as the Crime Scene Unit’s leading expert on processing evidence and the NYPD’s leading ham and glory hound, had been at a conference at the Sheraton Hotel in Midtown where he had been hosting, entertaining, and dazzling crime scene detectives from departments all over the country.