The Holdouts (Buddy Lock Thrillers Book 2)

by James Tucker

  Juan was first in the room. “Detective Lock,” he said loudly, “you can’t leave. You aren’t well.”

  “I’m well enough,” Buddy said. “And I am leaving. Right now.” As if for emphasis, Buddy pulled on his suit coat over the empty shoulder holster. “Juan, where’s my duty weapon?”

  Juan eyed the holster warily. “You need to stay here, Detective Lock.”

  “No.”

  A doctor swung into the room. She was in her early thirties, with a stocky build, blue eyes, and short brown hair.

  “Detective Lock,” she said, “you’re in no shape to leave. You’re in danger if you leave.”

  Buddy thought, I’m in worse danger if I stay. Keeping his voice calm, he said, “Please return my duty weapon.”

  She stared at him until she blinked. Shaking her head, she strode to the nurse’s station, removed his Glock 19 from a locked cabinet, and handed it to him.

  He took it. “Thank you.” And walked along the corridor.

  “Detective,” she called after him. “We can’t help you if you leave.”

  Buddy turned to her and tried to smile. “Thank you, Doctor, but I have to go.”

  “Detective, you don’t understand. You have a severe concussion. You’ve been unconscious for a couple of hours.”

  Buddy said, “But I’m conscious now. No worries.” He turned away and walked down the hallway. Once he’d turned a corner and the doctor and Juan could no longer see him, he stopped and put a hand on the wall to steady himself.

  His heart pounded. He felt sweat on his face.

  After a moment, he straightened and kept going.

  40

  In the elevator Buddy studied the other passengers. He saw members of the hospital staff in pale-blue scrubs or white lab coats. An elderly couple with gray hair and old winter coats in dark colors, the old man crying openly and the old woman with stone-cold eyes and a mouth turned down at the corners. A young Indian man and woman dressed in jeans, Nike running shoes, and Patagonia jackets. She held a baby in her arms and glanced at Buddy before looking quickly away.

  Buddy hadn’t looked at himself since the accident. He might be bruised or cut around the face. Yet he didn’t care if he frightened this woman. Breathing deeply, he knew the elevator ride would soon end, and he’d have to walk along the hospital corridor toward the exit. His stomach tightened as the brushed stainless-steel doors opened. He didn’t move.

  When the hospital staff and the four civilians had filed out of the elevator, he put his right hand over his stomach, near the shoulder holster under his suit coat, and stepped into the corridor.

  He looked right, then left. The fluorescent bulbs above cast everything with an unnaturally pale light. He didn’t like what he saw.

  Many people were walking in his direction, some slowly, some rapidly and with purpose. After the events of the last hours, he suspected all of them of murderous intent. He couldn’t evaluate each of them. He wasn’t up to it. The only solution was to get out of the building.

  Swiveling around, he followed the corridor signs toward First Avenue. He left the old hospital and walked under the enormous glass atrium with balconies overlooking the huge space. He felt a hundred pairs of eyes on him. But he kept his head down and marched forward. Every three paces he did a three-sixty check. Eyes on him, he was sure, but no assault.

  Moments later he went up the stone ramp that brought him level with First Avenue. Ten seconds more, and he was standing just inside the vestibule. He was unprotected. Standing in the open. Anyone could see him. He didn’t like the feeling. With his right hand he reached under his suit coat and held the Glock. He flexed his left, ready to fight off another assault.

  He knew they’d come for him again. Maybe here. Maybe at home. He thought of Mei, alone with Ben somewhere.

  Jesus Christ.

  He needed to get up to Seventy-Sixth Street, but he couldn’t walk there. If another SUV plowed into him, he wouldn’t be lucky a second time. Taking a cab wouldn’t be safe, for the same reason. And in his condition, the subway would be a death trap. He considered and rejected Ward. Buddy was a cop. He should be able to handle the situation with his own resources.

  He decided to trust someone he didn’t completely trust. He took out his phone and dialed.

  41

  Mario pulled along the curb in an unmarked Ford Interceptor. From the driver’s seat, he rolled down the passenger window and called, “Need a ride?”

  Buddy raised a hand in greeting and hobbled to the car. He climbed in and shut the door, groaning as he did.

  Mario said, “You look out of it, man.”

  “I am. Out of it.”

  “Shouldn’t you stay at the hospital?”

  Buddy didn’t respond.

  Mario exhaled. “All right.” He glanced into his side mirror and merged into the northbound traffic.

  As the car began to move, Buddy’s dizziness worsened. Closing his eyes, he said, “Did you talk with traffic and patrol?”

  “Sure did.”

  Buddy looked over at him. “Did they get anything on the SUV that hit me?”

  Mario shook his head. “Not a thing.”

  “DOT didn’t have a traffic cam?”

  “I checked. Not at that intersection.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you check hospitals for gunshot wounds to the feet or lower legs?”

  “I did.”

  Buddy waited for Mingo to relay what he’d found. When his partner didn’t answer, he turned to him. “Just tell me, Mingo.”

  “Sorry, Buddy. They reported nobody with that kind of injury.”

  Buddy was silent. Who the hell are these people? He remembered that only yesterday, Tan Jacket had disappeared after Buddy kicked him into a concrete staircase. And tonight, he’d shot someone at Park and Twenty-Third, and that person hadn’t gone to a hospital.

  Buddy’s dizziness threatened to overcome him. He faced forward, closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples.

  Mario said, “Buddy, your memory is fuzzy. I get it.”

  “No,” Buddy said.

  Mario continued, “Witnesses talked to patrol, Buddy. They said the driver of the SUV hit you and drove away. One guy said he heard gunshots or a car backfiring, he wasn’t sure which.” Mario reached over and laid a hand on Buddy’s left shoulder. “The accident messed with your head, man. Patrol thinks there wasn’t a gunfight.”

  “What?” Buddy sat up, shrugging off Mario’s hand. He knew there was at least one witness, but the guy who’d been wearing black loafers must have been spooked.

  “Don’t feel bad about it,” Mario continued. “I mean, you can hardly walk. No way you can remember—accurately—what happened at the crash scene.”

  Buddy started to reply, then caught himself. What was the point? At least he wouldn’t be suspended for being involved in another shooting. He wouldn’t have to deal with Force Investigations, and he could keep his service Glock.

  But he’d been rammed by an SUV. He’d nearly been killed. His mood flashed black. He didn’t know what had happened. But he knew that in addition to touching the proverbial third rail, he was getting closer. To something or someone he couldn’t identify or touch. But that something or someone had shown lethal force that could hurt, even kill, him and Mei. Once again, he realized his enemies had clout. An unbelievable amount of it.

  He opened his eyes, turned, and stared at Mario. His distrust growing by the minute, he said nothing more.

  When they arrived at his building, he got out of the car and closed the door behind him.

  Did he sell me out? Buddy thought. And for what?

  42

  Ward stood in the gun room of his large modern house in Greenwich. He was packing two ballistic nylon duffel bags. One with clothing, including jackets, for him, maybe for Buddy. The other with handguns, ammunition, a flashlight, face paint, holsters, a Taser, a rifle, and an Uzi.

  The gun room was in the basement, thirty
by thirty feet, with recessed lighting, a polished concrete floor, racks of guns, and below the racks, shelves filled with everything he might need in case of an ambush.

  Ms. Gallatin had gone to bed in the opposite wing of the house. The house was quiet, so the ringing of his mobile phone startled him.

  “Hello?” he answered.

  “Mr. Mills, this is Helmut Borer.” The precise voice spoke heavily accented English.

  Ward felt the twinge of anxiety, but he wouldn’t express it. For a banker like Helmut Borer, he had to be cold to be respected. “Yes, Helmut?”

  “I found the account.”

  “Where?”

  “Basler Holding.”

  Ward said, “What’s the account balance?”

  “Four hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Were there numerous small deposits, or only one deposit?”

  “A single deposit, made yesterday.”

  “When was the account established?”

  A pause as Helmut Borer studied his information. Then: “Yesterday.”

  Ward thought about the money deposited into a Zurich account by a junior detective from the NYPD who made well under $100,000 a year and probably had to allocate much of that money to housing. “Helmut?” he said.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Thanks for the favor.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Ward ended the call and dialed his brother. When Buddy answered, he said, “Mingo has a numbered account with four hundred grand in it.”

  He could hear Buddy’s breathing, but Buddy didn’t respond.

  “Buddy?” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  Ward stared at a Beretta M9 on the gun rack. He took hold of it with his free hand and said, “The money was a single deposit, made yesterday. Maybe a down payment for taking you out?”

  “It could have been,” Buddy said. “Or for the couple off Long Island. Or something else.”

  Ward shook his head. “Really, you think the money is for something else?”

  Buddy’s voice grew deeper, louder, when he responded. “No, I think it was related to this case. But I don’t know how.”

  43

  Alone in his living room, Buddy set down his phone. He checked the Glock.

  It was good to have it back. Even at home he carried a spare magazine in his right trouser pocket. After a while, he held the gun at his side.

  He stood by the living room windows and stared out at the city. Lights on familiar buildings on Central Park West and Central Park South: the handsome Plaza Hotel, the needle of One57, the Ritz-Carlton, the Time Warner Center’s sheets of black glass, and across the park, the Dakota. At night these buildings were like child’s toys—illuminated and colored shapes of different eras, the city’s history brought to life.

  Buddy went into the master bathroom and took two Advil. Returning to the bedroom, he retrieved the medallion from his pocket and pushed it under the mattress on his side of the bed. Then he took a hot shower, but only briefly and with the Glock on the vanity within easy reach.

  The headache easing, he sat on the sofa, pulled out his cell phone, and studied the photograph he’d taken of the sign at the future site of Haddon House. Once again he read the names: Cromwell Properties and the New York City Economic Development Agency.

  He pushed the home button on his phone and then the Safari icon. He searched for Cromwell Properties, clicked on the company’s website, and clicked the link for leadership. There, he read about Stella Bannon, the CEO:

  Stella Bannon leads Cromwell Properties, a premier real estate developer offering the best of New York City design, development, construction, leasing, and sales. During her fourteen years with the company, Cromwell has completed eight projects in the city, five in Manhattan. Forbes has rated Bannon a Top 10 CEO in New York. J.D. Power has recognized Cromwell as one of America’s most ethical private companies. Bannon serves on the boards of Big Brothers Big Sisters, Mount Sinai Kravis Children’s Hospital, and the Whitney Museum of American Art.

  Buddy thought this information told him nothing about her. Nothing of use.

  So he searched for the Economic Development Agency. Its executive director was Erica Fischer. Her biography, posted on the EDA’s website, gave even less relevant information.

  Buddy searched Bannon’s and Fischer’s names.

  He found news articles, mostly about new projects, a few about eminent domain controversies. Eminent domain, he thought, the power of government to take property away from private citizens. But he already knew about it, thanks to Henry Lee.

  Nothing unusual. Nothing unexpected. Nothing at all.

  He was grasping at air, yet he sensed movement. He just couldn’t see through the fog surrounding that movement. Not yet.

  He got up and sat behind Mei’s Steinway. He began to play something easy, something for beginners. Für Elise.

  He made no errors, but his headache worsened and his left wrist burned. Annoyed and more than a little worried about his ability to play, he decided to go for something difficult. He’d test himself at full volume. Something that would require strength and speed in both hands when played at the composer’s recommended tempo.

  The first thirty seconds of Grieg’s Piano Concerto in A Minor.

  The first notes had always seemed to him like icicles thrown through the air. He’d relished playing them as a young man, but tonight he was apprehensive. That he’d forget the notes. That his hands would fail him. But he hadn’t become either a concert pianist or a detective with the NYPD through weakness.

  He straightened on the piano bench.

  Lined himself up.

  Opened and closed his hands.

  Visualized the opening bars, the icicles, the strength of the passage that he wanted to convey to . . . to whom?

  He was alone.

  Once again, he was alone in this life.

  No, he thought then. Not alone.

  I have music. And it doesn’t matter if I hate it half the time.

  He imagined an orchestra’s timpani rising in volume. Taking two deep breaths, he raised his arms for an instant and then plunged into the opening chords. And the descending line.

  He played hard, loud as he would in a concert hall. The entire room echoed the sound back to him. But he kept playing for that essential thirty seconds. His left hand hurt like hell, but it didn’t fail him. Nor did his memory.

  He finished the opening bars, just as an orchestra’s strings would echo the theme he’d played, and stopped, breathing more easily.

  He hadn’t lost it. In a week, he’d be all right.

  He lay on the sofa. The Advil kicked in. The apartment was silent.

  He didn’t trust the peace, the calm, the apparent disappearance of the menace. He knew it would come for him again. It would try over and over until it got him.

  After he’d closed his eyes, he thought he was in seawater, falling from the surface of the salty spray into the depths. The cold blackness engulfed him and pulled him down. Yet he fought the current and swam upward. At the peak of a wave, he tried to see the lights of the coast, but he could see nothing. He looked up to see the stars, to attempt a primitive navigation, but the thick clouds blocked out all light.

  He swam for an hour, maybe two. His limbs burned with the effort. His lungs seized up. He tried to float on his back, then his front, but the water kept dragging him down.

  He reached the point where he knew he’d fail. He wouldn’t reach shore. He was going to die.

  Why fight any longer?

  Why swim for no reason?

  A few moments of life weren’t worth the gargantuan effort.

  He stopped moving. He sank deep into the ocean until all was darkness and he couldn’t breathe. Water poured into his lungs and he was drowning. But he wasn’t fighting it. He felt at peace. Then he changed his mind.

  He didn’t want peace. He wanted to live.

  He began kicking, propelling his body upward to the surface. But it was too late.
He’d sunk too far. He wouldn’t survive.

  He yelled in anger, in torment, in regret.

  No!

  He woke. He sat up on the living room sofa, gulping air, his breaths rapid and fierce.

  DAY 3

  44

  Mei awoke to the sound of something she couldn’t place. It sounded like voices—hundreds or thousands of them—in the distance. A faint vibration, almost a swishing, arced over the house. She sat up and peered through the slit of light coming between the blind and the windowsill. Yet she could see nothing in the field on that side of the house.

  Her stomach tightening with anxiety, she slipped out of bed, put on a pair of jeans, and crept from the room, careful not to disturb Ben, who was asleep on the sofa.

  As she entered the great room, she immediately turned to the front door. Seeing it was closed and locked, she exhaled. She walked gingerly toward the window to the right of it. There, she put a hand on the edge of the blind and pulled it to the side.

  Her first impression was that the ground outside seethed with bugs. Her mouth twisted involuntarily with disgust. But then the bugs took form and moved in a dozen directions at once.

  My God, she thought in horror.

  Bringing her hands down, she considered what to do. Or even if there was anything she should do.

  Almost fearful that some of them might try to get into the house, she unlocked the door and opened it. Just a crack, at first. When nothing came inside, wider.

  Then she heard clearly. These—crows, dozens of them, maybe hundreds—were the sounds that had awakened her, a witches’ whispering chorus. They made her feel almost ill, and they seemed touched with foreboding.

  Now she felt motivated to do something, to chase off the terrible creatures.

  By her feet to the side of the door, she saw her boots. Quickly, she pushed her feet into them and walked outside into the cold, closing the door behind her.

  They looked up with their depthless black eyes but showed no concern. As if they belonged there, they didn’t move.

  Walking twenty feet out among them, she clapped her hands. “Go away!” she shouted at them. “Go away!”