Finola Allen, aka Finn, wondered how she could even think these thoughts as she crouched low behind an embankment.
She was only here because it was a balmy night with a crescent moon hanging low over the Hudson River. Finn was on her feet for the last 8 hours, waitressing at The Greasy Spoon, a dingy hole-in-wall diner that was open 24/7.
She should have been home hours ago working on a school thesis that was due in the next two weeks. But Mr. Jackson, the proprietor asked that she take on the slack for two other waitresses that were down with the flu. Finn needed the extra cash and agreed to stay. A bunch of notices – water, gas, and telephone- were all past due.
But she was bone-weary when Selma, her co-worker finally arrived at 6 PM. Finn joined her for a smoke at the back of the diner.
“Long day?” Selma asked taking in the stooped form and pitching movement.
“No shit,” Finn replied blowing smoke into the air. “I thought you’d never come. My feet feel like they have been through cut glass.”
“That old idiot Jackson shudda hired extra help instead of asking you to stay,” Selma retorted.
“I said I would. I needed the money,” Finn shrugged.
“You still in that night school? The one where they teach you to draw fancy stuff?” Selma asked.
Selma was referring to Art School where Finn enrolled. She was good at designing and inventing pieces of jewelry and hoped to open a small art shop someday. Her teacher Nora once said she had a good eye for visualizing the end product she created.
“Yup,” Finn replied, flicking a cigarette butt into a nearby dumpster.
She pulled the straps of her backpack firmly on her shoulder, said goodbye, before heading towards West Street to catch the bus that would bring her to a small studio at Kips Bay, her home for the last three years.
Finn was barely able to call the 450 square feet one-room apartment a home. But rent was cheap and it was close to the community college where she attended three nights a week.
She had learned to live with the ubiquitous sirens from trucks and ambulances and car horns. But it was the garbage trucks with their resonating deep screams that always managed to rouse her from sleep in the early hours of the morning.
Walking down the river greenway was when Finn first noticed the moon. The giant orb was swung low in the heavens casting long, deep shadows far down the greenish tint of the Hudson. The moon held on to its dominance and refused to be intimidated by the myriad lights of the city, even as creeping gray clouds threatened. It shone undaunted on the land beneath it, beckoning silently to whoever would listen.
Finn heeded the siren call and momentarily forgot her aching feet. She faced the water and breathed in the salty air and spotted a series of stone steps leading down to the water’s edge. Tentatively she approached and weighed the foolhardiness of walking down the steep slopes into the darkness below.
She hesitated momentarily, and then remembered the turkey sandwich from The Greasy Spoon and the bottle of lemonade in her backpack.
“I could sit by the water and eat, stay for a bit, and then go.” She decided.
She held onto the metal handrails that lined the sides of the steps and made her way down. The stairs were much longer than she imagined, but she was halfway there. With a determined flair, she inched her way down until she reached the slightly mulchy shoreline.
She studied the landscape of the coastline. The ground above from where she descended was buttressed by cement walls that ran for miles in both directions. The walls had series of escarpments that protruded slightly away from it. Between the escarpments, she spotted long benches that faced the water.
She sat down on one nearest her and unpacked the turkey sandwich. She was ravenous. Her last meal was breakfast before she reported for work at The Greasy Spoon. She uncapped the lemonade and drank thirstily all of its contents.
A few meters down the shoreline, Finn saw an abandoned warehouse and some rundown waterfront structures that lined a small wooden pier. The pier looked empty although Finn suspected that there may be the occasional drifter who would use the warehouse to sleep and pass the night.
The thought of meeting a stranger should have been enough to make her wary. But it was really such a beautiful night…and she had made it this far, her mind argued. She crumpled the remains of the sandwich into the wrapper and searched for a garbage can.
She thought she spotted one near the footpath leading to the pier and headed towards it.
Suddenly, bright lights penetrated the gloom. Finn was taken by surprise as she stared in the direction of the pier. Four parked cars formed a circle. The headlights illuminated the middle of the circle where she noted some men grouped in a tight pack. One was down on his knees and kneeling on the wooden slats of the dock.
There was something unnerving about the scene. It was similar to those late-night Hollywood movies where a murder was always the highlight of the story.
Finn dropped down on her hands and knees and hid behind the trash can. Self-preservation told her to flee. But with the headlights from the car shining brightly, there was no way anyone would miss her fleeing.
She stood her ground, crouching low, even as her heart began to thump. She moved her head slightly to take a peek. The men in the tight pack were looking down on the prone figure on the ground as their voices filtered in the silence of the pier.
“Boss, we should have killed this fucking asshole when we had a chance,” one voice declared.
“I gave you so many chances, Jimmy. But you chose to fuck with me. I gave you my word. Give me back the cache or give me the money. It was that simple. Instead, you went running to the Commissioner thinking he could protect you,” a raspy voice accused.
Finn gasped. Whoever the man was had to be the “boss” the first voice referred to. Finn strained to see the face of the man talking. By the glow of the headlights, she saw a stocky figure dressed in a 3-piece suit. Even from a distance, the suit looked expensive. But what made it incongruous for a place like the abandoned pier, was a red rose bud tucked in the lapel.
The man’s thinning gray hair blew gently in the breeze revealing a wide forehead. Narrow eyes were topped by brows that were pulled down and together in an angry glare. His shoes shone in the light. A folded overcoat hung in his arm where a gun extended from his hand.
“That was a foolish move, Jimmy. You just cost me even more money.” The boss added.
“Please…Please…I just need more time. I know I can still find it. Please…” the man on the ground pleaded.
“Your time is up.” The boss declared.
Three audible ‘whocks’ followed the announcement. Finn loved watching detective stories. The sound was familiar even if it didn’t come from her old TV set. Somebody just bade good old mother earth goodbye via a gun suppressor.
“Oh my god,” Finn gasped.
She felt faint as fear tore through her body. She heard footsteps as the men returned to the cars.
Suddenly, she realized something else. Those cars would have to pass the footpath where she hid by the trashcan. There was no way they wouldn’t spot her then.
“Run!” A voice in her head screamed.
Finn was scared shitless. She could hear the car engines coming closer. That was when she knew she would die.
Suddenly, adrenaline kicked in. She scurried away on all fours hoping to stay low on the ground. But when she did, she accidentally shoved the trashcan with her butt. It came crashing down.
She heard one of the cars stop as she scuttled away making her way into the shadows of an embankment.
“Hey,” a voice shouted in the distance.
Finn’s breathing turned ragged as she stifled a whimper. If they find her, she was sure she’d never see the light of day again.
“What is it?” A second voice asked
“I don’t know. I thought I saw something move and the container fell to the ground.”
“Probably just a stray cat. C’mon let’s go.” Th
e second voice urged.
Finn called on all the saints in heaven. After what seemed an eternity, the cars slowed down before turning away towards the opposite direction. The taillights receded into the distance and then disappeared. It was only then that she could breathe again.
Finn felt limp as she came out from the shadows. Instinct dictated that she get as far away from the area as possible. Adrenaline spiked once more, giving her stimulus needed to make it back to the stone steps. She grabbed the railing and ran up the steps two at a time until she reached the top.
She never looked back until she reached the corner, missing the bus by mere seconds.
“Stop! Stop!” She screamed in panic.
Thankfully, the air breaks whooshed and the bus came to a halt. Finn staggered in and took a seat at the back.
Never in her entire life had she been more thankful that she was still alive.
Chapter 2
The gun nuzzled the side of her forehead. “You should never go to places where you shouldn’t be,” the boss said. His voice sounded dead. As dead as she would be in a few more seconds. The gun fired and resounded like a thunderbolt in her ear.
Finn awoke with a sudden start. She flailed in the dark until her fingers touched the crumpled sheets.
“Oh, thank god,” she whimpered.
She was inside the bedroom in her apartment. It was just a dream. The sound she heard in her dream came from the garbage truck doing their early morning rounds.
Finn was soaked in perspiration, evidence of the fitful night she had. The scene at the abandoned warehouse replayed in her mind like a phonograph stuck on a single note. All she wanted was to forget it, even if the memory of the dead body slumped on the wooden pier, bothered her conscience.
“I should call 911 and report the incident.”
Then doubt set in. Anonymous calls didn’t stay anonymous too long with all the newfangled devices the government was always coming up with. No. she’d better think this through before she got more involved. She may even become a suspect. What business was it of hers to be in such a dubious location at such a late hour? She couldn’t make the moon her excuse.
Finn decided to wait until her mind cleared.
“God, just help me get through this day,” she prayed.
She glanced at the clock on the mantle. It was almost 6 AM. In a few hours, she would have to report for work.
“I’ll call in sick,” Finn decided. She was still distraught about last night’s incident.
She was too agitated to go back to sleep. She rose and went to the kitchen, rummaged for coffee and discovered she was all out of cream, and sugar. The convenience store was just around the corner. Finn decided to go and order coffee instead.
She grabbed a coat and donned it over her damp tank top. She slipped her feet into worn sneakers and headed out the door.
New York in the early morning was her best time of the day. The streets were almost empty except for the occasional homeless slumped under an awning on the sidewalk. Even the air smelled cleaner from the fumes that flooded the streets.
Up ahead, she spotted a delivery truck tossing newspapers down to a vendor on the sidewalk. She passed it and headed straight for the convenience store.
With coffee warming her hands, she left the store and passed the newspaper stand on her way back. The dailies were now stacked neatly and the headlines visible to anyone passing by. She would have disregarded the familiar sight with the red screaming headlines, except this time, something caught her attention.
It was a blurry image of a body. The photo was probably taken in the dark. The flash of the camera registered the wooden slats where the body slumped.
Finn wheezed. It was the pier where the murder took place last night.
She grabbed a copy and tucked it under her armpit. With a growing sense of panic, she ran back to her apartment. Finn unfolded the newspaper with trembling fingers.
The headline screamed:
GRANDSON OF HELLS ANGELS FOUNDING MEMBER SHOT DEAD.
Finn read the accompanying article.
“Jimmy Torch, grandson of Sonny Torch, a founding father of Hells Angels Motorcycle Club, was found dead early this morning in an abandoned warehouse in Edgemere.
Torch sustained gunshot wounds to the face, head, and chest in what can only be described as a brutal killing. Gunpowder residue found on the body indicates the victim was shot at point-blank range. Authorities are conducting ballistic testing on shell casings found near the body to determine the type of gun used in the murder.
Torch has been convicted in the past for drug trafficking, assault, weapons possession and attempted murder. All charges have been dropped, some say, evidence of the political connection of the club’s leadership.
Meanwhile, reporters tried to get in touch with Jimmy Torch, Sr. father of the victim. A representative of the club said that Torch Sr. will face the media upon his return. It is believed that Torch Sr. is currently touring the country in a frantic bid to unite all chapters under his leadership, a move that could establish the Angels as the largest motorcycle club in the whole world.
A motive for the killing is still unknown.”
Finn, heart still racing, flopped onto a chair. She has heard about Hells Angels in the past. Lumbering men with tides of tattoos, wearing denim or leather jackets that featured death’s head logos, and riding thundering Harleys. Preconceived notions attached to the ‘bad boy image’ gave them a bad rep.
“I should call the police,” Finn debated.
She knew it was the right thing to do. But, a huge part of her was terrified to get involved. It was not uncommon to turn a blind eye to petty crimes within the neighborhood. Theft, simple assault, vandalism, reckless driving, possession of marijuana, etc., often went unreported. The time spent filing a police report versus income loss for being unable to report for work just wasn’t worth it.
“But this wasn’t some juvenile act done by a young thug who needed extra cash to get high. This was murder.” Finn thought.
Suddenly, she remembered the man who pulled the trigger. The man in the 3-piece suit and the coldblooded, ruthless manner in which he disposed of a life. Instinctively, Finn knew he had to be someone important.
If she talked to the police, what reassurance would she have that she wouldn’t be the next target? Someone like that would have no qualms about eliminating any witnesses. Finn recalled many detective movies where eyewitnesses suffered horrifying deaths simply because they opened their mouths.
Besides, a murder trial would be a long and tedious process. She would have to skip work for the trial hearings. Old man Jackson would eventually fire her and she’d lose her job at The Greasy Spoon. Then she would lose her slot at Art School and never graduate. She’d have to say goodbye to her dream of opening her own shop.
Finn imagined her life on a downward spiral, all because she decided to heed her conscience.
“No,” she decided, “I’m not talking. I’ll forget all about it and move on with my life.
Meanwhile, in a police precinct in Brooklyn, Detective Leonardo Palermo was reading the police report on Jimmy Torch’s death. It wasn’t the kind of news he wanted to start his day. He frowned as his gut reacted, standing on his own personal premonition.
Lennie Palermo was born to be a tennis player. But a bad fall that injured his wrist derailed his ambition. He was pushing into his 30s yet he had the build of a teenager, lithe muscle under the standard business suit he wore. Good looking, toned, deep mesmerizing brown eyes with a rock-solid jawline that had a distinctive cleft chin.
He would have preferred a military-style haircut to the man-bun he sported. One of the trade-offs required of his job. He had to blend in with the crowd. When somebody sees a military looking guy poking around, the evidence disappears. If it’s someone who looked like him, it’s less suspicious.
Lennie had an attention to detail that was uncanny. Right now, it was the police report that was on his desk. Everything that conce
rned the Angels forewarned of trouble. If this killing was gang-related, he expected bodies to start piling in the streets.
Something bothered him. Torch’s body was discovered at the waterfront. It didn’t fit the profile of the victim. Someone must have brought him there and executed him. The abandoned waterfront was the enclave of small-time druggies -the drop and the exchange of prohibited drugs.
That was an open secret in the precinct. Every now and then, a patrol car would sweep the area as a warning. But it wasn’t routine they could do on a daily basis.
What would Jimmy Torch be doing in such a place, he thought? The men swept through the scene of the crime. There was no Harley anywhere in the vicinity, an indication that Jimmy was brought there instead.
Lou, the department’s forensic scientist knocked. “I’ve got partial results. The striation on the three bullets from Torch’s body shows that a Glock was used in the murder. I went through the system to see if we can find a match. There was none. But guess what? I found something even better.”
“What,” Lennie asked.
“Remember the case you were pursuing a while back? The one about the missing guns in an armory in Louisiana?”
“Yeah what about it,” Lennie asked.
“Those guys sent a ballistic report for the weapons. The Glock matches one of them.”
Lennie inhaled. “Anything else on the crime scene I need to know about?”
“We collected some evidence. A half-eaten turkey sandwich inside a wrapper with a logo from a nearby diner called The Greasy Spoon. We found a backpack too. But I can’t say it’s connected to the crime. That place is a dump and used by transients, mostly to pass the night,” Lou replied.
“Anything important inside the backpack?” Lennie asked.
“A clean shirt and some fancy jewelry,” Lou replied.
“What do you mean by fancy jewelry?”
On Fire (Seduction Series Book 3) Page 10