She was a little bothered that she couldn’t find the information she needed to close her contract on Michael Bennett. The Mexican cartel liaison she dealt with, who constantly bragged about his contacts, wasn’t able to help her, either. She learned a new lesson about depending on the cartel’s contacts. She hadn’t developed her own for this job and was in the dark. She didn’t like the feeling.
Her cartel contact knew only that one of the gunmen she had used was at NewYork–Presbyterian in the ICU.
Alex wasn’t going to let that ruin her night. She lingered over her delicious meal and even chatted with the bartender a little bit. He had an eastern European accent, but his name tag said LARRY.
She watched the couples come and go through the restaurant. This time of the evening it was a decidedly younger crowd, stockbrokers from Wall Street and other young people who thought they would rule the city one day.
Those kinds of ambitions had never interested her. She had wanted to do something creative since she was a little girl. It wasn’t until she was older, after her father was murdered, that she discovered you could be creative in any number of jobs.
Her father’s death, from a single gunshot wound to the head, had affected her in so many ways. Most of them she preferred not to explore too deeply. She’d get nothing of benefit by hanging on to the past.
Her fashion photography had provided a welcome outlet for her creativity. And, surprisingly, she could mix her two occupations with some frequency. It was easy to scout locations for both a photo shoot and a contract. They didn’t necessarily have to be two different places.
Once she had finished most of what was on her plate, just as her mother had taught her to do, Alex raised her hand to catch the bartender’s attention. She noticed that in addition to his drooping right eye, Larry had a shuffle in his gait. He seemed a little young to have suffered a stroke. She wondered if the secret police in his home country were anything like the police she had dealt with in Colombia over the years.
She pulled a simple Yves Saint Laurent leather wallet from her purse. Before she even had it opened, Larry raised his hands.
He had a broad smile when he said, “It’s already been taken care of.”
“What? By whom?”
“The man at the end of the bar by the door.”
Alex turned to see an attractive man a few years older than she was, wearing an expensive suit, raise a glass of Scotch and smile.
She plopped a fifty-dollar bill on the bar and said, “Then this is for you.”
Larry didn’t offer much resistance.
She turned toward the door and walked out with her confident stride. As she was about to reach the man sitting at the end of the bar, she turned her head slightly, smiled, and said, “Thank you for dinner.”
Then she kept walking. The guy was lucky he didn’t try to stop her. She had things to do.
Chapter 12
The floor nurse had made the hospital policy clear to Mary Catherine, and my fiancée left without too much fuss. Although I liked having her with me, I felt better knowing she was home and would have a chance to sleep. Besides, it would be more comforting to the kids in the morning if she were there.
The drugs felt like they were starting to wear off, but I wasn’t tired. Instead I found myself staring up at the stained ceiling. I replayed my last moments with Antrole Martens over and over. The sickening sound of the hand grenade as it rolled on the rough, carpeted floor. The stinging of the dust in my eyes from the bullets winging through the wall. The sound of people in the other apartments as they scrambled for their lives. A gunfight could be a complicated and devastating business for a cop. Losing a partner was something you never got over.
I heard my phone ringing somewhere in the room. My son Eddie liked to change the ringtone every few days. For the past week, it had been Robert Plant belting out the words “And she’s buying a stairway to heaven.”
It took me a few moments to realize it was close to me, in the drawer of the night table right next to my head. I fumbled with the drawer and snatched the phone up.
I didn’t recognize the upstate New York number, so I answered it with “Michael Bennett.”
A woman’s voice said, “Mr. Bennett, this is Kathy Morris. I’m the inspector at the Gowanda Correctional Facility.”
Inspectors investigated crimes at prisons. I had a flash of fear about Brian, who was housed at the facility.
I blurted out, “Is Brian okay?”
The inspector said, “I’m sorry to say that your son Brian has been stabbed.”
I thought I might black out for the second time that day.
Chapter 13
After I’d heard all the information Inspector Morris was willing to divulge, I lay back down and considered my options.
It was hard to picture my little boy being stabbed. Brian had suffered severe lacerations to the face and two puncture wounds to his abdomen. It had been an official report delivered in clinical terms, but I knew what a knife attack looked like. Knife wounds are ugly and shocking, even if you don’t know the victim. Thankfully the administration had shown some common sense and immediately moved him by ambulance to a hospital near Buffalo.
Brian was serving a term for selling drugs. It was a mistake that would affect him, and me, for the rest of our lives. He never could explain why he did it. Just that he got in deeper and deeper, then couldn’t get out.
He had worked for a lowlife who used kids to sell his shit. Brian was lucky. Some of the kids selling synthetic drugs, including meth and ecstasy, had been killed.
The cartel that ran the business had used a fifteen-year-old boy named Diego to handle competition and potential witnesses. I tracked Diego down to the library on Columbia University’s campus, where we chatted for a few minutes before he pulled a pistol and tried to kill me. Unfortunately, I was forced to shoot him. It troubled me still.
This was no coincidence. The ambush on Antrole and me was connected to Brian’s attack. I just had to think clearly to figure it all out.
Now the question was, how could I escape and make my way to Buffalo? There was no question I was going to see my boy. There would only be a problem if someone was foolish enough to get in my way.
I found my pants folded across the chair at the back of my room with my shoes underneath it. I had no idea where they came from or who had bothered to fold them. My shirt was nowhere to be seen. I can imagine what the person who found it thought when he or she saw Antrole’s blood splattered across it.
My police ID was in the same drawer as my phone. I had what I needed.
I borrowed a shirt from my roommate’s closet. The color matched my khaki pants, but it was way too big. I tucked it in as best I could, looking like a kid wearing his father’s long-sleeved shirt.
Pain shot through me as I adjusted the shirt, then pulled my belt tight to give my back some support. It didn’t help much. The room dipped and spun a couple of times as I got dressed, but the longer I was on my feet, the steadier I felt.
I peered out my door and didn’t see anyone at the nurses’ station. Why would I? It was the middle of the night and nothing was going on. I slid down the hallway quietly, like a ninja. At least in my current state it felt like I was a ninja. I took the elevator all the way down to the lobby. Once there, I walked through as if I were just another visitor. Why not? Security was intent on keeping people out of the hospital, not in.
Out on the street, I realized my plan wasn’t completely thought out. What now? I couldn’t walk to Buffalo. Then I remembered Eddie teaching me about my new apps. I grabbed my phone and hit the Uber app, and a few minutes later a black Dodge Charger pulled up in front of me. It felt like magic.
As I hopped in, all I said was, “Need to go to Buffalo.”
The tubby white guy behind the wheel turned and said, “I can’t drive to Buffalo.”
“Sure you can. Just head north on I-87. I’ll guide you the rest of the way in.”
The driver had no sense of h
umor and said, “Let me rephrase that. I won’t drive to Buffalo. It’s too far.”
I took a moment to think, then gave him the address of my apartment instead.
The Ford twelve-passenger van we used to tote around my army of a family was in its usual spot in a parking garage across from our building. The family tank would be my chariot on the ride to Buffalo.
The spare key was under the rear bumper, conveniently, though it wasn’t easy to grab it when my muscles were stiff and pain made me groan with the slightest bend. Now I was sure the painkillers had worn off completely and I could drive safely. Unfortunately, that meant I was in incredible pain. Life is trade-offs.
I couldn’t twist in the driver’s seat and bumped a support pillar backing the van out. But just like when I stood after lying in the bed, the longer I was behind the wheel, the better I felt.
All I could think about was Brian and getting to him.
Chapter 14
The hospital in Buffalo looked like any other hospital, and God knows I’d seen too many of them recently, but once I got inside it had a very different feel from a New York City facility. It was quiet, and security was lax. An elderly woman at the information desk told me Brian was in room 315.
I slipped up to the third floor with the intention of heading right to Brian’s room. As I came down the hallway, a short man in uniform stood up from a plastic chair pushed against the wall. A true roadblock.
He held up a hand and said, “Where are you going?”
I muttered, “Room 315.”
“Why?”
I tried to push past him. That’s when I noticed that the patch on his shirt showed he was from the department of corrections. I understood his concern, so I said, “I’m Brian Bennett’s father.” I thought that would settle the matter.
The lean little guy said, “No visitors.”
“But—”
In a louder voice he said, “No visitors. Let me be clear. You cannot see him until he’s secure in another state facility. Got it?”
I could feel the anger rise to my throat. Suddenly my back didn’t hurt quite as much, my finger wasn’t throbbing, and my head didn’t feel like I’d been hit with a frying pan. Now the only thing I needed was to see my son. And this little jerk was standing in my way.
The DOC man said, “You can check on his status in a few days. But you need to leave before you’re charged with trespassing.” He gave me another look and said, “And you might want to shower first.” He sniggered, looking over his shoulder at a uniformed Buffalo police officer. I noticed the SWAT tag under his badge. He was about my age and in good shape.
The cop gently took my right arm and guided me in the opposite direction, toward the elevator. I could tell he knew me. Someone had talked about the cop’s kid who’d been stabbed while he was on the inside.
When I looked over my shoulder, all I could see was the smirk on the DOC man’s face. He kept it until the elevator doors closed and blocked my view.
Chapter 15
As soon as the elevator doors closed, the Buffalo cop said, “You don’t know me, but I owe you big-time.” He held out his hand and said, “I’m Jeff Hutcheon.”
I shook his hand but didn’t say anything. It had to be a mistake.
“The case you made a few years back. When the guys took the hostages at the First Lady’s funeral and killed the mayor.”
I’d never forget that case. It was Christmas. Maeve, my wife, died around that time. My life was in ruins, and that case haunted me. Until I figured out that prison guards from upstate had staged the whole event, with the help of an FBI agent. They’d played the NYPD like a cheap guitar.
Hutcheon said, “My cousin was one of the prison guards. The whole family was embarrassed. He’s doing his time in a federal pen in California now. But I know that entire case forward and backward. I recognized your name as soon as that department of corrections prick started bragging about whose kid was being held. They hired us as extra security.”
I said, “All I wanted to do was visit my son.” My voice was still weak.
Hutcheon smiled and said, “And you’re going to. I guarantee it.”
Five minutes later, following the instructions the cop gave me, I stepped out of the elevator and back onto the third floor. The first thing I heard was raised voices. As I walked down the hallway, I saw that the cop who’d talked to me was leaning against the wall, holding the attention of the department of corrections man.
The cop said, “I’m telling you we’re going to need more overtime for this detail, and you guys need to start paying up.”
The DOC man sputtered, trying to explain that he didn’t control the money. The cop leaned in closer and put his hand on the man’s shoulder.
Standing in front of Brian’s room was a second Buffalo officer, who motioned for me to step forward. As I walked past Hutcheon while he was berating the department of corrections man, he raised his eyes to me for a moment and winked.
A smile spread across my face. I needed the help right about now.
The cop by Brian’s door patted me on the shoulder, then opened the door. I stepped into the room, where the TV played softly and gave me enough light to see Brian asleep in his bed.
I stepped forward and had to stifle a yelp. He had bandages wrapped around his face and forehead as well as his left arm. He looked like he belonged in the film The Mummy.
I took a seat right next to his bed and leaned in to get a better look. I didn’t care what the State of New York said—he still looked like my little boy asleep in the bed. I could just see the rough edges of the stitches on his cheek at the edge of the gauze bandage.
It hurt me both physically and emotionally to see my oldest son like this. Since his arrest and conviction, I had lived in a half fog of worry. The DA wanted to make an example of a cop’s kid who had made a mistake. The example haunted me every day.
As if sensing I was there, Brian turned his head, then opened his eyes. The smile he gave me made everything I’d gone through worthwhile.
I said in a low voice, “Surprised to see me?”
His voice was a little scratchy. “Not at all. I knew you’d come.”
He reached across with his right hand and took hold of mine. I carefully leaned down and touched my forehead to his. I almost cried, but I didn’t want to upset him.
After a few minutes of silence, Brian lowered the covers and lifted his gown to show me the two red stab wounds on his abdomen, covered by thin gauze. In total, he had gotten thirty-six stitches.
“I was scared, Dad. Really scared. It was two guys I barely knew. They passed me on the rec field and just started to slash and stab. It just happened that one of the corrections officers was standing nearby and was on the ball.”
I tried to limit my professional questions, designed to figure out who did this and who ordered it. Brian explained that he didn’t know much except they were both Mexicans who claimed to be part of a cartel. No one at Gowanda messed with them.
Brian told me again about the war between the Mexican cartel and the Canadian mob over territory. He’d warned me about the brewing feud when he first went to prison. He wondered if he was just caught in the middle.
Most people associated the word mob with Italians from New York, but the term applied to a lot of organizations. The Canadian mob was mostly made up of French Canadians who were loosely affiliated but banded together when threatened by outside groups.
Then Brian said, “But it doesn’t matter what happened to me. I’m worried they might come after you or the family. It’s all my fault. I brought all this on.” He started to cry.
That made me cry. I tried to tell him not to worry about it, that it wasn’t his fault, but I wasn’t so sure. Maybe this was all related to retribution for his working in the drug business and my trying to ruin that business. I knew drug cartels could be ruthless.
I said, “Brian, you’re not responsible for other people’s actions. You’re a good kid who made a mistake. I’ll fi
x all this. I promise.”
His eyes turned up toward me. “Really? Do you think you can?”
I squeezed his hand gently. I couldn’t put into words how much it hurt to see my son like this. Not only the bandages but also the agony over what he had put the family through.
Being a father was so much harder than being a cop.
Chapter 16
Alex Martinez had done reconnaissance on NewYork–Presbyterian, attached to the campus of Columbia University. The hospital had a stellar reputation. If she thought the gunman would die of his wounds, she wouldn’t bother to follow up. But chances were he’d survive the injury. And that meant he was a risk.
She had come to the hospital earlier to pay a visit to the main security room. She told the uniformed guard she’d lost her wallet, so he sent her to the lost and found department, in the empty administrative office—where the camera feeds were. She disconnected the main cable on the other side of the wall, counting on the fact that it would take an hour for someone to figure it out.
Now, in the late afternoon, no one seemed to notice her as she walked down a fifth-floor corridor, pushing a gurney. She was dressed in billowing blue scrubs designed to hide her shape, and a blue surgical mask covered her face. The outfit would make a description more difficult later. She knew exactly what room the gunman was in and how many nurses were on duty. This was the slow time for the nurses. There were three on duty, and one of them was in the cafeteria on the first floor.
She’d waited until the other two were busy in patient rooms. This was her chance. Alex had a flutter of nerves. No amount of preparation could compensate for a freak coincidence.
She saw the corrections officer sitting on a folding chair in front of the gunman’s door. He paid no attention as she came toward him with the gurney.
Alex did not take killing lightly. There had to be a clear reason and purpose behind taking a life. Usually that reason was money.
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