Ambush

by Patterson, James

  So I decided I would. I pulled my giant Ford van around the block and parked in front of the church’s administration building.

  As soon as I stepped in the door, a priest I didn’t recognize greeted me and said, “How may I help you?”

  He looked to be a few years older than I was and in excellent shape. I detected a slight accent and looked past him to find my grandfather. I said, “I’m Michael Bennett, Seamus’s grandson.”

  A smile spread across the priest’s face as he said, “The detective with an army of children.”

  “That’s me.”

  “I’m Alonzo Garcia. I’m the new priest here.”

  “You’re the priest Seamus is mentoring?”

  “The very same.”

  I blurted out, “But you’re…” I managed not to say the word old aloud.

  A smile spread across his face as he said, “Much more handsome than you expected?”

  We both laughed.

  Father Alonzo said, “I’m new to the priesthood. The church thought a man like your grandfather, who had a similar experience, might be of some use.”

  “You owned a bar, too?”

  He chuckled. “Hardly.”

  I was hoping for some elaboration, but I let it go. For now.

  I followed the priest back into the spacious offices, which had boxes stuffed in every corner. He picked up a cup of hot tea he had been brewing and set it on the desk in front of Seamus.

  My grandfather said, “I see you two have met.” He coughed, then blew his nose.

  Father Alonzo put a plate with a sliced orange on it in front of my grandfather before he could say anything. I liked that.

  We’d all been worried about Seamus’s health in the past few months. He had lost weight since his heart attack, and he tended not to look after the details of his life, such as needing to drink enough fluids and eat enough fruit.

  We all chatted for a few minutes, and Father Alonzo invited me out to the athletic fields to look at the soccer game going on in the back. He was clearly proud of teaching some of the students at Holy Name new ways to approach the most popular team sport in the world.

  As soon as we were outside, he turned to me and said, “Your grandfather can be quite a stubborn man.”

  I let out a snort. “No”—then I remembered who I was talking to—“kidding.”

  Father Alonzo said, “He stays up too late, doesn’t get any rest during the day, and doesn’t eat nearly as much as he needs to.”

  Now we were talking as we circled the soccer field. My grandfather had come out separately from us and was on the sideline.

  It was a spirited and competitive game. I was impressed. I had seen a lack of enthusiasm about soccer for years here at the school.

  Two boys, about ten, got into a shoving match after a ball had rolled out-of-bounds. I was impressed with Alonzo’s casual intervention as he sent one boy running to the goal and the other to the opposite side of the field.

  Then my grandfather shouted after them in Spanish. I had never heard him speak any Spanish before, despite the fact that almost a third of the students were Hispanic.

  Seamus looked at me and smiled. “I showed Alonzo some of the important aspects of leading a flock, and he’s been teaching me Spanish. It seems to be working out well for both of us.”

  I had to agree.

  Chapter 22

  Two days later, at exactly nine in the morning, I entered the office building that housed Manhattan North Homicide. It was on Broadway near 133rd Street, across the street from an elevated number 1 train. There was nothing to indicate that the building, owned by Columbia University, housed specialized units of the New York City Police Department, including Homicide and Intel.

  We sometimes joked that Intelligence was where the really smart cops went—smart enough to go there so they wouldn’t get in fights or be shot at.

  The unit was so good at its job that it often gave a heads-up to the feds about changing crime trends or specific threats. Of course, that was something the FBI would never admit.

  I still felt tired and moved a little slowly. This was what I needed. I had to get back into the rhythm of life.

  It took almost twenty minutes to reach my office, on the seventh floor. I was greeted by everyone from the building maintenance man to the inspector, who kept his office there. A quick word and handshake or just a pat on the back made me feel comfortable, happy to be back.

  An officer-involved shooting touches all cops. A fallen cop reminds each of us of our mortality and that being a cop is more than just a job. I understood it was hard for the public to comprehend something like that. Most people didn’t have jobs that occasionally involved someone trying to murder them.

  I couldn’t help but look over at Antrole’s empty desk. No one had touched anything. Photographs of his family still sat on the corner. It wouldn’t surprise me if no one moved them for months. No one is too eager to move on after a cop dies in the line of duty.

  The public information office of the NYPD had released Antrole’s name to the media. I was simply listed as “another detective who sustained injuries.” I was good with that.

  I was also good with the fact that I had returned to work. Being busy kept my mind off things. It also made me feel like I could make a difference in the world. At least in New York City.

  I hadn’t been at my desk five minutes when Harry Grissom stopped by to say hello, then asked me to follow him into his office. He closed the door behind us, then leaned on the edge of his desk when I took the chair in front of it. I had learned over the years that this was a sign he was worried about me. If he was mad, he’d sit in his chair behind the desk. But when he was concerned about a detective’s state of mind, he thought leaning on a desk made the meeting feel more personal.

  He said, “You didn’t have to rush back to work.”

  “I was out long enough. I feel fine. I got my head on straight. You don’t need to worry about that.”

  The lanky lieutenant just stared at me. He was hard to read. I was glad we never played poker. Finally he said, “I want you to ease back into operations. Don’t take on any specific cases. Take a good look at all the homicides in Manhattan and the Bronx. See if you can find any important patterns. That’s the sort of thing we should do more of.”

  I was able to suppress a smile. My lieutenant, the senior officer in my unit, was breaking the rules without saying it overtly. He was allowing me to look into the ambush that killed my partner by trying to find out if it was connected to any other homicides. He didn’t say it. He couldn’t. But he was giving me leeway to work in both Manhattan and the Bronx.

  Because a cop was involved in the shooting, Internal Affairs was working with Homicide on the case. They wouldn’t want me anywhere near it. I was a witness and was too close to Antrole to ever officially be allowed to directly investigate the ambush.

  I took my new mandate seriously and quickly gathered all the information I could on every homicide for the past three months. Most of them would be considered “usual.” A domestic that ended with the wife stabbing the husband. An armed robbery of a jewelry store where the robber panicked and shot the sixty-eight-year-old wife of the owner. The usual series of drug killings. Nevertheless, there were a few that caught my eye.

  The first, of course, was the killing of the Dominican gunman who had survived our ambush. He was in the hospital and expected to make it. The cop on duty said someone Tasered him, then he was immobilized with a heavy dose of tranquilizer.

  The details on the killer were sparse. The cop thought it was a female but couldn’t swear to it because he never saw her face. It could’ve been a short man. The baggy surgical scrubs and his foggy memory from the tranquilizer didn’t help with his description.

  I also noted that someone had disabled the video surveillance at the hospital. That was not the sign of a rash and hasty killer.

  Chapter 23

  In the afternoon, I drove south to Brooklyn. It wasn’t until I was ac
ross the Brooklyn Bridge that I realized how rarely I came into this borough. The place had really seen a renaissance in recent years. This was where all the hot new restaurants were opening, and it was continuing the slow process of attracting TV and film studios. There were soundstages and great locations all over the area.

  Here in Brooklyn Heights, there were only a couple of the kinds of warehouses a movie studio would use. The area didn’t compare to Red Hook or Gowanus, where there were plenty of warehouses that attracted trendy new businesses.

  I found the address that Juliana had given me and paused outside for just a minute. This didn’t look like an elaborate modern soundstage. It was an old warehouse in Brooklyn Heights.

  No one greeted me as I entered the front door, and no one tried to keep me from walking through the corridors. I could see activity in the main room. As I walked back, a man carrying a long boom microphone nodded hello.

  “Am I headed the right way to the set of Century’s End?”

  The chubby man hooked his hand and pointed his thumb toward the main room.

  I thanked him and kept walking. It may have been a small crew, and there may have been no security, but the set was impressive. It looked like a popular nightclub from the nineties, with a dance floor and wraparound bar.

  No one was filming, and most people were just milling around the set. Juliana had told me it was a drama about young people in New York during the 1990s. I wasn’t sure I wanted my daughter pretending to be someone on the bar scene in the nineties. I was a young person in New York at the time. It may have been fun, but it’s not what you want to think about your kids doing.

  I heard the familiar squeal of “Dad.” It was an excited sound, and she was happy to see me, despite her objections to a visit. I turned with my arms open to give her a hug.

  As she jumped up to hug me, I caught a quick glimpse of her costume. A low-cut cocktail dress. Really low-cut. I didn’t know how to react. I didn’t want to make her self-conscious. Unthinkingly I slipped off my sport coat and draped it over her shoulders. She frowned at me but kept it there.

  Part of me knew that I wanted everyone to see my gun and badge clearly. Sometimes it helps as a father if you’re big and everyone knows you’re a cop.

  I said, “You said you’d be finishing up soon, so I thought I might give you a ride back home. Save you the effort of riding on the subway.”

  Juliana said, “Thanks, Dad.” She took a moment to introduce me to the director. He was a little older than I was and couldn’t have cared less that there was a visitor on the set. He gave me a bored nod and told Juliana to be back on set tomorrow.

  As we walked off the set, I was already thinking of how I would ask Mary Catherine to come by and hang out during the filming. It was the only way I would ever get some peace.

  Chapter 24

  The next day, I sat at my desk and looked at several cases that had caught my attention. My review of homicides in Manhattan and the Bronx included the murders of two Canadian tourists.

  One had occurred before the ambush and one just after. At first glance the two cases seemed unconnected, until you noticed that both men had criminal records for narcotics trafficking in Canada.

  That fell in line with what Brian had told me earlier about the Mexican cartel battling with a Canadian group for control of the synthetic drug market in the northeastern United States. Other sources had said the same thing.

  The first homicide had occurred near Times Square, and the victim was described as a “tourist.” My research told me he was a moneyman for the Canadian mob. He’d been stabbed once through the heart. According to the medical examiner’s report, the wound was caused by a straight four-inch blade. The word that stuck in my head was stiletto. No one in forensics had ever used that term. They used clinical terms like blade and instrument.

  I talked to the detective handling the case. I remembered him from other cases. Nice fella, but maybe not as driven as most homicide detectives.

  When I got him on the phone he said, “That was a nasty one. Coroner said she thinks the perp was a male between five seven and five ten.”

  “How did she come up with that?”

  “The angle of the strike along with the power behind it. She thinks it was someone who really knew how to use a knife or a sharpened spike.”

  Again I thought, Stiletto.

  I said, “You got anything about the victim or motive?”

  “Yeah. The victim was just a tourist from outside Toronto. I figure he was a robbery victim.”

  “Did you see his criminal history?”

  “I did—so what?” He was annoyed that someone else was snooping into his case.

  “Don’t you think that could’ve played a role in the murder?”

  The detective said, “No. He was the victim, not the suspect.”

  I let it go. Then I said, “According to the report, he still had his wallet and money on him when the body was found.”

  “Yeah—so?”

  “What kind of robber goes to the trouble of killing you but doesn’t bother taking your money?”

  “The kind who gets spooked by something or didn’t mean to kill the victim.”

  “How could being stabbed in the heart be an accident?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll tell you when we catch the robber.”

  I knew I wouldn’t get much useful information from this guy.

  The second homicide occurred a few blocks from Bryant Park. The victim was a known enforcer for the Canadian mob named Alain Coush, and he had just left an Irish pub. He’d been shot twice in the face. There were no witnesses and no leads.

  I knew the detective on that case well. Her name was Cassandra Max, known as Cassie to her friends and Maximum Cass to anyone who got on the wrong side of her. She was as intelligent and hardworking as anyone—a rising star and considered one of the sharpest homicide investigators in the city. Her ability to speak Spanish and Creole, which she learned from her parents, made her even more valuable. When I met with her, she said, “We got nothing, but I’m still canvassing the area and seeing if we can find any security video.” She flipped open a notebook. “I’d say it was a professional. Someone jammed a toothpick in the car’s lock. Looks like when the victim tried to open the door the killer stepped up and shot him.”

  I liked that no-bullshit attitude and work ethic. I’d stay in close contact with her because something would get done on this case.

  But even if these murders were part of a pattern—how did they fit in with the ambush that killed Antrole or the attack on Brian?

  Chapter 25

  After my day of research and reading hundreds of reports, I decided to stop by Holy Name to check on my grandfather.

  As soon as I walked into the office, I could hear Seamus and his new friend, Father Alonzo, debating one of the deep philosophical questions of our day: whether American football or soccer is more entertaining.

  My grandfather smiled when he saw me and motioned me to the seat in front of his desk. He said, “You look troubled, my boy. What’s the problem?”

  “Just busy at work. I’ve been looking at a couple of murders connected to the drug trade. No one understands that research can be as tiring as walking a beat.”

  Seamus said, “Can you tell us about the cases?”

  I gave them a quick rundown about the two Canadians and how they were killed. I left out some of the gruesome details, but they got the gist. I finished, “So it might be a long shot, but I’m working out if there’s any connection to the ambush on Antrole and me. I have this feeling that all this violence is connected, including the attack on Brian.”

  I was surprised when Father Alonzo leaned forward.

  He said, “I don’t mean to intrude on business that does not involve me, but I have seen things like this before.”

  “Where have you seen murders like this?”

  “Colombia. It makes Chicago seem tame.” He paused, then asked, “The murder that did not involve a gun. Was it a
single blow with some kind of a knife? Perhaps to the heart, or under the chin into the brain?”

  That caught me by surprise. “Yes. A single blow to the heart.”

  “And the gunshot murder appeared to be well planned? Perhaps some kind of distraction was used?”

  Now I was stunned. “Yes. It appears the killer broke off a toothpick in the victim’s car door lock. The theory is it gave the killer enough time to stop and aim carefully.” Alonzo nodded. I continued, “But I can’t tie either of those murders directly to the ambush. There’s nothing about either murder that lines up with the attack that killed my partner.”

  Father Alonzo said, “It’s very common for Colombian contract killers to hire local muscle in certain situations. Especially if the killer is from out of town. And I know many hit men that use a sharpened stiletto whenever they can. It goes back to training they received in Bogotá by one particular martial-arts instructor. Many wannabe cartel members trained there over the years. It was a badge of honor to say that was where you obtained some of your skills. Even some police trained there.”

  I said, “That’s excellent insight, Father Alonzo. Do you have any other surprises?”

  “I’m sorry. I have been completely involved in the Church for some time now. Aside from the occasional racy confession, I am completely cut off from any kind of outside vice or violence. But if you need a soccer coach, I’m your man.”

  “And I’m sure you don’t want to share how you know any of these kinds of details.”

  “Just observant. Hoping to help.”

  It was clear he was going to leave it at that.

  I kept my eyes on the fit fortysomething priest with my best police stare. His brown eyes didn’t leave mine.

  When I had more time, I had to find out how this affable priest knew so much about the drug trade.

  Chapter 26

  It’s hard to be anything but grateful when a woman like Mary Catherine greets you at the door after a long day. She gave me a kiss that would’ve been longer if Chrissy and Shawna hadn’t run up, chattering like monkeys, waiting for their father to pick them up.