by Steven Henry
Three muzzle flashes flared in the near-dark. The flat, sharp cracks of gunshots echoed across the park. A bullet hole appeared in the squad car’s window. Brunanski gave a grunt, as if he’d been punched in the stomach, and sat down hard.
Erin dropped into a crouch behind the engine block of the car. “Brunanski!” she called. “It’s O’Reilly. You okay?”
“I dunno,” he answered in a breathless whisper. “Bastards… shot me.”
Erin dropped her phone to the pavement, yanked open the passenger-side door, and leaned in, keeping her body as low as possible. She snatched up the dangling radio receiver. “O’Reilly here,” she gasped. “Ten-thirteen, forthwith. All available units. Shots fired, officer down. Repeat, officer down!”
There was the briefest of pauses. Then Dispatch was on the line again. The calm, impersonal voice now carried a very hard edge. “All available units are inbound to your location. Paramedics en route.”
Erin wormed her way across the seat of the squad car to the driver’s side. Another couple of gunshots rang out, but they didn’t even hit the car. Brunanski was sitting against the back door of the car, one hand clamped across his substantial gut. He was still holding his pistol in his other hand. When he saw Erin, he reversed the grip on the gun and held it out to her. She took it from him and wriggled out onto the pavement, dropping into a crouch and taking aim. Brunanski was an old-school cop, with a grandfathered sidearm. Instead of the Glock automatic Erin carried, his service weapon was a .38 Police Special revolver. It felt a little odd in Erin’s hand, but she’d practiced with the same type of weapon and was confident she could use it. Right now she wanted nothing more than to blow the bastards right out of their shoes. But her first duty was to a fellow officer. Keeping the gun directed toward the perps, she asked, “Where you hit?”
“Low down,” the officer groaned. “Right under the vest.”
Shit, Erin thought. Abdominal wounds were some of the worst. She risked a quick glance at him. Police body armor had decent coverage down to the stomach, but Brunanski was overweight and his vest rode a little too high on his bulky body. It had been a terribly lucky shot from the escaping thieves, narrowly missing the door panel of the squad car and skimming under the Kevlar of Brunanski’s vest. A lot of blood was seeping through the policeman’s fingers.
“Okay, keep pressure on it,” she said to him, eyes scanning the shadows. She didn’t have a target. At least they weren’t taking fire anymore. She brought her gaze back to the silver Corolla at the sound of its engine coming to life. “Stay still.”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She was already on her feet, both hands clasped on the revolver’s grip. The range was long for pistol shooting, about fifty yards, and in the dark she’d have to get lucky. Without knowing what, or who, was behind the target vehicle, departmental rules said she wasn’t supposed to fire. Erin didn’t care. She didn’t see any bystanders in her line of fire, and these sons of bitches had just shot a cop.
The Corolla’s tires squealed. The little car accelerated, heading north. Erin took two steps forward, cleared the squad car’s door, drew in a breath, and squeezed the trigger six times in rapid succession. At least one bullet hit home. The car’s rear driver’s-side window shattered. Pebbles of broken safety glass sparkled under the streetlights. Then the car was out of range, picking up speed, and the revolver was empty.
She turned back to the radio, dropping the smoking gun onto the driver’s seat. “Suspect vehicle northbound on Avenue of the States. Silver Corolla, left rear window broken. Four suspects, armed and dangerous.” That duty done, she returned her attention to the downed officer.
“It’s okay, Brunanski,” she said. “I’ve got you. Help’s on the way.” She went for the first-aid kit in the squad car and opened the little metal case, keeping up her reassuring chatter. “Talk to me, man. Can you move your legs?”
“I… I don’t… know,” he muttered. “Cold.”
She ripped open a packet of QuickClot hemostat. “This is gonna hurt, buddy, but I have to stop the bleeding. Keep talking.” She unbuttoned the bottom couple of buttons of his uniform shirt so she could see the wound. There was so much blood, it was tricky to find. She located the surprisingly small hole by feel. He gasped in pain at the touch. She clamped the mesh bag of clotting agent onto the injury. “Can you keep pressure here?”
“Hands… shaky,” he said, his voice slurring with the onset of shock.
“Okay, that’s fine,” she said, trying to keep the tremor out of her own voice. “I’ve got it.” She had her own hand over the wound, pressing tight. “Keep talking, Brunanski, you ugly Polack. You stay with me.” She was feeling a little shocky herself. Where was the goddamn ambulance? Where was the backup?
Even in the dim light of the park, she could see that Brunanski was deathly white. He’d probably taken one in the liver. Maybe, if the ambulance showed up fast, and if they got him to an emergency room in the next few minutes, he might live. There was nothing more she could do for a gut wound.
Sirens filled the air, coming rapidly nearer. She heard running feet behind her. Half a dozen museum security—real museum security—hurried up. The security chief bent over her.
“What can I do?” he asked.
“There should be a blanket in the trunk,” she said. “He’s in shock. We’ve got to keep him warm.”
The man fumbled with the trunk release, got it open, and came back with a military blanket. They wrapped it around the downed officer as best they could, while Erin kept pressure on the wound.
“Damn it, don’t you know your own people?” she demanded through gritted teeth. “Couldn’t you see those guys weren’t yours?”
The security chief shrugged helplessly. “They brought in, like, a dozen new guys for the gala,” he said. “I’d never seen half of them before tonight.”
“Jesus,” she swore. “I hope your employer’s real goddamn happy.”
“O’Reilly…?” Brunanski murmured. “Erin?”
“Yeah, John, I’m here,” she said, feeling funny at the sudden use of first names. She took his hand in hers, keeping her other hand tight against his stomach. The blood just wasn’t stopping.
“I was… careless. Sorry.”
“You were doing your job,” she said. “They just got lucky. We’ll get them. I’ll get them. I promise.”
“Tired,” he whispered. His eyes were closed. His hand squeezed hers for a moment, then went limp.
The ambulance howled down the avenue, lights flashing. Almost before the wheels stopped turning, the paramedics were out and running to the downed officer. Erin allowed the security men to steer her away from the scene, letting the EMTs take over the first aid.
Someone draped a tuxedo coat over her bare shoulders. Erin clutched at it gratefully, leaving smears of blood on the lapel. She was shivering, mostly from emotion. Luke was there, putting an arm around her.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She nodded numbly.
“I’ve… got your shoes,” he said, holding them up by the ankle straps.
“Thanks,” she said absently. Luke led her to a nearby park bench. She sank down on it, her whole body trembling with tension. To her embarrassment, she realized there were tears in her eyes.
Chapter 7
Luke offered to drive her home, but Erin flatly refused. Her moment of weakness was past, replaced by an anger which astonished her with its force. She couldn’t possibly sit on the sidelines. She had to give her report to the other officers on scene. There was evidence to collect, witnesses to interview, work to do.
“You should give a statement, then go home,” she said to Luke. “I’m going to be up all night.”
“I think you’d do better to get some rest,” he countered. “Problems are always easier to solve after a good night’s sleep.”
“You think I can sleep after this?” she demanded. “I know what needs solving. I can do it just fine.”
“That’s not what I meant
,” he said, holding up a hand. “I just think—”
“Do you know where they’re taking the Madonna?” she demanded. “You know art dealers. Where would they go to sell her?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Then get out of the way and let me find it!” she snapped. “Let me do my damn job!”
She saw the hurt in his face, but she couldn’t take it back, not then. She handed him his bloodstained coat without another word and turned back to the crime scene. She was wearing a mangled evening gown, her hair hung in a draggled mess around her neck, and her hands and arms were streaked with blood, but in that moment, Erin O’Reilly was every inch a cop.
The museum crawled with police. What would have been a simple theft investigation had graduated to a major operation on account of Brunanski’s shooting. A couple of detectives had already arrived on scene, along with a forensic van and half a dozen squad cars. She was pleased to see her own boss, Lieutenant Murphy, talking with a lieutenant from 107th Precinct. She paused only to put her shoes back on, then hurried over to him.
“Sir!” she called.
He looked at her in surprise. “O’Reilly? What are you doing here?” He took in her appearance. “You’re not on duty.”
“The hell I’m not,” she said. “I was here. I saw the whole thing go down.” She drew him aside and explained the ruse the thieves had used to slip the painting out of the museum. “I should’ve known,” she finished. “I knew about the security-guard uniforms.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. Remember the uniform-store robbery, about two weeks back?”
“Oh, yeah. You think these were the same guys?”
“I think they were gearing up for this job,” she said.
“You’d better tell the detectives,” Murphy said.
“It’ll be in my report,” she said. “Where’s the kid we took in that night? Cal Huntington?”
He shrugged. “He posted bail. He’s out, pending trial. It was a half-assed burglary, and he’s basically still a kid. The D.A. wasn’t playing hardball.”
“I need his address.”
Murphy took her by the shoulders, then let go hurriedly, awkward at coming in contact with her bare skin above her dress. “Erin, you’re a beat cop, a K-9. This is detective stuff.”
“If Brunanski doesn’t make it, it’ll be homicide stuff,” she said. “But we won’t know for a while. What if the kid makes a run for it in the meantime? Let me go after this one. I promised I’d catch these assholes.”
“Promised who?”
“Brunanski.”
That shut Murphy up for a little while. He coughed and turned away, staring at the museum entrance. Three policemen were methodically screening the partygoers, patting them down for concealed weapons or works of art and asking questions.
“Okay,” he said at last. “I’ve got your back on this one. But you let me know what you find, and we have to keep the detective bureau in the loop. You can run down your hunch. What do you need from me?”
“I need the kid’s address,” she repeated. “I need to see the security-camera footage from the museum. And I need the mailing tube.”
“What for?”
“The man who was carrying it wasn’t wearing gloves,” she said.
“Cardboard won’t take a print,” he reminded her. “And there’s probably not enough skin cells for DNA.”
“It’s not for me,” she said with a grim smile. “It’s for my partner. It’ll smell like the perp.”
“That tube is evidence,” Murphy said.
“So get it taken to our precinct.”
“This is 107’s jurisdiction,” he said. “It’s their case. The only reason I’m here is because of Brunanski.”
“Screw them!” Erin said. “Brunanski’s one of ours. What was he doing here, anyway?”
“He was working traffic near the 495 exits, just happened to be in the area,” Murphy said, shaking his head. “Okay, I’ll take it up with Lieutenant Barnes and see what I can do.”
While they were talking, information began to pour in from the network of officers combing the area around Flushing Meadows. The Corolla had turned up right away, just off the Grand Central Parkway entrance ramp, but it was abandoned. The car itself had been stolen, just as Erin suspected, three weeks prior, its plates switched with another car’s, so vehicle registration would be a dead end. The perps had doubtless changed to another vehicle. But they’d left something behind.
“The car has three bullet holes in the bodywork and a broken window,” the officer on scene reported over the radio.
“Four out of six,” Murphy said to Erin with a smile. “Pretty good shooting at that range.”
“Bloodstains on the back seat upholstery,” the officer continued.
A low, angry cheer, almost a growl, went up from the police who heard the radio report. Several of them clapped Erin on the back.
The BOLO was immediately updated to note that at least one of the suspects had been wounded. Hospitals in the area were notified.
Murphy conferred briefly with Barnes, the lieutenant from the 107. After their conversation, he came back to where Erin waited.
“Okay, we’ve got an understanding,” he said. “Barnes is letting us run with this one, on one condition.”
Erin raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms.
“When we, and I quote, ‘catch those cop-shooting pieces of shit, kick their asses so hard they taste patent leather.’” Murphy delivered the line deadpan, with no hint of humor.
“Can do, sir,” Erin said.
“All right. Get in uniform as soon as you’re ready,” Murphy said. “We’ll have the evidence back at the 116 by midnight. You may want to catch some sleep in the meantime.”
“Later,” she said. “I want to brace Huntington tonight. While he’s asleep will be the best chance to nab him at home.”
“You going to arrest him?” Murphy asked.
“I’m the least of his problems,” she said.
* * *
Erin’s hunch was that Cal was a patsy, not a full member of the gang. Otherwise they wouldn’t have left him behind at the store. But she might be wrong. Hell, the thieves might be at Cal’s place that very moment, lying low.
That was the last place a group of gunmen would be likely to go, of course. With a wounded comrade and every police officer in Queens looking for them, would they really hang out at the home of an associate who was out on bail? They had to assume the NYPD would be all over Cal. And they would be, as soon as the connection between him and the art thieves became known at the precinct.
She had to hurry, and not because she was in a race with the other cops. She had to get to Cal before he found out about the shootout. She hoped he hadn’t known the particulars of the heist, especially its timing, because if he had, he’d already be in hiding. But if he saw a news item about a bunch of crooks dressed as security guards, it wouldn’t matter what else he knew. He’d run. And she didn’t have a car. So she had to swallow her pride.
Luke was standing quietly off to one side, watching the police going about their business. Erin walked toward him with more confidence than she felt.
“Luke?”
“Erin,” he replied noncommittally.
“Listen, I was rude back there, and I’m sorry,” she said. She paused, watching his reaction.
He managed a thin smile. “You were upset,” he said. “I get it. And I didn’t mean to get in the way. I just want to help.”
“Good,” Erin said. “Because there’s something you can do.”
He raised an eyebrow. “With all these cops here?”
“They’re busy. I need a ride.”
“Now?” He was confused. “I thought you were going after the criminals.”
“Dressed like this?” Erin replied. “I need my shield and gun. So what do you say?”
He nodded. “I’ll get the car.”
Luke drove like a man who knew his car was expensive. He came
to complete stops. He looked carefully at each intersection. He scrupulously obeyed all traffic regulations, including speed limits. It drove Erin crazy.
“I’m a cop,” she said. “It’s okay to go five over. I promise, I will not write you a ticket.”
“I’d be surprised if you had your summons book tucked away,” he said. “But I like to be careful. Driving is the most dangerous thing most people do most of the time.”
“You don’t need to tell me that,” she retorted. “I’m an NYPD patrol officer. I respond to car crashes all the time. But I was in a gunfight earlier this evening, so right now I don’t give a shit. Step on it.”
He still drove cautiously, but he did speed up a little. “What happens after I get you home?” he asked as they headed east on the Long Island Expressway.
“You go home,” she said, “and I go to work.”
“Do you know who these guys are?”
“I will,” she promised. “I’ve got a lead.”
“Isn’t it dangerous? Shouldn’t you have… what do you call it, backup?”
According to the NYPD, Cal Huntington was a low-level crook, a burglar who’d been busted trying to crack a cash register for a lousy few twenties. But he was affiliated with a gang of gunmen who’d just stolen a priceless painting and shot a cop, and that meant going to see him alone was flat-out stupid. Damn right she should have backup.
“I’ll have my partner,” she said.
“Your dog?” He shook his head. “I don’t like it.”
“I needed a chauffeur, not a babysitter,” Erin snapped.
“Has it ever occurred to you,” Luke said, “that I might be saying this stuff because I like you and I don’t want you to get hurt? Isn’t one officer in the hospital enough for one night?”
“I’ll be surprised if Brunanski makes it to the hospital,” Erin said in a much lower voice.
“What do you mean?” Luke said.
“He took one in the liver,” she said, “and he’d lost a lot of blood by the time the medics got to him. It’s three-to-one that he’s already dead.”
“Jesus,” Luke swore softly.