Infernal Affairs

by Declan Finn

  Blessed are the pure in heart … Pass.

  Blessed are the peacemakers … Technically, I was a peacekeeper, but I would let that distinction pass.

  Blessed are those who are persecuted because of God … Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you, and falsely say all kinds of evil against you… Which was exactly the story of the past 36 hours, if not the past year.

  Great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you…Again, pass.

  Funny enough, Father Freeman hadn’t hit me with the facts as hard as Nate had. Maybe he was worried about me getting a swell head.

  I frowned, thinking it over. I still needed a better label than “Saint.” “Prophet” didn’t even work. I wasn’t prophesying anything. I didn’t preach.

  Screw it. I don’t need a label other than Detective.

  Finally, after a long moment, I told Nate, “You have a point.”

  He nodded. “Damn skippy I do. Now, where exactly am I going in King’s Point? You got a friend over there?”

  “Not exactly. I know of an empty house.”

  “How do you know it’s empty?”

  “I killed the previous owners.”

  Chapter 17

  The Case of the Dedicated DA

  I had only slightly exaggerated when I told Nathan Brindle that I had killed the previous owners of the house in King’s Point. I had merely helped in clearing out the death cult from the house. It had been the home base of the organization that called itself the Women’s Health Corps. Nate hadn’t been around for the firefight and subsequent slaughter of the cultists. Calling it a slaughter might have been an exaggeration, since all of the dead were armed. However, the gunmen were so pitiful at shooting that it really wasn’t fair.

  Then they got up and tried to kill us again. I had even fewer compunctions about putting them down.

  To say that King’s Point is the nice part of Long Island doesn’t quite capture it. To start with, you have to find it first. There’s a little white-letters-on-green-background sign that meekly says “King’s Point,” as a way of guiding people who know what they’re looking for. But if you didn’t know they existed, they do not want you in the neighborhood.

  If you’re driving by King’s Point, along Community Drive, there are plenty of tall, lush trees, covering the very existence of the area. It could be mistaken for all of the flora that covered the sides of highways. There is only the barest occasional hint that there is something behind the trees. At the right angle during the winter, when the trees are bare, you can catch glimpses of fine six-bedroom homes and wide arcing driveways, the occasional brownstone or bay window.

  To turn into King’s Point is to enter the land of The Great Gatsby, Great Neck (instead of “Big Egg”). The homes were closer to old-fashioned mansions than the McMansions that arose in the late nineties. The homes were varied, but many had optional extras. Some had extra pieces of land that made for one heck of a front yard. Some had tennis courts and swimming pools that were jealously guarded by a chain link fence (No barbed wire). At a wrong turn, one could unknowingly drive up someone’s driveway, mistaking it for a street. Some homes were cut off from the others by an additional bodyguard of trees, isolating themselves from their neighbors. If one stuck to the outer perimeter of King’s Point, one would find that every cul-de-sac oversaw the water. Many of the homes at the end of the cul-de-sac had docks and boats in their backyards.

  The gardeners probably made more than I did.

  King’s Point at night remained idyllic. In areas where the street lamps might be insufficient, the external lights of all the homes lit the streets and the walkways, welcoming any and all in the streets to the town.

  It short, it looked nice. Some homes were more obviously wealthy than others, but most were subdued and remained low key, unpretentious and not flashy. For the most part, it was what small business owners aspired to—nice home, nice neighborhood, a place to raise the kids without a problem.

  It was here that the dragon’s den was parked. I could almost see the truck of baby parts pull up to the house and passing it off as the weekly BBQ party with friends from work, which was sort of true.

  The former house of the WHC President was in one cul-de-sac that backed into the water. It was a two-story home, and the backyard leading to the water was cut off by trees and a high fence. The home was brown slate. There were two balconies in the front, and at least one more looking over the backyard.

  The house had been beautiful. The few windows that had been shot out had been taped up. There was still crime scene tape around the area. The house itself was still tied up in the courts. The Women’s Health Corps had been slowly dissolved as part of a RICO suit. RICO convictions ended in the confiscation of all property involved. There were elements of the WHC who weren’t part of the cult —we think—who had been fighting back for the better part of the past eight months. They were desperate to get their hands on everything that the cult had left behind, since they were slowly but surely being shut down. Part of that had to do with the cult, part of it had to do with reports that Alex and I had made during the investigation.

  To no one’s surprise—especially now—the one thing that held up the prosecution of the WHC was the Mayor, who had been putting all of his political capital into keeping the WHC alive. Honestly, I had thought that the Mayor had merely been a pain in the ass, since the WHC had been one of his major supporters. The more we learned about their connection, the less surprised I was.

  But they owned a nice house that now stood empty after we arrested or killed everyone using it as a base. I had gone through it with Father Freeman, who had exorcized the place. I had gone through it with the forensics people, who had taken away everything with human fluids on it. It hadn’t been a fun day.

  They also had a dock. It was probably how they had brought in a lot of their illegal goods, body parts, weapons, etc.

  Nate brought the boat up to the dock. We unloaded the weapons and brought the handcart into the house. He had asked if we needed anything else. We told him we needed a car. He smiled and told us to check the driveway. With that, he left.

  We checked the driveway. It was a black Nissan Versa, circa 2017.

  Alex laughed. “Seriously, Tommy, what did you do for D that he’s spending all of this cash on you?”

  I shrugged. “Enlightened self-interest. They’ve sent people after D twice because of me. If I’m out hunting the one who posted the bounty, it’s one less thing D has to do himself.”

  Alex sighed. “Wouldn’t it have just been easier for him to shoot you himself?”

  “It’s not in his wheelhouse. Besides, I’ve done him enough good turns for him not to do that. He knows that I’m the best friend he’s got who’s obviously on the right side of the law. He would have to spend months training someone else to understand the truth of the matter.”

  “I’m not even sure I do, and I’m sure I’ve been with you for a while.”

  We took the weapons and loaded what we thought we needed into the trunk. We didn’t want to bring all the guns and bullets since there were only so many we could carry at one time. Add to that the weight … also, putting all of our bullets in one trunk was just begging for the car to be blown up.

  Then we called William Carlton’s home from the house. He picked up on the first ring. “About time,” he said in his deep, resonant voice.

  I blinked, surprised. “How did you even know it was us?” I asked.

  “I have the phone number in my phone. I’ve had it ever since New York vs. the WHC began. I never know when I might need it. Who else would be calling from there except you?”

  I gave Alex a look that simply said, “I told you he was smart.”

  “You can get over here in about ten minutes,” he continued. “Maybe less. I’ll see you soon. Park in the fire zone.”

  ADA Carlton lived at 33 Knightsbridge Road. It was a nice, modest apartment building in an overpriced neig
hborhood, a one brick structure built around a sloping courtyard. Despite every instinct to keep out of sight of the local police, we parked as instructed. It was a forced choice. Parking on the street was packed. There was no other parking unless you were a resident of the building.

  We entered the brightly lit foyer. Instead of ringing up to Carlton’s room, he waited for us. He was a big man, over six feet tall, with a puffy, snowy white beard. The width of his gut exceeded his shoulder span, but not by much. For his age, he looked good. His was dressed in full pinstripe suit, matching vest, sans tie.

  He pushed the door open to let us in. “Come in. Press for the elevator.”

  We walked inside, and he checked the sidewalk. He closed the door. He caught up to us as the elevator opened. We piled in, and we went up a floor.

  “Really?” I asked.

  “The stairs are slippery. I wouldn’t even use them in a fire.”

  We followed him to his apartment. The door opened into the living room. There was no television, but couches and armchairs, with a coffee table in the middle.

  “Please, sit.”

  I looked around. “I thought you were married.”

  “She’s visiting the grandkids. I can’t even breathe funny, lest this WHC case get away from me. I took a vacation once a few months ago. The case nearly fell apart.”

  We sat on a couch, at opposite cushions. He took his place in an armchair that looked more like a well-padded throne.

  “Congratulations on getting here,” he began. “I won’t ask how you accomplished it. I may not want to know.”

  “We did nothing illegal,” I replied.

  “Good. Though we may not need to resort to questions of what’s legal by the time this is over,” Carlton answered. “I know large parts of what’s going on with you at the moment. I know about the bounty. I know about the APB put on you with the NYPD. Are the two connected?”

  I nodded. “To start with, we have a massive problem with the mayor.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “He’s a warlock and his Deputy Mayor for Social Justice is a Bokor—a voodoo necromancer.”

  Carlton slowly blinked. “In which case, I believe we need to start back at the beginning.”

  We did, starting back with the demon possessing the serial killer Christopher Curran. Carlton had already known about the demon. This time, we tied it together with the death cult. The death cult had been at least backed by Mayor Hoynes. Why back a death cult if he’s a warlock? In exchange for power, the mayor had needed sacrifices as payment. The cult functioned as his payment plan. The cult would make sacrifices, giving him power. Currently, the mayor needed me to die to finish off his payment plan in full.

  “What happens if he doesn’t make the final payment?” Carlton asked.

  “My guess?” I asked. “Probably much worse than simply losing power. I’d say he goes to Hell even faster.”

  Carlton nodded. “Reasonable. So, what was the point of the demon? What were they initially setting out to do?”

  Alex and I exchanged a look. “That we’re still at a loss for.”

  “That’s a problem. But not an immediate one. If the point of you being murdered is to pay off his debts, why not leave town? Take a long vacation?”

  “Because that doesn’t end the threat,” I answered. I sighed. “Killing me is a quick, easy solution for him and his problem. He might find other innocent civilians to sacrifice.”

  Carlton raised a brow, skeptical about a sacrifice that would equal me. “Perhaps not so innocent?”

  I rolled my eyes. I had apparently skimmed over the important part. “Either way, it means his power will level off. He’ll be willing and able to exert more power without risking the bill coming due.” I looked Carlton right in the eye. “He might be able to use enough of his own magic to influence the case against the WHC, get them up and running again, maybe even get some of the old cultists back into the game. Then his system of payments is up and running again, and we’re back to square one. I’d need to stay gone until he dies of old age or falls down a flight of stairs.”

  Carlton frowned. “In that case, can’t you just bi-locate behind him and shove?”

  I paused, taken aback. For a man who was in law, he had been one of the people most for advocating extra-judicial punishment. IE: he’d suggested I kill more people than D has. When we were up against the death cult, he’d suggested murder then, too. But they had just kidnapped my son.

  If I didn’t know any better, I would think he was trying to lead me into temptation.

  “You suggest that to all of the cops you work with?” Alex said, echoing my concern.

  Carlton’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward. “You mistake me, sir, for a knave and a coward. I deal in the law. But the law has nothing on the books to deal with the level of evil you consistently bring me. The law has nothing to constrain a demon. The law says nothing about taking baby parts from abortion and burning them in your own fire pit to worship your demonic deity—maybe improper disposal of medical waste, but that would be thrown out on the grounds of religious persecution. Don’t give me that look—that’s half of my problem in the current prosecution, even though child sacrifice is illegal. You have no idea how much the law means to me.”

  I glanced to my partner. He gave me a return glance. “Why, Detective Packard, I had no idea that the law meant so much.”

  Packard, completely deadpanned, answered, “True, Detective Nolan. Why, I do declare!”

  Carlton’s eyes narrowed. “You misunderstand me. The laws of this country had been designed to restrain the government and ensure freedom to citizens. But Hoynes and his ilk use the law to hurt citizens, impinge their freedoms, all the while remaining immune to prosecution. Hell, some state senators take years to convict, even on the worst charges. And that’s with normal laws. And right now, the law has nothing—I say nothing—that will lock away a warlock with political power. He could throw lightning bolts in the middle of Times Square, and as long as he got the proper permits for a pyrotechnic display and struck no one, we couldn’t even prosecute him for a noise complaint. Even if we did have such a law, prove it. Prove to a jury that he is behind a single murder. Behind a Dark Web bounty on your head. Prove that he summoned a demon to stick into a serial killer. In fact, if you could prove that he was aware that someone was a serial killer to stick a demon into him, that’s accessory before, during, and after the fact.

  “But you come to me and tell me that the mayor is a magic-using monster. It’s difficult enough to prosecute a political figure even without mystical magical abilities to cloud men’s minds and sway the jury. Voir dire is bad enough without all of this. And you want, what? Legal advice in order to lure him into some sort of trap in which he can expose himself and what laws he has broken? All without actually entrapping him? I would say that you were quite mad.”

  “But, yes, this man is evil. You know it. I know it. We all know it. But I can think of nothing to grasp him with. As of this minute, you can’t go near him. You can’t lay hands on him. You can’t speak to him. There is no way to trick him into a confession. To give me a case that I can prosecute …” Carlton threw his hands up in the air. “You’d have to tie him to something. Prove that he has connections to the cult or the serial killer—not the demon, the human serial killer. Connect him to MS-13 and Ormeno. In fact, tie him to anything. I dare you. I double-dog dare you.”

  Carlton leaned back in the chair. “As I said, killing him would be best.”

  Alex growled. “You realize that this doesn’t really help us.”

  I shook my head and pressed down on Alex’s shoulder. Getting annoyed wouldn’t help us. “No. He’s right. This is gonna suck. He’s just telling us what we need to do to fix this.”

  Carlton shrugged. “That’s if we keep this between us and the forces that we can marshal. We can bring what to bear? Some cops, some of your gang friends? There are other people out there.”

  I smiled
. I knew exactly what he meant. There was a multi-million dollar bounty on me … so that meant a money trail, and the effort to hide those funds, which were money crimes. The Dark Web involvement made it a federal crime because the Internet was federal. RICO was also a crime, it was a civil court, so less stringent laws …

  So, there were options.

  “But first, we must leave you free to operate,” Carlton continued. “We have to get this APB off of you. It gives everyone in the tri-state area a license to kill you. After that, we will be filing misconduct charges against everyone involved.”

  “Step three,” I added, “get the mayor to come after me.”

  Both Alex and Carlton looked at me like I had lost my mind. “Can you think of something that would look less like entrapment, but as incriminating?”

  Then the bullets hit the apartment windows.

  Chapter 18

  Escape from Great Neck

  I lunged from my seat on the couch, grabbing Alex with my left hand so I could pull him off the cushion. Gravity would get him to the floor.

  Then I dove for William Carlton. I more or less tackled him, knocking his chair over and I lay flat on him.

  “I’m an ADA,” he stated flatly. “My windows are bulletproof.”

  I said nothing as the next bullet shattered the window and struck the wall behind his chair.

  “Armor piercing rounds care little for your windows.”

  I bounced up to a crouch so I could peek out the windows. The apartment complex was built around a courtyard. To get through the courtyard were over two dozen steps from the street, into the yard, followed by a ridiculously winding path. The shooters were at the top of the stairs, firing from street level.

  Inside, heavy footsteps pounded down the hall.

  Of course, we left all of the interesting heavy weapons out in the car.

  The best tactic to engage the hallway was to meet them at the door… which would work if it weren’t for the shooters outside.