by Michael Kerr
“This is Benny,” Logan said as they sat side by side opposite her. “He was Arnie’s CI, or stool pigeon. He’s one of those losers who play both sides to the middle and usually end up dead in an alley from an overdose, or with a bullet in the back of their heads. He can’t be trusted, but we’ll have to hope that he has enough sense to help us, because that’s the only way he’ll get out of the current situation he’s in alive.” Logan then turned to Benny and said, “This is Margie, Arnie’s wife, and because of you she could soon be a widow. What you do gets people hurt bad or killed, Benny. But you know that and don’t care. Am I right?”
Benny turned his attention to Margie. “I just do what I need to, to get by,” he said. “I didn’t know that your husband was going to be whack…er, shot, Mrs. Newman. They said they wanted a meet with him, and so I arranged it. I had no choice.”
Margie studied the gaunt face of the young man. Saw anxiety, pain, fear and an underlying compassion in his eyes, and knew that he was not an evil person, just one of life’s flotsam, coping the best way he knew how to in the human jungle of NYC.
“Okay, Benny,” Margie said. “My only concern now is for Arnie to get well, and for the scum that did it to be taken off the street. What happened to your finger?”
Benny turned and looked at Logan.
Logan had ordered a fresh pot of coffee. When it came he refilled Margie’s cup and poured one for Benny and himself while they talked.
“He got lucky,” Logan said. “I was going to do a lot more than sprain a finger, but decided that he would be more use to us in one piece.”
“You have a real attitude,” Benny said. “I avoid violence if I can.”
Before Logan could reply, Margie’s phone rang.
“Do I answer it?”
Logan nodded. “Put it on speaker. If you don’t know the caller, hand it to me.”
Margie accepted the call, even though it was a withheld number. Said, “Hello,” and could hear someone breathing.
“Margie?” Lennox finally said, a second before Margie was going to disconnect. “I’m a friend of Arnie’s. I heard what happened and wondered how he’s doin’.”
“Who are you, and how did you get my number?” Margie said.
“My name is Lennox, and we need to talk about your hubby.”
Margie looked at Logan and shook her head. She didn’t know the caller. Logan reached out and took the phone. Thumbed off the speaker. “Hi, Lennox,” he said. “What do you want?”
“Who the hell―?”
“Cut the crap. You work for Trask, and are probably tracing this call from whatever sewer you’re in at the moment.”
“You must be Logan. Am I right?” Lennox replied, happy to keep the guy on the line.
“Yeah,” Logan said, already feeling a lead ball forming in his stomach, because he knew that the only people who knew he was with Margie was her brother and his wife, and Della. “And you must be a lot dumber than you sound. Keeping me talking is of no use to you. This cell will be switched off with the SIM card removed and dumped when I end the call. All you’ll know is where we are now, not where we’ll be in ten minutes time. And you didn’t do a proper job searching Arnie’s house. The paperwork and flash drive were under the flooring in the loft. I have them now.”
“You think you’re clever, Logan, but you ain’t. Runnin’ won’t help you. We have your description. You’ll never get out of the city.”
“I’ve got no intention of running, dummy. I’m coming for you, Trask, and anyone else involved. And then I’m going to take Fallon out of the picture. But by then you won’t be around to worry about any of it.”
“Words,” Lennox said, although the low, calm voice was full of deadly intent. “You might want to tell Margie that goin’ to her brother’s house got him and his bitch wife whacked.”
“If that happened, then you’re a dead man walking, Lennox. And that’s not a threat, it’s a promise,” Logan said before switching the phone off, handing it back to Margie and asking her to remove the card from it. It was a small phone, and he had big fingers.
“Tell me,” Margie said as she fumbled the card out and placed it on the table. Being a cop’s wife for so long had given her better than average insight. She knew by Logan’s physical tension and facial expression that something was very wrong.
There was no easy way to say it. “The guy on the phone had been to your brother’s house,” he said. “That’s how he got your number.”
“Tony?…Ellen?” Margie whispered. “Please God, no.”
“He told me that they were dead,” Logan said, reaching out and grasping Margie’s hand and holding onto it firmly. “We need to find out for sure. He may have just been saying it for effect.”
“But you don’t think so, do you?”
“No.”
“It’s my fault for going there, I should have―”
“You going to your brother’s house had nothing to do with it,” Logan said. “They were looking for you, so checked you out to find a link. The only fault for whatever has and will happen is Fallon’s.”
“And what can you do against someone like him, with the people he has around him?”
“A lot more than the law can,” Logan said. “The old saying about strength in numbers doesn’t apply. I have the advantage. They don’t know what I’m capable of, or what lengths I’ll go to. Fallon will never be the mayor of New York. If he’s lucky he’ll have his day in court and spend the rest of his life behind bars. But I really don’t think that will happen. His luck has run out; he just doesn’t know it, yet.”
“He’s like a Mafia boss,” Benny said. “Don’t underestimate him, Logan. He has people at every level workin’ for him, for the money or because he has them threatened or maimed, or puts pressure on them in a dozen other ways. He’ll find you.”
“No, Benny, he won’t. I’m like a ghost. I don’t have family, a job, an address, or know anyone that knows where I am for him to lean on. With your help, I’ll find him.”
Benny was almost a believer. Logan was like some big, unstoppable superhero from movies he’d watched in his youth. There was an aura of capability that was impossible to ignore. He was like a reinforced concrete wall that even a steel wrecking ball would bounce off.
Margie couldn’t speak. The news that Tony and Ellen had been murdered began to consume her. Not only was her husband hovering between life and death with a serious brain injury, but the two other nearest and dearest people in her life were now gone. The diner’s walls, furniture and customers seemed to close in on her, to be sucked dry of color and become gray, clouding her vision as they began to coalesce and spin like a bank of revolving fog. It was as if she were in the center of a large, totally soundless hurricane; a circle that was starved of oxygen.
“Margie. Margie,” Logan said, dipping a paper napkin in one of the glasses of iced water on the table and squeezing it out before holding it against her hot brow.
Margie blinked and stared at him.
“You passed out,” Logan said. “We need to get out of here. Do you think that you can walk to the car?”
Margie gently pushed the hand holding the wet napkin away. “Yes, I’m fine,” she said, but felt that she would never be fine again.
Before leaving the diner, Logan used the pay phone in the lobby to call 911, reported gunshots at the address of Tony and Ellen and then hung up. If they had been murdered it would be in a late news bulletin.
With Margie in the rear and Benny in the front passenger seat, Logan drove away from The Flatbush diner. He had first, on a whim, replaced the SIM card in the phone, switched it on and slipped it into the pocket of a jerkin hanging with other coats on a rack near the front desk. If Lennox did have the resources to track the cell, then hopefully he would end up following a total stranger on a wild-goose chase.
He had left nothing in the cheap hotel. His rucksack was in the trunk of the Taurus. The first thing he needed to do now was find a safe place to stay for th
e night. Margie was exhausted, emotionally drained and in a bad place. He drove across the toll bridge of The Narrows onto Staten Island, which had been where he had been born and raised. It was like home ground to him.
The Blue Heron Motel was tucked away on Wild Avenue, set back from the road but only a minute from the W Shore Expressway. The immediate area was a picture of neglect. It was a perfect place to lie low and not be found.
Logan parked in the lot. There were only four other vehicles outside doors of the one-storey L-shaped motel that had probably looked fine back in the sixties but was now a seedy ramshackle place where couples in search of a bed could pay by the hour if they had need to make out in cheap, depressing surroundings.
“We’re a party of three. I’d like two connecting rooms for a couple of nights,” Logan said to the old guy behind the desk in the office. “What’s the best rate you can offer me?”
Murray Baylis hardly looked at him. His eyesight was shot, even though he was wearing the spectacles that he had bought new in Wal-Mart at the turn of the century. His rheumy pale-blue eyes hadn’t focused on much for several years, and it didn’t bother him unduly, due to him having decided that he’d seen most what he needed to during his eighty years on God’s green earth.
“It’s a little quiet this time of year,” Murray said in a reedy voice. “Two hundred in cash should do it if we skip the registration card and save on tax.”
“Sounds good,” Logan said, thinking that the old guy was shrewd and knew that a party in need of two rooms at this time of night, and in a place like this, would be happy to get a deal that put bills straight in his pocket.
“Numbers eight and nine,” Murray said, handing Logan two keys in exchange for four bills that he squinted at to check that the portrait on the front of each was of Ulysses S Grant. When the man left the office, Murray watched and noted that there was a woman and another guy with him.
Margie put the few belongings she had on one of the twin beds in room nine. She then closed the adjoining door, kicked her shoes off and climbed into the cold bed, needing to be alone and let everything that had happened sink in. She was at the lowest ebb of her life, didn’t know how to incorporate the events that had transpired, and cried herself to sleep over an hour later.
“Where do you go from here?” Benny said as he switched on the small TV that was bracketed to the wall above a chipped and scratched bureau.
Logan was over by the coffeemaker, setting it going after carefully washing it out and refilling it. “Not me, we,” he said. “You tell me all you know about Trask and his crew, and the addresses of any locations they frequent, and in the morning we’ll go and talk to one of them, find out where Trask is and let it play out.”
They drank coffee and then sat and talked for awhile, totally unaware that as they did, Dr. Perry Gifford was entering the Bellevue Hospital Intensive Care Unit on the second floor of the West Wing, which comprised a ten bed unit, six private rooms and two semi-private rooms. Arnie Newman was in one of the private rooms, and the doctor was entering it with the intention of ending the cop’s life.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lennox drove. Frankie gave him directions and they were soon at the diner where Logan, Margie and Benny had been.
Lennox went in and asked one of the three waitresses about Logan. Said that he was about six-four, hard to miss, and that he would have been with a woman in her late fifties.
Kelly Parker didn’t recall anyone like that, but called June Flanagan over and said to her, “Have you seen a really big guy with an older woman?”
“Who wants to know?” June said, jerking her head to flick her long red hair back from her face.
“I do,” Lennox said, flipping a wallet open to reveal a fake detective shield. It always worked.
“I served a couple like that,” June said. “The guy took off without her, then came back later with a much younger guy. The three of them left together.”
“Describe the young guy.”
“He was skinny and scruffy with long, dark hair. His face was pockmarked.”
“Did you see what make of vehicle they had?”
June shook her head.
“Did they use a card to pay?” Lennox asked.
“Cash,” June said.
“Thanks for your help,” Lennox said.
Frankie was looking at the screen of the device into which Gus had programmed a third-party tracking app to Margie’s cell phone.
“Is it workin’?” Lennox asked as he got in and started the car.
“Yeah. But why would Logan leave it on?”
“Because he underestimates us. He probably will ditch it, but feels safe to keep hold of it for a while. And what he won’t realize is that it doesn’t have to be switched on to lead us to him.”
Twenty minutes later Lennox parked outside a duplex in Forest Hills. There was a chalk-white Kia saloon in the driveway. They’d been duped. Logan had not underestimated them; he had played them by planting the cell on a complete stranger, probably back at the diner.
Lennox knocked on the door. The young guy that answered it was wearing a Yankees tee and blue jeans. Standing behind him in the hall was a little boy.
Flipping the shield again, Lennox said. “We have reason to believe that you were in The Flatbush diner earlier this evenin’, sir. Is that correct?”
“Uh, yeah. I stopped off for a cup of coffee and to buy some of their donuts to take out. Why?”
“Because it is highly likely that somethin’ was transferred to you without your knowledge, or placed in your vehicle. I would appreciate it if you checked the clothing that you were wearing at the time.”
What the fuck! John Reinhold felt a sharp stab of trepidation. Was he being set up for a fall? Had someone planted drugs or something equally illegal on him, or was this just a big mistake?
The corduroy jerkin he had been wearing that day was hanging alongside a fleece belonging to his wife and an assortment of ball caps on an old-fashioned wood rack just inside the door. Lifting the jerkin off the rack, John checked the pockets and found a cell phone that he had never seen before. He held it out with a shaking hand for Lennox to see, feeling guilty because it was in his possession and shouldn’t be.
“I…I―”
“You don’t need to say anythin’ sir,” Lennox said, reaching out and taking the phone. “We know that you were not aware of this. The cell belongs to a drug dealer that we had under surveillance. I’ll get back to you for an official statement tomorrow.”
Relieved, John closed the door as the ‘cop’ turned on his heel and walked back out onto the sidewalk to his car.
“Check the contact list,” Lennox said to Frankie, tossing the phone to his partner and starting the car.
Frankie scrolled down the list. There were separate groupings. One was for friends. There were over a dozen names and numbers, but only five had the same area code as Margie’s phone, and the first names of three of them were female: Audrey, Cathy and Della.
“She has three local lady friends,” Frankie said. “Probably neighbors.”
“So use your burner phone, not hers, and call them and see where it leads. Pretend you’re a cop.”
Frankie grinned. Used the pay-as-you-go and punched in the first number. Got no reply. The second answered after three rings.
“Hello.” A female voice.
“Good evening ma’am,” Frankie said. “This is Detective Frank Burns. We understand that you’re a friend of Margie Newman, is that correct?”
“Well, yes, but―”
“We need to locate her, ma’am. She was due at the hospital to visit her husband, but didn’t show. A patrol car has been by her house, but she isn’t in, and she isn’t answering her phone.”
“I wish I could help you, Detective,” Cathy Shayatovich said. “I spoke with Margie two days ago, but I haven’t been in touch since. I have no idea where she could be if she isn’t at home or with Arnie.”
“OK, ma’am,” Frankie said.
“Thank you for your help.”
Frankie tried the third number.
“Hello.”
“Is that Della?”
“Who’s asking?”
“This is Detective Frank Burns. We are trying to locate Margie Newman, who we have reason to believe is a close friend of yours.”
“I’m her next-door neighbor, but…” Della paused. It suddenly dawned on her that she only had the anonymous caller’s word that he was a police detective. After what had happened to Arnie, then the break-in, she needed to be careful.
“You still there, ma’am?” Frankie said.
“Uh, yeah, but I’ll call you back. Give me your office number.”
That threw Frankie. He didn’t know what to say, so disconnected.
Della called the police. Told them who she was and that someone purporting to be a detective by the name of Frank Burns had phoned and was asking questions about Margie. She was asked to hold and waited for over two minutes before a female voice announced, “This is Detective Garcia, Mrs. Phelps. I have no record of a detective by the name of Frank Burns. Whoever called you had no official reason to do so. Please tell me exactly what he said.”
After going through it, twice, Della was told to report any further calls, and was advised to not answer her door to anyone that she did not know. She was also asked for permission for the police to check her phone, to see if they could trace the number of whoever had called her, which she agreed to.
Lennox parked at the curb and used his own cell to call Quaid. Explained all that had gone down, and that the main player was now an ex-cop by the name of Logan, who had hard copy and a flash drive he had got from Newman’s house.
Dusty Quaid assimilated the new information. While he did, Lennox just held the phone to his ear and waited, knowing that his boss would be deciding the best way to resolve the problem.
“Find this guy Logan,” Dusty said. “Get whatever he has on Mr. F, and then make him vanish, permanently.”
“He’s in the wind, boss. How―?”
“Someone knows where he is. Go and talk to the cop’s neighbor. She probably knows where Logan took the wife. And even if she doesn’t, lift her and bring her to the Warehouse. If she’s a good friend of Newman’s wife we can use her as bait, if we need to. You should have taken the brother, not whacked the couple.”