by B. A. Morton
The doorway accessed a long, dimly-lit corridor with no windows, smelling of damp. Intermittent fluorescent strips flickered and buzzed as he walked, the bad light and his footfalls creating a horror movie effect. He kept to the left, running his hand along the cracked tiled wall, his attempt to keep himself in a less vulnerable position by leaving only one direction to defend should something, or someone, leap out of the shadows. He held the wooden club in his right hand, swinging it gently by his side, comforted somewhat by its weight and the potential damage he could inflict with it should the need arise. Above his head the occasional sign hanging lopsidedly from broken chains confirmed the fact that he was in an institution of some sort, a hospital or sanatorium, and he racked his brain to place it on the map. He’d read somewhere, or heard on the news, about the closure of a state institution, but he couldn’t recall the details. His mind remained foggy. Nevertheless he clung doggedly to the hope that all previous residents, crazy or otherwise, had long since departed for greener pastures. He had no wish to come upon a leftover mental patient minus their straitjacket.
He stepped carefully, avoiding obstacles in the shadows and pools of stagnant water on the concrete floor. His footsteps echoed loudly as he walked, despite his best efforts at stealth. The sound added to the disorientation he felt and he shuddered at his own bizarre shadows. He glanced back, uncertain now whether he was alone or in fact being followed by another. He paused and took a steadying breath. The place was freaking him out. All the scary movies he’d ever watched crowded for space in his mind. But there, at the front, way ahead of the rest, was an image of the lizard guy with a very sharp knife. He shook his head. Get a grip, he muttered. Get a fuckin’ grip.
Off the corridor were a series of small unlit rooms, little more than closets. He checked each one, staring impotently into the darkness, his heart rate increasing along with his unease as he checked off each one from his mental list. What held his attention, albeit reluctantly, was the closed door at the end and the bright light leeching out from beneath it. He took his time getting there, knowing it was inevitable but delaying the moment as long as he could. He stopped outside and took a breath while he psyched himself up. Behind him the flickering lights gave up the ghost with an angry hiss, and as if on cue, the corridor was plunged into darkness. He tightened his grip on the wooden club and eased the door ajar with his foot.
The sudden fluorescence had him raising his hand to shield his eyes. By contrast to the gloomy corridor, this room was a digital masterpiece, awash with light provided by a set of floor-standing crime scene spots. Wires trailed across the floor, and in the background he was aware of the distant hum of a generator. Connell’s gaze flicked to a metal table at the center of the room. Expecting to find Gibbons stripped and ready for his autopsy, he was relieved when in place of the corpse were his cell phone, his gun and the photo of him and Molly, all neatly placed and awaiting his arrival.
He hesitated, sensed a trap, and scanned the room. There was no one there, though he had the same sense of being watched as he’d had in the alley. He shrugged the feeling away, putting it down to paranoia and concussion, and approached the table.
His cell phone had been wiped clean of blood; his gun lay loaded and ready to fire. Molly stared straight back at him from the confines of the photo with that strange expression. He reached out and picked up the image carefully by one corner. Beneath it, stuck to the table top with surgical tape, was a scrap of paper. This time the score on the lion was 7/10.
His cell phone sprung to life. The sudden noise as it vibrated angrily on the metal table startled Connell into action. He snatched it up along with his gun and swung around. His heart pounded. His hands shook as he checked the incoming text.
A coward is simply someone waiting for the chance to be brave.
He had no idea what it meant and had no intention of hanging around to find out. He was running by the time he found the exit, spooked nearly out of his mind and about ready to give it all up and ask for his own straitjacket.
He could have called Marty, should have called Gerry, but instead he called a cab.
* * *
When he got back to the apartment, Gerry was waiting, perched on the edge of the couch, one leg crossed over the other. Although he appeared relaxed, Connell could tell by the vein pulsing at his temple that he was far from happy.
If anyone had a reason to be pissed, Connell reckoned he was holding all the rights, so he got in first before Gerry had a chance.
“How did you get in here?” he grunted. “And don’t give me any of that we have ways, mysterious secret agent crap. I’m just not in the mood.”
“We do have ways but forget that. What the hell happened to you? You’re covered in blood.”
“Don’t worry your pretty little head, Gerry. Most of it belongs to Gibbons.”
“What happened?”
Connell unbuttoned his shirt and kicked off his shoes as he crossed to the bathroom. “That’s an excellent question, Gerry, and I hope you’ve got the answers, because if not, we’re going to have some issues.” He switched on the shower and waited while the water ran hot. It was going to take a virtual boil wash to get rid of Gibbons’ legacy. “You want to do something useful for a change, instead of standing there looking down your goddam nose? Make me a cup coffee while I get cleaned up.”
“Jesus, what is that smell?” Gerry gagged as the eau-de-Gibbons finally hit him.
Connell shrugged. “Corruption, Gerry, and yeah, it’s enough to make you heave.”
* * *
“So, perhaps you should start by telling me why you’ve been avoiding my calls,” said Gerry when Connell returned fresh from the shower.
“Fuck off, Gerry.”
“That’s not the right answer, Tommy.”
“No? The way I see it, I’m out there getting shit from the good guys, the bad guys and everyone else in between, and you’re sitting here on my couch, drinking my coffee and questioning my protocol.”
“That’s what I’m paying you for, or did you forget this was actually a job? My job, my rules.”
“Rules? That’s a joke. You need to lay it on the line, Gerry. I’m going around in circles like a fucking’ moth circling a flame, and each rotation takes me nearer to something I know nothing about. Are you going to let me in on the big secret or just watch while I fry?”
Gerry shrugged. “If you’d taken my calls when I made them, you wouldn’t be in this mess. It’s called communication.”
“Sure, Gerry, and it works both ways, so how about we start at the beginning and you tell me why everyone is so damned keen to get their hands on little Molly Brown?”
“I don’t know what you mean. You’re the one who figures she’s mixed up in this.”
“And what exactly is this? Just so I’m clear in my head.” Connell scowled belligerently. He didn’t expect the whole truth from Gerry, but he expected half-truths at the very least. “You hired me to look into Gibbons and Scott, you damned well knew they were mixed up with Frankie, so why didn’t you just say so and I’d have gone straight around there and had a few words with old Frankie?”
Gerry pulled a face, like he was debating the level of disclosure. “Okay, we knew Gibbons and Scott were working for Frankie, but in a minor way, foot soldiers, hired muscle. What we needed to know was what was going on behind the scenes.”
“The vodka?”
“And the rest.”
“You knew about the girls?”
“Suspected. We’d heard that something was going on. Let’s face it, someone had to fill the gap after Sawyer was killed. It was only a matter of time until Frankie grew into Sawyer’s shoes.”
“So why me? Why not send your guys in, keep it in-house? What was the point in me playing patsy with Gibbons and Scott if you already had enough to haul them in?”
“Because they were just the tip of the iceberg and we were after a bigger fish. But we needed it to look like we were going through the motions following up
on reports, while the bigger investigation went on behind the scenes.”
“So basically I’m the fall guy?”
“Not exactly. I figured you might come up with something. We don’t have enough evidence, or at least we didn’t. Maybe we do now. It’s complicated.”
“Complicated? You haven’t heard my side yet.”
Gerry smiled for the first time. “Tommy, when is your life not complicated?”
Connell conceded a little. It was hard to stay permanently mad. It took too much energy and he was beat. He slumped back in his seat and took a slug of coffee. “Go on.”
“It’s a joint agency operation and I don’t need to tell you how these things get screwed up when big egos start bouncing off one another. I was really only tasked to investigate Gibbons and Scott. The investigation was wrapped up with a few others so as not to reveal our true focus.”
“Reveal it to whom?”
“Well, that’s the thing. If Gibbons and Scott were recruited straight off the street, that’s bad, but okay. The concern is that the corruption may not be confined to the lower ranks.”
“And our lizard guy is kind of drawing attention to that fact?”
“It may just be a coincidence but he has knocked out a few of our suspects.”
“Maybe it’s not about moral outrage, a vigilante ridding the force of corrupt officers. Maybe he’s actually getting rid of shaky witnesses before they have a chance to talk to you.”
“Working for Frankie?”
“You tell me. You’re the guy with all the answers.”
“Perhaps,” conceded Gerry. “This whole thing kicked off with a disgruntled employee of Frankie’s who was willing to stand up in court but was silenced.”
“By Gibbons and Scott?”
“No evidence, but naturally we suspect it was on Frankie’s orders.”
“Let me guess - the guy who was going to reveal all was none other than Molly’s dad.”
“You’ve got it. He was working for Frankie prior to his most recent incarceration, then cut a deal for a shorter sentence. We let him out and he does a vanishing act.”
Connell raised a hand to stop him. “I asked you about Mr. Brown when we had lunch, you, me and Marty, and you said you’d look into it. Why didn’t you tell me all of this then?”
“Because I didn’t know the full story when you asked me. If you’ll remember, I did explain at the outset that I don’t have the clout that I used to. I know only as much as my bosses allow me.”
“Gerry, cut the crap. You are the boss.”
“No, Tommy. Despite what you might think, there’s always someone else higher up the ladder, right up to the big man himself. I’m just doing my job, same as you. That’s why I’ve been leaving you messages. There’s more stuff that you need to know.”
“Oh yeah? Did you just leave me a message about an hour ago?”
“I’ve left you a ton of messages, Tommy. What did it say?”
Connell shook his head dismissively. “Nothing. Forget it. So, getting back to it being about us guys doing our jobs, Molly’s dad was just doing his job running contraband for Frankie. He gets pulled in, leaned on, cuts a deal, and then what? He disappears and suddenly you’re back to square one. When were you planning on stepping in and making sure his kids were taken care of, or is that not part of the big guy’s responsibility anymore?”
“Calm down, Tommy. Your indignation is misplaced. I got you the order on Molly, didn’t I? Do you realize the favors I had to pull to get that? I’m afraid we were both a little late to this party. Steps were already being taken to locate Brown’s kids. Gibbons and Scott got there first.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why all the interest in Molly and not Lydia?”
“I suppose because Lydia isn’t a threat to them. They’ve secured her cooperation with one of their own.”
“Terry?”
“It appears she likes drugs. He feeds her habit. She’s not going to burn her source. Also Lydia doesn’t give a shit about her parents.”
Connell felt a return of bile in his gut that had nothing to do with Gibbons. He couldn’t believe Gerry’s blasé attitude toward Lydia. Sure, she was trouble, but to write her off at sixteen just wasn’t right. “Gerry, that reeks, and you fucking know it does. Lydia is a kid pretending to be a grownup. Forget the crap with Frankie. We have a responsibility to protect her from herself. You have a responsibility. What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m not saying that she’s disposable, Tommy, merely that she’s not at risk because she doesn’t pose a threat to Frankie. She doesn’t know anything that could hurt him, and even if she did, she’s too street-smart to stand up to him. She just doesn’t figure in what’s going on. She’ll be fine till we deal with Frankie.”
“Oh sure, you think she’s fine left on her own in an apartment that someone tried to firebomb?”
“I thought it was your car that had the fire chief hot under the collar.”
“Yeah, but only because I traded my car for Lydia’s apartment. I thought it was a pretty good swap. Anywhere else in the world and I would’ve gotten a medal. The fire chief didn’t quite see it like that. But either way, Lydia’s not there now. You might think she’s inconsequential to the story, but I don’t. She’s staying at Charlene’s shelter. If anyone can put the fear of God into an adolescent pimp like Terry, it’s Charlene.”
He crossed to the window, leaned an arm against the glass and looked out at the industrial view. It wasn’t pretty but there was something reassuring about the amount of regeneration that was going on. Maybe that was Frankie’s game - bulldoze the apartment block and make way for New York’s newest biggest thing. He knew he’d eventually deal with Frankie on the price and Frankie knew it too. It was a game, just like all the others that were currently being executed. Connell sighed. He was getting tired of playing them all.
“Are you okay, Tommy?”
Connell shrugged. He was far from okay. He was sick of chasing his tail, of being the last one to get the picture. He wanted out. “I guess.”
“You don’t look it.”
Connell turned and threw a half-hearted smile Gerry’s way. “I’ve felt better, Gerry, but it’s no big deal. I’ve just had a rough couple of days. Let’s get this case over with and I’ll be fine.”
Gerry nodded, like he didn’t believe a word but wasn’t prepared to push for the truth.
“Okay, so what do we have so far?” continued Connell, determined now to get on with it despite a growing sense of dread at where the investigation was leading him. “Frankie has something going on. He’s moving up in the world, taking over where he sees an opportunity and protecting his assets by recruiting a few cops with flexible ethics. He gets wind of the deal you made with Brown and has him taken out. That still doesn’t explain the interest in Molly. For fuck’s sake, Gerry, the kid doesn’t even talk. What kind of threat could she possibly pose?”
“You tell me. I think you’re the expert where Molly is concerned.”
Connell considered for a moment. He was finding it difficult to think straight. His head pounded. He rubbed a hand across his scalp and found the cause of his headache - yet another scar to add to his collection. Lizzie would be pleased.
“I think she most likely saw something or heard something. But, Gerry, she might never be able to talk about it. The kid is different, damaged, call it what you will.”
“And maybe that’s the whole point. She’s not your usual kid and therefore unpredictable. She’s not Lydia, is she? She won’t be bought. She’ll do whatever she wants, no matter what, and that would give anyone cause for concern, especially Frankie. That’s why Gibbons and Scott picked up Lydia’s call and didn’t follow it up officially. They didn’t want that little girl found by anyone but them.”
“So what now? Gibbons and Scott are both dead. The threat to Molly is no longer there and you have your ongoing investigation with Frankie. You don’t need me. You just need
another of Frankie’s gophers to step up to the bench, turn States evidence and you’re back in business. Hey, what about Terry, young pimp in the city? He was shifting gear for Frankie at the warehouse. I’d be more than happy if he were leaned on.”
Gerry frowned. “I’m not so sure. Gibbons concerns me. He wasn’t our twelfth victim, was he?”
“Nah, I figure he had a falling out with Frankie. Shot in the head. Bang!”
“Seems a little too convenient, don’t you think? Both men killed but by different people and presumably for different reasons.”
“Does it matter? They were bums. The world is a better place without them.”
“I think it does,” said Gerry. “To be honest, the guys upstairs aren’t happy. The house had been under surveillance. Despite that, they didn’t see a thing and now Frankie’s spitting blood about harassment, which is making them nervous.”
“Under surveillance? Seems to me you’ve got guys tripping over themselves doing the same damn job. Remind me again why I’m even on this case …”
“Different agencies, different motivations, but all after the same prize. It’s a dog-eat-dog world we live in, Tommy.”
“Well, they must have had the lens cover on their camera if they missed Gibbons getting his sinuses cleared. The guy was right out there on the front drive. It must have happened right after Marty left.”
“What time did he leave?”
“He was there till the early hours. I owe him a beer. I didn’t see anyone when I arrived this morning. The street was clear. The house looked empty. I was going to go look but I guess someone took exception to my gate-crashing the party.”
“There was no body found at Frankie’s. CSI have been all over that house. It’s clean.”
Connell snorted his derision. “All over the house? Wow, they must be a speedy crew. Have you seen the size of that place? I think someone is scamming you, Gerry. Anyway, Gibbons was shot as he stood over the trunk of his car. The blood and splatter was contained inside. There wouldn’t be any traces in the house.”