FLASH POINT (Thomas Blume Book 6)

by PT Reade

  Some of the other folks around me weren’t so lucky. I propped myself up and looked across the tent to a man crying in the corner. Two doctors worked on him, but the twist of his leg was worrying. In the bed, directly across from me, a woman groaned with a weak, sickly cry and clutched her chest. The elderly gent next to her was gray and still.

  With some considerable effort, I swung my legs to the floor and found relief that my faculties all appeared to be working. I considered taking a hit from the hip flask hidden away in my jacket, wherever it was, but the medics were having a hard enough time as it was, without some drunk asshole screwing things up. Instead, I sipped from a plastic cup of water that had been brought over to me while I was being examined.

  The cooling liquid helped sooth the ragged sensation in my throat. At least for a moment.

  “And I thought you looked bad before,” a voice came from near the entrance. Rey pushed into the tent and flashed his badge at a particularly perturbed medic who regarded him with daggers.

  “So, was it worth it?” he asked, drawing close to my bed and slinging my leather jacket across a nearby chair.

  “I hope so,” I croaked, reaching into my back pocket and pulling free Roland Teach’s arrest record. The document was yellowed and singed at the edges but readable. “Here.”

  “Yeah, I saw some of this before the case got handed off,” Rey said thumbing through the documents. “Arrested at the Morningside Hotel, 15.45, attending officers Brooke, Singh, and Detectives Harper and … Detective Sanchez . . . Hey, I’m famous!”

  “I’ll get your autograph later. What else?” My head was throbbing, so I knocked back a heavy-duty aspirin. One of two the EMTs had given me.

  “Well, says here that Harper interviewed witnesses, and uniform canvassed the area. CCTV shows Teach entering the hotel the day before. He doesn’t leave his room until we surprise him after your tip-off.”

  “Nothing about where he might go?”

  “No, sorry, but hey, this is interesting. Working theory is that Teach was setting up a hit on one of three people. Jason Haymer; some Silicon Valley hotshot, Nuresh Patel an Indian industrialist or Myron Kellerman. All were on the street at the time, all were identified as prime targets.”

  “So, who’s our favorite?”

  “Hard to say. Haymer co-operated with us, answered all our questions. He seems clean …but the dirty ones always do. Patel is rarely in the country. So, getting information out of him is hard, but he rubbed a lot of people the wrong way back home.”

  “And the last one, Kellerman?”

  “Myron Kellerman. A Wall St investment banker. We interviewed him, but he didn’t give us much. His lawyers got involved, and since he was the potential victim and not a suspect, we had to drop inquiries.” Rey handed me two photographs of the man in question. Kellerman’s pale face filled the first picture—wide and jowly with deep-set eyes, some kind of press or publicity photo. In a second photograph, he wore an expensive suit that did nothing to hide his well-fed frame.

  “Why would someone want a case dropped if they were the victim?” I replied. “Is Kellerman dirty?”

  Rey raised an eyebrow. “I just told you he’s a Wall Street banker.”

  I laughed, but it degenerated into a hacking cough, which hurt my head and my bruised ribs. I must have landed in the dumpster more awkwardly than I first thought.

  And my clothes were finished. I’d need to find time to change. “Right, I know they are all crooks. But some are more crooked than others. Does Kellerman have a record?”

  “Nothing here, but I can check the database. It might be up and running by now. He was probably just insider trading or something though, Blume. You know these finance guys. They don’t want anyone looking too closely at their activities.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Or maybe Teach knew something we don’t.”

  “Possibly, but that’s pretty thin.”

  “Thin is about the best we got right now. Teach is in the wind and I have no idea how to track the bastard down.”

  “What about the bag?” Rey asked.

  In the chaos and the subsequent medical treatment, I’d almost forgotten about the holdall. The medics had thrown it on the floor beside the bed like a discarded piece of trash, but as my memories resurfaced, I knew it was much more. I heaved the bag onto the bed, between Rey and me, and unzipped the contents, laying out each item carefully.

  “This is everything seized at the scene?” I asked.

  Rey nodded. “Except the rifle—which is with ballistics. Or it was. Damn, it’s all gone, isn’t it?”

  “The station can be rebuilt, walls and floors can be repaired, but people can’t be replaced so easily. We need to find Teach to stop more lives being lost.”

  Rey stared at the bag, lost in thought. “Like I said man, I was there but only because I gave the tip-off to Kinsey. The other guys took point on the case.”

  The evidence bags contained a collection of items for travel. Two shirts, immaculately folded. Three pairs of pants and underwear, also folded. Some toiletries and little else.

  Only two pieces were of interest. One was a cell phone, which I examined carefully. A cheap phone, nothing special. Some Chinese knockoff of a more expensive Chinese brand name. A burner. The screen had a deep crack in it, but otherwise, it was undamaged. It was also lifeless. Crosschecking against the case file notes, it seemed the phone had already been examined by the lab. It had been purchased from a convenience store on Broadway and had not been used. Aside from Teach’s fingerprints, there was nothing to tie him to the device.

  “Burner phone?” Rey enquired, echoing my thoughts.

  “Probably. What else do we have?”

  Rey reached inside the holdall and pulled out another clear plastic bag; this one contained a small notepad no bigger than the phone.

  “Oh hey, I remember this,” he said. “We snagged it at the crime scene; I told you on the phone when you were still in London, remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember. Can I see?”

  Rey passed the bag to me. The chain of custody tags still sat plastered to the outside as I turned it over in my hands. The notebook was dark red with a faux leather cover. It was dog-eared and yellowing—well used. A good sign.

  “You want me to get you some gloves? “Rey said. “Just give me—”

  I tore the bag open and wrenched the notebook from inside.

  “Or not,” Rey said, frowning.

  A part of me—the part deep inside that would always be a cop—flinched at my actions. But the newer part, the part that drank too much and slept too little, didn’t give a crap.

  I opened the book and leafed through the pages. Flicking through, it became clear Roland Teach was an obsessive record keeper, and well beyond that of any reasonable person. But then, what kind of reasonable person becomes a professional killer?

  The notebook was actually a diary with two years’ worth of pages and notes scribbled against each day. Some were mundane, the kind of thing anyone would write. ‘Pick up butter,’ or ‘Take car for service.’ But every now and then, there were pages with red writing; these had cryptic details that sent my heart into my throat.

  “Three hundred feet, twenty elevation. Adjusted scope. One mark, two bodyguards. – Successful.”

  “Wind, ten knots East. Elevation fifty feet, bipod, 7.62 test. - Successful.

  The diary of a hitman was a curious thing. The thought processes and details he monitored were almost impressive. I found myself thumbing back through the pages almost instinctively, to a date etched in my mind.

  It stuck out immediately. The page was unlike any other in the book. The red writing was still there, and it appeared Teach had started his notes as usual, but something had gone wrong. All the rest of the page had been scribbled out. In stark contrast to the neat handwriting and carefully annotated notes throughout the rest of the book, this one page was covered in angry red lines, scratched back and forth across the page. In a couple of points, it had even torn
the paper.

  Something had happened that day. Something significant.

  I glanced at the top of the page. April Fifteenth.

  The date my family died.

  “Like I said,” Rey continued. “This guy has a lot to answer for.”

  “Do me a favor Rey, find out what you can on Kellerman and send it to me,” I said, after a moment of silence. “Oh, and can you dig me up a change of clothes? Maybe from the locker room or something? I smell like a goddam barbeque. Look like one too.”

  “Will do buddy, but what are you gonna do?”

  “I’m going to find Teach.”

  ELEVEN

  The pounding in my head had subsided slightly. One more cup of coffee and a couple of glasses of water later, my body seemed to be getting back on the straight and narrow. Or as straight and narrow as you can be with a liver like a French Goose and skin like scorched leather.

  One of the medics brought me a bowl of warm water, which I used to wash my face and hands, wiping away as much of the soot and smoke as possible. A shower would have been ideal, but so would a scotch on the rocks. I was shit-out-of-luck on both counts.

  I stretched a kink out of my back and, when my balance was finally in tune with my mind, I slipped into the gray t-shirt and faded jeans Rey had dug up from God knows where, threw on my leather jacket and made a step toward the old police station—now functioning as a situation room for the emergency crews.

  The triage tent was filling up fast. Some victims, the lucky ones, had nothing more than shocked expressions and some cuts and bruises. Others, less fortunate had no expression at all. They entered another section, covered head to toe, bodies to be identified later.

  The blast had ripped apart the side of the police station, but it seemed the post office had borne the brunt of the explosion. The unfortunate late-afternoon customers had had no chance.

  Pulling my eyes away from the victims, I placed one foot in front of the other and began the grueling slog out. I had to find Teach. Time was running out, but where the hell would I even start?

  Rey was running Kellerman’s name and had taken the evidence bag with him. Other than that I had little to go on. The despair, so powerful earlier, was creeping up at the edge of my conscience once more. A slithering, sliding coldness that could suffocate me at any time.

  No, Rey is right I have to—

  A firefighter burst into the tent, wheeling another body and interrupting my thoughts. Something struck me as different about this one, though I couldn’t place what. Something familiar, a nebulous sense of danger.

  I stepped after the firefighter. There was no medic this time. Apparently, the victim was long past saving.

  “Hey,” I called out. “Wait.”

  The firefighter, a tall, powerfully-built dark-skinned man, stopped and turned to face me with a face so tired and gray, it looked like it might fall off his skull at any time.

  “Sir?” he replied, flatly. Ever the professional.

  “Detective Blume,” I said with far more authority than I had. I didn’t flash a badge. No need. With the chaos around us and the cops streaming back and forth, I fitted right in. “This vic’, where was he found?”

  “Southside, near where we think the bomb went off. We found another just like him. Dressed the same. Checked for vitals but he was long gone by the time we arrived. Right now, our efforts are focused on helping any survivors.”

  “Can I take a look?”

  The firefighter, glanced at me, then down at the body and shrugged. “Look, I’ve got a crew of guys risking their asses out here today. If you want to play coroner, go for it. Just be sure to move the body with the others when you’re finished.”

  “Copy that. Thanks for your help.” I waited a moment as the guy disappeared back into the haze outside and wheeled the gurney to the side. Immediately I was struck by how different this body looked to the others.

  Male, mid-forties maybe. Average build and a trimmed black beard. Dressed in a leather jacket and matching pants, I immediately thought ‘biker.’ Moving the sheet aside, I revealed more of his arm. Sure enough, the tattoos, ranging from fresh and crisp black to faded and unintelligible writing, snaked up and beneath his chest.

  It would have been easy to assume he was like the other stiffs. He was gray and still like the others, but there was no obvious trauma to the face or body, which struck me as weird as hell. If the fireman was telling the truth—and he had no reason to lie, then they had found this guy close to the blast site. No way anyone on the south side could come out of that looking so clean.

  Given the luxury of forty-eight hours and my old police resources, I would have sent the body straight to Cooper—my old friend at the city coroner’s office, or even better Nicole Remay—my new friend and a continual source of information at the city’s coroner’s office in London. Unfortunately, I hadn’t heard from Cooper in years, and Nicole was on the other side of the planet. Not to mention the fact I had recently screwed things up between us so severely, I wasn’t sure if she would ever speak to me again.

  Sighing, I decided the only resource I had was myself. I wondered how much investigation I would have to do, but fate seemed to shine on me for once when the light shifted and a tiny liquid reflection—glistening blood, caught my eye.

  I reached out to lift the man’s jacket, and inspect further, but the moment my fingers touched the leather, a lightning bolt cut through the fog in my brain. A memory resurfaced.

  I’d seen this body before.

  TWELVE

  The biker on the gurney, in front of me had met an untimely end, not due to the explosion, but because of gunshots. His friend I had discovered in the alley after the explosion had suffered the same fate and now I knew I had seen the wounds before, I needed to find out why. I also needed to work out who the victims were working for.

  A shaky plan started to build, but shaky was better than nothing.

  I couldn’t get back into the police station. My friends from the FBI had seen to that. So, if I wanted to find out more about my mystery bikers, I would need to get creative. The obvious solution was to call Rey’s cell phone and ask him to look up the answer’s I needed, but after several rings and getting nowhere, I figured he was either surrounded by noise and would never hear the ringing, or he had left his cell phone somewhere. Either way, he couldn’t help me.

  Instead, I turned to a little manipulation.

  Using the chaos as my tool, I slipped back near the entrance to the police station. Outside the door, a young uniformed cop had been posted as a guard—by Lynch and his Fed buddies no doubt. The kid looked stiff and bored but, too afraid to move from the spot. Like if he went for a leak the suits would throw him in jail.

  Lucky for me I didn’t need to get past him. All I needed was his help.

  Doing my best to blend in with the traffic coming and going, I dropped in behind a pair of uniformed cops approaching the entrance. I straightened my posture, ignoring the aches and pains and did my very best to look like I belonged on site.

  A handful of the police in the station would know who I was from the old days, but the kid at the front was young. Hell, I had food in my fridge in London older than him, so—feeling like an asshole—I decided to use that.

  “What’s your name, son?” I said with authority as I approached the door.

  The kid stiffened in surprise and turned to face me squarely. “Harris, sir. Officer Harris.” The kid was tense. Hell, a couple more seconds he probably would have saluted me.

  “Relax son; this is a shit-show. No need for a parade. I’m Detective Blume, Homicide. I need your help.”

  Sure, I wasn’t a detective, not anymore, and my name carried no weight whatsoever with the NYPD these days, but throw in the word ‘detective,' and rookies get all starry-eyed. It was almost too easy.

  “Me? Um, ok, sir. How can I help?”

  “Harris, I need you to go into the police station, get me a file and speak to Captain Kinsey. Tell her to meet me out
here. Can you do that?”

  The kid’s eyes darted between me and the door. A battle between pride and ambition. “I…um, I’ve been asked to stay here. Keep an eye on the door.”

  I raised an eyebrow and tossed it the way of officer Harris. “You like standing around playing soldier? It must be hard watching all the other cops working on this thing and not getting to help.”

  “Yes, sir. It is, but I have a duty.”

  “Protect and serve. Ah yes. Well son, let me tell you. I’ve been on the force for twenty years, and if there’s one thing I learned, it’s that there is more than one way to help people. Following orders may be the correct thing to do, but is it the right one?”

  The kid looked confused. I wanted to keep him that way, off guard, pliable. “I don’t understand,” he mumbled.

  “Look, you can stand here like a good little puppy, or you can do some real police work, and help me find the bastard who set off this bomb.”

  “But you’re homicide. Aren’t the FBI working this with domestic terror?”

  The kid was smart; I had to give him that. “You think that matters at a time like this? They’ve pulled everyone in on this case. I’m betting you’d much rather be helping too, instead of standing around.”

  “Well, of course.”

  “Good, so tell me. When do you want to make detective?”

  All cops start out wanting to be a detective. Even if they say they don’t. There’s an undeniable allure to it. The romantic notion of the undercover crime stopper. The hero in plain clothes, solving the unsolvable case. Most of it is bullshit.

  After a few years on the force, officers usually fall into other departments. A plum desk job, a cushy patrol route, or a comfortable routine. Only the determined or the self-destructive stick it out long enough to enter the Detective Bureau. I guess I was a bit of both.

  “I … uh. As soon as I can. I have to complete three years on the—”

  “Bullshit,” I cut in. “Listen, you can play things by the book and be a good little lap-dog for your lieutenant, what’s his name?