Irish Car Bomb

by Steven Henry

  Rolf disappeared around the corner in the upstairs hall. He growled, Frankie Fingers screamed, and then there was a loud thud from outside, followed by Jones’s voice yelling, “NYPD! Don’t move!”

  Erin rushed after her dog into a bedroom. The window hung wide open. Rolf was on his hind legs, forepaws braced on the windowsill, looking down and wagging his tail. Peering out the window, she saw Frankie Fingers in the alley below, spreadeagled face-down on the pavement and clad only in leopard-spotted boxer shorts. Jones stood over him, gun in hand.

  “Jesus!” Jones called up to Erin. “What’d you do to this poor guy? He went out the window like a damn flying squirrel! Lucky he didn’t break his neck.”

  “Good boy, Rolf,” Erin said, scratching him behind the ears. “Good boy.” But their job wasn’t quite done. “Cuff him!” she called to Jones. “We’ve got two creeps wounded inside. Backup’s inbound.”

  They had to clear the rest of the apartment. They did it more carefully now, moving room to room. They found nothing until they came to the spare bedroom. The moment they stepped inside, Rolf froze, then sat in his alert position. Erin recognized the stuff at once. Nitric acid, hydrochloric acid, glycerol.

  “Son of a bitch,” she said. It was another bomb lab.

  *

  The sirens were louder, right outside the bar now. Doors slammed and men shouted. Backup had arrived. She didn’t pay much attention. Her focus was on her partner. She dropped to one knee in front of him, running her hands carefully up his legs, checking for broken bones or open wounds. Rolf quivered with excitement, his whole body rigid, but he didn’t seem to have any serious injuries. Three balls of buckshot had slammed into his vest, but the Kevlar and ceramic plate had stopped them from doing real damage. She checked his face, seeing a shallow laceration over his eye where Knox had punched him and the buckshot wound on his face, between his eye and his jowl. A single piece of shot had lodged there. Blood trickled down the dog’s face.

  “Erin! You hurt?” Vic appeared in the doorway. Behind the big Russian was a pair of uniforms, guns drawn.

  “Huh?” She looked over her shoulder at him. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “You caught one,” Vic said. “I saw it. Stay right there.” He came into the room, laying his shotgun on the floor and kneeling next to her.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Rolf got tagged. I’ve gotta take care of him.”

  “Of course we’ll take care of him,” Vic said. “But we’re taking care of you, too.” He looked her over. “Damn, girl. Lucky break.” He pointed to her chest.

  Erin looked down at herself and saw a pellet of metal lodged in her vest, center mass. She remembered the blow she’d felt when Knox had fired his sawed-off. “Holy shit,” she said. Her knees felt suddenly weak, even though she knew perfectly well she wasn’t hurt. The realization that she’d been shot was overwhelming, now that the fight was over. She sank back, sitting on the floor.

  “Hey, it’s okay,” Vic said. “You’re gonna be fine.”

  “I know,” she said. “It didn’t penetrate.”

  “I see that. But it might’ve cracked a rib. Can you breathe okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Vic grinned at her. “First gunfight?”

  “I’ve been shot at a couple times,” she said. “Never hit before.”

  “How’s it feel?”

  “I could use a drink.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Not till after they take the blood test, make sure you’re not hopped up.” He looked around the room then. “Jesus. Another bomb?”

  “Maybe. We’d better get Frankie into an interrogation room, see what he’s got to say about it.”

  Vic glanced out the window. Jones had their man against the alley wall, cuffed. “Please tell me we’re gonna put some pants on him first,” he said. “How come every time we arrest this guy, I gotta see what color his boxers are?”

  *

  Things slowed down again, which was fine with Erin. It gave her a chance to recover a little. Cops swarmed all over the building. The CSI guys showed up to collect spent brass and dig bullets out of walls and woodwork. Paramedics picked up Knox and Morgan, both of whom were bleeding all over the place. One of the medics took a look at Rolf, plucked the lead pellet out of his cheek, and pronounced him good to go. Then the CSI guys wanted to collect blood samples. Vic and Erin had to hand over their guns and fill syringes, along with giving their statements.

  It was almost two hours before they were finally able to get back to the precinct. Jones had booked Fergus and had him in the interrogation room. Webb was waiting for them in Major Crimes, hands on his hips.

  “Neshenko,” he said quietly. There was a hard edge to his voice.

  “Yes, sir,” Vic said, coming to attention.

  “Is this your idea of asking nicely?”

  “Yes, sir,” Vic said again.

  Webb stared at the ceiling, as if he was looking for divine inspiration. “I send you to ask some questions, and now I’ve got two bodies in the hospital, shots fired, and it’s a miracle no one’s in the morgue. Please just tell me no cops got hurt.”

  “Rolf took some buckshot in the face,” Erin said. “He’ll be fine.”

  Rolf, blood crusting his cheek, managed to look both unconcerned and tough at the same time.

  “Okay,” Webb sighed. “I’ve got Fergus in Interrogation Room One, but it won’t do us much good. He seems to have forgotten how to say anything but ‘lawyer.’”

  “So where’s that leave us?” Erin asked.

  “It leaves you and Neshenko on modified assignment, until we get the shooting cleared.”

  “It was righteous,” Vic protested. “They had guns in their goddamn hands! What were we supposed to do? Erin got shot! Of course we put them down. And they’re still alive, aren’t they?”

  “That’s enough, Detective!” Webb snapped. Vic blinked and fell abruptly silent. “Do you really think it’s no big deal for the NYPD to pop off rounds in Manhattan? We are going to do this by the book. You and O’Reilly are going to keep your heads down, keep quiet, and do as you’re told.” His voice softened a little. “You okay, Detective?” he asked Erin.

  “Fine, sir,” she said. “Vest caught it. I’m not even bleeding.”

  “You know, we’ve got people you can talk to after an incident like this.”

  Erin’s temper flared. “Yeah,” she said sharply. “If I faint, I’ll know where to go.”

  “You’re keyed up,” Webb said, “so I’ll give you a pass on that one. But it’s time both of you shut up and get back to work. If I’m not mistaken, you’ve just earned yourselves a hell of a lot of reports to fill out.”

  Feeling a little like naughty schoolchildren, Vic and Erin went to their desks. Webb wasn’t kidding. There were arrest reports, Use of Force reports, reports about reports, an endless pile of paperwork. They were also required to debrief in response to the Critical Incident. This meant sitting down with Doc Evans, the departmental psychologist.

  Erin didn’t want to talk about what had happened. She wanted to keep moving, to get out of the precinct and back on the street. She knew she was still loaded with adrenaline and the emotions of the fight, but that didn’t change how she was feeling. She managed to schedule the debriefing for later that afternoon, at four o’clock. By the time she’d waded through the first wave of paperwork, it was a little before two. Webb was talking to Fergus and his lawyer down in the interrogation room. The other members of the squad were at their desks. The silence was oppressive.

  She stood up. “I’ve gotta get out of here,” she said to the room at large. “I need to clear my head, stretch my legs.”

  “Modified assignment,” Jones reminded her. “Besides, we don’t have any more perps to chase down.”

  “I know that,” Erin said. “Is it okay if I go out for a while? I’ll be back in time for my handholding session at four.”

  “As long as you wear your mittens, look both ways at street
corners, and don’t talk to strangers,” Vic said.

  Jones reached into her desk drawer. “Nice smart mouth you got there,” she said. “I’m gonna come over and staple it shut, see how funny you are then.”

  Erin clipped on Rolf’s leash and left the building. She knew she was being silly, but she couldn’t stand the thought of the whole afternoon cooped up with the anger that was still bubbling in her. Some of it was aimed at Fergus and his stupid goons. She knew she’d escaped getting killed by pure luck, and so had her partner. But she’d dealt with the bad guys. She wasn’t sorry she’d fired at Morgan now; she was sorry she hadn’t fired a couple more times and put him down hard. That was the wrong way to feel, and she knew that too, but she couldn’t help it.

  Most of all, though, she was angry at Corky and at herself.

  It wasn’t a smart thing to do, but Erin wasn’t interested in doing the smart thing. She loaded Rolf into the Charger and drove to the Barley Corner.

  Chapter 16

  It was two-fifteen when Erin parked at the Corner. She felt a momentary doubt at going in without her sidearm, but that was how modified assignment worked; until she and Vic were cleared with respect to their gunfight, she wouldn’t get her piece back. But she brushed the thought away. This wasn’t going to be a shootout. She was looking for just one guy, a guy who didn’t carry a gun by all accounts. And she had Rolf to back her up. Besides, as mad as she was, maybe it made sense not to have a firearm on her.

  She marched straight in the front door and glared around the room, her partner standing stiff-legged beside her. The place was nearly empty. The lunch rush was over, and the after-work crowd hadn’t shown up yet. Danny, the bartender, was there, as was a waitress, a handful of guys at the bar, Morton Carlyle in his place of honor at the end of the bar, and James Corcoran holding forth at a table with three of his friends.

  Corky was in the middle of a funny story. He was on his feet, working up to a punchline. “So the lass says, ‘Corky, what’s my mum going to say?’ And I say, ‘Love, your mum was the other girl!’”

  Sharing the laughter of the other guys, he looked over and saw Erin. A smile of recognition, its warmth charming in spite of everything, lit up his face. “Erin, love! Fancy seeing you here!”

  “Corcoran,” she growled. “I’ve been looking for you. You son of a bitch.”

  He blinked, his smile faltering. Then he recovered. “Love, whatever you’re thinking I’ve done, I assure you—”

  “I’m not your love, damn it!”

  Carlyle was on his feet, coming in from her left, his hands spread in a conciliating gesture. “Miss O’Reilly, is something the matter?”

  “You keep out of this!” she snapped at him.

  He didn’t flinch. “I’m not directly involved in this matter,” he said, “but this is my establishment, and I don’t appreciate my customers being harassed.”

  “What about your close friends?” she demanded.

  “Them, either,” he replied coolly.

  “Ah,” Corky said. “So that’s the problem, is it?”

  “Look, Corks,” one of his friends said, rising to his feet. “Whoever this chick is—”

  “Detective O’Reilly, NYPD,” she said. “Get your ass out of here before I kick it clean down to Brooklyn.”

  Corky’s buddies glanced at one another, then at Carlyle. The Corner’s proprietor nodded to them.

  “Go on, lads, give us a moment,” he said. “I’m sure this is something we can sort out in a congenial manner.”

  They hesitated. He snapped his fingers and pointed to the door. They got up and left, abandoning half-finished drinks. That left only the three of them, Danny the bartender, the waitress, and four guys at the bar. All the others ignored the altercation.

  “All right then, Miss O’Reilly,” Carlyle said. “We’ve a few quiet moments. Have you something to say to my associate here?”

  “God damn it,” she said, furious with him for being so calm, for trying to mediate, for existing in the first place. “You’re always so helpful. Always trying to do a good turn for the cops. Never want anything in return, do you? No way. You just store up favors like a bank account, waiting for that rainy day. Yeah, I talked to my dad about you. He spent half his career waiting for you to call in that favor. Thought that was pretty funny, didn’t you?”

  It was Carlyle’s turn to look surprised. “Is that truly what you think? Is that truly what he thinks? Your father was a good copper, Erin O’Reilly. He was never on the take, which is more than can be said of a great many patrolmen, even in these enlightened days. I respected him. He’d gotten himself into a bad position, through no fault of his own, and I was in a position to assist. If any ordinary citizen had done the same thing, you’d be hailing him as a hero.”

  “You’re no ordinary citizen!” she burst out. “You’re a goddamn gangster! And so is he!”

  “Here now,” Corky said. “What exactly are you saying, Erin?”

  “You knew I was a detective,” she said, and to her horror she felt angry tears threatening to spill out of her eyes. She was afraid he’d see them and think she was being weak, when they were really just overflowing rage. “You were using me! Is that what you do? Just screw your way onto the good side of any female cop who comes around?”

  “Erin, I didn’t care you were a copper,” Corky said, and he actually looked hurt at her accusation. “I thought you were lovely, surely. I knew you were tough, and I liked that. I thought you knew who I was. Surely you did your homework before coming to the Corner? Half the lads in this place have been connected at one time or another. There’s coppers who come in here, too. Any of them could have told you.”

  “You may not care I’m a cop,” she said. “But I damn well care you’re a gangster.”

  “Romeo and Juliet, is that it?” he asked with a lopsided smile. “Star-crossed lovers?”

  Erin snorted in exasperation and turned away from him, distracted by motion at the entrance to the bar. A FedEx guy was wheeling in a package. It was a black plastic carrying case with a built-in wheel assembly. Danny came out from behind the bar to sign for it. She turned her attention back to the men in front of her.

  “Do you have any idea what would happen to my career?” she demanded. “If it came out I was messing around with a member of the Irish mob?”

  Carlyle nodded absently and glanced at Danny. “What’ve we got there, lad?” he asked.

  “Case of Glen D, boss,” Danny called back. “We were down one in the last shipment. It’s to make up the shortfall.”

  “Grand,” Carlyle said, not giving his bartender his full attention. He was watching his best friend and that friend’s not-quite-girlfriend.

  “It needn’t be a problem,” Corky said. “As long as we’re discreet.”

  “Do you even know what that word means?” she asked in disbelief.

  He grinned. “I’ve heard of it. Thought I might give it a try one of these days.”

  Rolf, uninterested in the human argument, was keeping an eye on Danny as he hefted the whiskey case onto the bar and checked the invoice. The dog walked to the end of his leash and sat, holding perfectly still and staring at the bartender.

  At that moment Erin’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She was just getting set to really rip into Corky, but she was also technically on duty. She fished out the phone, holding up a hand in his face, index finger raised, a clear signal that she wasn’t done with him yet.

  “O’Reilly,” she answered.

  “Erin? Skip here,” the bomb-squad technician said. “Great collar. I’m at the Fergus place now, checking things over.”

  “Okay, sure,” she said. “Look, Skip, I’m kind of in the middle of something. What’s up?”

  She felt like too many things were jostling for her attention. Corky, Carlyle, the call from the office, her dog, whatever was going on at the bar, her own emotions. She still had adrenaline lingering from the shootout, giving little alarms of danger. She was jumpy as hell.
>
  “I’ve just taken inventory at Fergus’s lab,” Skip said. He didn’t sound quite like his usual cheery, friendly self. “Erin, there’s not enough chemicals. He made at least one bomb, and it’s not here.”

  Time slowed down as all the pieces fell into place. Rolf hadn’t been given an order, but he was a pretty smart dog, and this time he was working as a free agent. He was sitting in a perfect alert posture, just like he was supposed to. And Danny had just unsnapped the catches on the lid of the carrying case.

  The cell phone dropped out of Erin’s hand, forgotten. She had time to get out maybe one word before everything went to hell. “Bomb!” she screamed.

  Most people would have frozen at that word. But Danny was already flipping open the lid. And Carlyle and Corky had grown up in Belfast during the Troubles. For them, a bomb threat wasn’t theoretical. Carlyle flung himself on top of Erin, even as she dove for the floor. And Corky, moving with his unearthly reflexes, sprang across the room, thrusting his hands at the package even as Danny instinctively recoiled, arms coming up in front of his face.

  There was a flat, metallic snap, a yelp of surprise and pain from Corky, and then silence.

  Erin was pressed flat to the floor of the pub, Carlyle lying on top of her. “Carlyle,” she said, her voice muffled by his sport coat.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Get off.”

  “Is she all right?” Corky repeated in a quiet, tight voice.

  “Corks?” Carlyle asked, rolling off Erin. The two of them cautiously rose to their feet. Corky was standing at the bar, one hand inside the box, the other holding the lid halfway open. The muscles on his jaw and neck were so clenched they quivered visibly. He was trying with every bit of his self-control to hold perfectly still.

  “Corky,” Erin said, doing her best to keep her own voice steady. “Don’t move an inch.”

  The Irishman actually smiled through his tension. “Now just where would I be bloody well going?”