White Russian

by Steven Henry

  White Russian

  Steven Henry

  Clickworks Press • Baltimore, MD

  Also by the Author

  The Erin O’Reilly Mysteries

  Black Velvet

  Irish Car Bomb

  White Russian

  Double Scotch (coming soon)

  * * *

  The Clarion Chronicles

  Ember of Dreams

  Copyright © 2018 Steven Henry

  Cover design © 2018 Ingrid Henry

  Cover photo used under license from Shutterstock.com (Credit: Bruno Passigatti/Shutterstock)

  NYPD shield photo used under license from Shutterstock.com (Credit: Stephen Mulcahey/Shutterstock)

  Author photo © 2017 Shelley Paulson Photography

  Spine image used under license from Shutterstock.com (Credit: Alexandr Guzenko/Shutterstock)

  All rights reserved

  * * *

  First publication: Clickworks Press, 2018

  Release: CP-EOR3-INT-VE-1.2

  * * *

  Sign up for updates, deals, and exclusive sneak peeks at clickworkspress.com/join.

  * * *

  ISBN-10: 1-943383-42-1

  ISBN-13: 978-1-943383-42-9

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, and events are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  For my mom and dad, Carl and Mary Caroline Henry, and for the books they read to me when I was young.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Sneak Peek: Double Scotch

  Ready for more?

  About the Author

  Also by Steven Henry

  More Great Titles from Clickworks Press

  White Russian

  * * *

  Pour 5 parts vodka and 2 parts Kahlua into an old fashioned glass filled with ice. Shake 3 parts fresh cream to thicken it. Pour cream on top of drink. Stir slowly and serve.

  Chapter 1

  Erin O'Reilly was facing one of the toughest challenges of her career. She was a detective in the NYPD. She'd been in gunfights, helped disarm explosives, fought desperate criminals, and had her hands stained with the blood of a dying man. But that was nothing compared with finding an affordable apartment in Manhattan.

  The commute from Queens was killing her. The subway wouldn't have been too bad, but she had a take-home squad car. She could leave the car at the precinct, but then she'd have no good way to transport Rolf. He was a great partner, the best she'd had, but he had special needs, most of them having to do with his being a ninety-pound German Shepherd. She'd taken him on the subway a couple times, but it wasn't something to make a habit of.

  Erin liked Queens. It was where she'd been born and where she'd spent most of her eleven years as a cop. She loved the blue-collar, salt-of-the-earth feel of the place. She knew the streets like an old friend, and could pick up on anything out of the ordinary the moment she saw it.

  But she was a downtown cop now, working an experimental Major Crimes unit. She'd stuck out her neck to catch an art thief, and it had brought her to the attention of the big boys. It was more glamorous, maybe, but she sometimes missed walking a beat. Even showing up to work in slacks and a civilian blouse still didn't feel normal. In any case, she had to find a place to live on the other side of the East River.

  Initial scouting wasn't promising. In the whole United States, only San Francisco had a more insane real-estate market. After looking up some pretty small apartments, and comparing their rent with her monthly salary, she just about gave up. And then there was the need to have Rolf there, plus parking for her Charger. It was hopeless.

  Then she'd figured out what she was doing wrong. She was trying to crack the case on the weight of hard evidence alone, when there wasn't enough of it to go on. She needed an informant, and that meant talking to the locals. She started with the other cops at Precinct 8.

  It was Bob Michaelson, a veteran Patrol sergeant, who gave her the best shot at a break. “Yeah, I know a guy,” he said. “Runs a place near Columbus Park. Just a few blocks from here. Has a view of the park and everything. Couple nice bars real close. Lemme give him a call, see what I can find out.”

  Erin didn't think too much of it at the time, but Michaelson dropped by the following day, just as she was starting to pack up for the night. “Hey, O'Reilly, here you go,” he said, dropping a folded piece of paper onto her desk. There was a Bayard Street address penciled on it. “I know the landlord. Tell him Bob says hi.”

  Now, at the end of a long workday, she stood outside an apartment in south Manhattan, Rolf's leash in one hand, wondering if it was even worth asking. She shrugged and buzzed the super's intercom.

  “Yeah? Whaddaya want?” a surly voice demanded.

  “I'm looking for an apartment,” she said. Then, feeling a little silly, she added, “Bob told me to talk to you.”

  “Okay, sure,” the super said. His tone changed at once. “C'mon in.” The door clicked open.

  The superintendent was a jowly, beefy guy. “Preston Harris,” he said, offering his hand.

  “Erin O'Reilly,” she said, shaking. Then she added, out of force of habit, “NYPD.”

  Her police instincts caught the sidelong look he shot her as he led her inside. But he didn't say anything. Maybe he'd heard of her from the news. She'd made the papers with the art heist in Queens, and again not long ago when she'd solved a bomb plot while managing not to blow up a sizable chunk of Manhattan.

  “Here ya go,” he said, opening the door to the apartment. “Third floor, one-bedroom, full bath. Have a look round.”

  Erin knew right away it had been a mistake to come here. She wanted it too much. There was easily twice the square footage of her studio apartment in Queens. The carpet was fairly new and didn't have any significant stains. The kitchen was clean with recently-installed fridge and microwave. Even the bathroom was spotless and well-kept.

  “I've got my K-9,” she said, twitching Rolf's leash. “Is that gonna be a problem?”

  “Nah, no problem,” Harris said. “Hey, it's good having a cop in the building. Keeps petty crime down. And two cops, even better, right? Drives up the property values.”

  “How much you asking?” Erin asked, bracing herself.

  “Twelve-fifty.”

  She hadn't heard him right. That was the only possibility. “No way,” she said.

  “Hey,” Harris said, putting his palms out. “I gotta make a living here. I can maybe go down to twelve even, but that's it.”

  Something was fishy. Twelve hundred dollars? The average cost of a southeastern Manhattan apartment was more than twice that. Erin put her hands on her hips and stared at Harris, trying to figure him out. “You got a lot of gang activity around here?” she asked. That would explain both the low asking price and his desire to have a cop in residence.

  “Well, not so's you'd notice,” Harris said. “You'll be fine here. Look, is there a problem? Something you don't like?”

  “No, no, it's fine,” Erin said.

  “Then why don't I draw up the papers, just so they're ready,” Harris said. “Hey, I don’t wanna put pressure on you. But I think this is the place you wanna be.”

&n
bsp; She shrugged. “Sure.” But she promised herself she'd take an extra-careful look around the place, just to make sure there weren't any broken pipes, meth labs, or angry ghosts before she signed a lease agreement. It still didn't add up, but Erin was coming off a long day at work and she was ready for something to go her way.

  Now it was a week later, Thursday evening, and she was moving in, just like that. She didn't have too much stuff, but it was more than a one-person job. Fortunately, like Michaelson, she knew a guy. The guy was Vic Neshenko, the biggest, strongest man in Precinct 8 and a fellow detective on her squad. The Russian was glad to help carry her stuff up from Queens. As he put it, “Friends help you move. Partners help you move bodies.”

  “I don't need any bodies moved,” she said. “But I could use a hand with the box spring.”

  Vic borrowed a pickup from a guy he knew. Between that guy, Sergeant Michaelson, Preston Harris, and Vic himself, Erin was starting to understand something she'd been told by a mob guy not long before. The world really did run on favors.

  They got started later than they wanted to. Getting down to Queens in rush hour just reminded her how glad she was that this was the last time she'd be doing it for a while. By the time they got back with the furniture loaded up, it was almost nine thirty and getting dark. They started with the boxes of books and clothes, leaving the heavy pieces for last. Erin's new apartment had a lot to recommend it, but the elevator was really small. That meant moving her bed up two flights of stairs. They were a little over halfway, and had just passed the second-floor landing, when Vic's phone started ringing.

  “Shit,” Vic said, shifting his grip.

  “Just set it down,” Erin muttered. “I got it.”

  Vic leaned the box spring against the wall. Erin held it there while he grabbed his phone out of his hip pocket. “Neshenko,” he said. “No, sir, I'm still in town. Helping O'Reilly move. Yeah, she's here with me. Yes, sir. We'll be right there.”

  “What's up?” Erin asked. “Was that the Lieutenant?”

  “Let's quick get this the rest of the way up,” he said, grabbing his end of the bed again. “Then we've gotta get out to a Super 8 in Brooklyn. Guess we're not done working tonight.”

  “How bad?”

  “Webb says it's a double homicide, multiple GSW,” Vic said. “Automatic weapons. Sounds like a gang hit.”

  “Back to work,” Erin said through gritted teeth, wrestling the springs up the last two steps to the third floor. “I was gonna buy you a drink,” she added, “but I guess we'd better take a rain check.”

  “I could use one,” Vic said. “But I've got a feeling I'll want it more later. I just hope there's no kids. I hate when kids get tagged.”

  Chapter 2

  Vic and Erin rode to the motel together in Erin's Charger, Rolf in his back-seat compartment. They crossed the East River into Brooklyn on the famous bridge. Erin shook her head and stifled a laugh.

  “What's funny?” Vic asked.

  “I just finished moving into Manhattan,” she said. “Now, my first night in my new place, and I'm spending it in Brooklyn. Not my idea of a celebration.”

  “Maybe we'll still have time for that drink,” Vic said. “After.”

  It was full dark by the time they got to the motel. They knew the place before they even got close, from all the red and blue lights. It looked like seven or eight units had already responded. There was an ambulance, too, but as they pulled up they could see the paramedics leaning on the back fender looking bored. That wasn't a good sign.

  Webb's Crown Victoria was in the lot, too. Erin saw the Lieutenant talking to a couple of uniforms outside the lobby. She hopped out of the Charger, fetched Rolf, and headed over to her CO.

  “What's the situation, sir?” she asked.

  “I see you brought Neshenko,” Webb said. “Good.” He looked even wearier and more cynical than usual. He had an unlit cigarette in one hand, forgotten. “I just talked to the ME. She's on her way, should be here in ten to fifteen.”

  He sighed. “It's bad. We've got two victims, DOA. The medics didn't even bother trying to patch them up. The night manager heard gunfire. She thought it was a movie at first, until she heard the screaming and bullets came through the wall into the hallway.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the lobby. A young woman was sitting in a chair next to a uniformed officer. The woman was crying. “It's a ground-floor room, number 103,” he went on. “Jones is there now, securing the scene.”

  “Okay, let's check it out,” Erin said.

  Webb nodded. “Carefully, people.” They crossed the lobby into the hallway.

  “Good thing nobody was walking here,” Vic observed. The wall to their right was riddled with holes. Chunks of plaster and ribbons of cheap wallpaper were scattered all over the floor.

  “Hey, guys. Took your time getting here.” Kira Jones waved from the doorway of room 103. She was dressed for a night on the town, from her high-heeled boots and miniskirt to her spiked hair, which was dyed dark red with blue tips. Erin had heard the precinct had a pool running on how many tattoos she had hidden under her clothes.

  “Jesus, I can smell the gunpowder from here,” Vic said.

  “No shit,” Jones said. “Have a look.”

  They gathered in the doorway, looking into what had been a cheap motel room. Now it was a war zone. Bullet holes were everywhere, perforating the queen-size bed and wood-veneer furniture. An uneven line of jagged holes angled across the TV screen. Cartridge casings were scattered across the carpet, most of them near the window. The window itself was shattered into tiny shards.

  And there were the bodies. Two of them, a man and a woman. They lay close together, beside the bed. The man was face-down, wearing a shirt that'd been white when he'd put it on but was now dark red. He had on very nice shoes and black slacks. The woman was on her back, clad in a bright red dress that did a better job of hiding the bloodstains. One black stiletto heel was still on her foot. She'd kicked off the other shoe, maybe as a dying reflex. That shoe, lying in a dark bloodstain on the carpet, caught Erin's eye. For some reason, it was the worst detail in the room, that bare foot with the toes thrusting toward the ceiling. It was even worse than the woman's wide-open eyes, or the bullet hole in the middle of her forehead.

  “Wow,” Erin said.

  “That's a hell of a lot of bullets,” Vic said, indicating the room with a sweep of his hand.

  Webb was crouching down, looking at a cartridge casing. “.45 caliber,” he said.

  “MAC-10?” Jones suggested.

  “More than one,” Erin said. There were just too many bullet holes. A MAC-10 submachine-gun could spit out plenty of lead, but it only held thirty bullets in a magazine. There were way more than thirty holes.

  “I'm thinking three shooters,” Vic said. “Maybe more. Window?”

  “Yeah,” Erin agreed. The damage to the room was all on the half away from the window. She carefully crossed the room, avoiding stepping on any of the debris or bodies. Rolf daintily picked up his paws, sniffing at everything in his path. She leaned out the window. As she'd suspected, she saw a whole lot more cartridge casings. “Looks like they opened fire from here, through the glass,” she reported.

  “It wasn't a drive-by,” Webb said. “They had to dismount, otherwise most of the brass would still be in the car. And with more brass inside, at least one of them climbed inside and kept shooting.”

  “So at least three guys come up, look in the window, and blast through it,” Jones said. “Then what? They come into the room? Why?”

  “They had to make sure,” Erin said. She turned at the window and stared into the room, seeing how it would have looked from outside. “I can't even see the bodies from here. They fell behind the bed. Maybe they were dead, maybe not, but the shooters wouldn't have been able to tell from here.”

  “I got an empty mag out here,” one of the uniforms said helpfully. “Looks like it came from an automatic weapon.”

  “Christ,” Vic said. “T
hey reloaded? I guess they had to. MAC-10s go through bullets like junkies through heroin.”

  “Okay,” Erin said, walking through it. “At least one of them reloads outside. They climb in through the window, go around the foot of the bed, look down, and finish them off.”

  “No bullet holes in the floor,” Webb pointed out. “Look at the male's position. He tried to get up and run. They gunned him down before he got to the door. I'm thinking he ducked the first volley, then got hit later.”

  “Right in the back,” Vic said. “Bastards. Mob hit. It's gotta be. Shitty marksmanship, though, if they didn't hit him on the first try.”

  “Maybe he was quick,” Erin said. “Or he might've gotten wounded but could still run.”

  Movement in the doorway caught their attention. All four detectives saw Sarah Levine, the Medical Examiner. Unlike the other investigators, she looked like she'd come straight from the precinct. She had her lab coat and gloves on, ready to do business.

  “Glad we didn't wake you up,” Webb said.

  “Huh?” Levine asked blankly. “No, I was awake. I'm working nights this week. Where's the dead guy?”

  “Her boyfriend's a doctor,” Jones explained to Erin in an undertone. “She tries to coordinate schedules with him.”

  “She's got a boyfriend?” Erin whispered, astonished. Levine wasn't unattractive, but she was one of the most poorly-socialized women she'd ever met.