Marshall's Law

by Ben Sanders

  Ludo said, ‘You the same guys I saw outside Dexter’s place last night?’ He smiled, no twinkle in it, good and chilly. He said, ‘Or do I get my own watchers?’

  It was the driver who had the cigarette, holding it in two fingers with his arm along the top of the door. He said, ‘All you need to know is there’s a lot of us.’

  Ludo thought he could take three off the total, right now. Couple of blasts from his shotgun on a quiet street with no witnesses, this’d be the last he’d see of the matter. But he said, ‘I had one of your guys come by the club last night. Gave me some of that attitude’—he nodded at the driver—‘so I beat the shit out of him and put him in the back of a car for a while.’ He let his smile broaden, showing some molar now. ‘Wasn’t quite so glib when he came out again.’

  The Chinese radio filled the pause. Ludo leaned forward again so he could see the man in back. ‘I like how you’re so egalitarian, though. Even the boss man gotta do the shit jobs, sit out here on a cold morning. Don’t know how you put up with the music. Or the fumes.’ He nodded at the cigarette.

  The man in back said, ‘Wondered how long you’d take to come outside.’

  ‘Oh, this was the plan all along?’ He grinned. ‘Whyn’t you just knock on the door, coulda given you some stewed fruit. Or were you worried I’d think you weren’t real gangsters, you didn’t sit out here in a black car?’

  The driver sucked some cigarette, tapped the butt on the windowsill to lose the ash. White flecks caught on Ludo’s coat.

  Ludo said, ‘You the man in charge, or did I get that wrong?’

  The guy in back said, ‘Yeah. I’m Lee Feng.’

  Ludo clucked his tongue. ‘Well, what can I say, pleasure to have you out here.’

  Feng said, ‘Tell Dexter he’s got till midnight to return my money.’

  Ludo said, ‘I believe he knows that already.’

  ‘Seems like a guy who needs a lot of reminding. I thought if I talked to you it might have more effect.’

  ‘Probably not. I don’t owe anyone anything.’

  ‘Sure. But you must understand what happens if Dexter keeps stretching this out.’

  Ludo said, ‘Why don’t you set your deadlines during business hours, make it easy for everyone? Nicer in bed, than chasing debts in the middle of the night.’

  ‘We’ll cope.’

  ‘And how’s my friend from last night doing? Must’ve been cramped in that trunk.’

  Feng said, ‘He’ll get a chance to balance things, I’m sure.’

  Ludo nodded. ‘Oh yup.’

  He didn’t want to draw this out too long, or his mother’s fruit would burn. It’d be a good feeling, though, kill them and then go home for breakfast. He could hit Feng first, and then sidestep and get the other two through their seats. Three shots would finish it.

  The driver said, ‘Is there anything else?’

  A slight British edge to it, trying to sound refined and superior. Ludo liked that, coming from a guy in a glossy suit, pulling night shift in what was probably a borrowed car, doing someone else’s bidding. He nudged the jacket back slightly, letting the shotgun’s handle show. No one reacted, but he knew they could all see it.

  Ludo said, ‘You can sit out here long as you like, we won’t have a problem. But I don’t care what Dexter owes, you step in my house, you won’t be stepping out again.’ He liked being understated with his threats, put the fatal reality of it in between the lines.

  No one answered at first. Then the driver blew smoke, and Feng said, ‘Midnight.’

  Ludo covered the gun with the coat again and turned and walked away.

  TWELVE

  Marshall

  Strange waking up in someone else’s bed. He hadn’t done it for a while. That brief confusion until he got his bearings in an unfamiliar room, shapes in charcoal tones emerging. Lana was still asleep beside him. He slid out from under her arm and sat up on the edge of the mattress. Her clock radio read 6:31. He’d only had two hours’ sleep, but the fatigue hadn’t hit yet, the thought of progress pushing him along. It was a potent stimulant. Getting to the Bottom of Things.

  He showered and dressed and sat down at her desk again and opened the laptop. The log-on screen sat waiting, the cursor blinking patiently. He hadn’t seen her password, so he shut the computer down and restarted it again in safe mode, logged in on the Administrator account, which was unprotected. He waited for the desktop to load, and then he opened a Web browser and signed into the iCloud account he’d set up yesterday when he bought the phone. He’d used his old NYPD e-mail and chosen Jasper#Johns as his password. He clicked the Find My iPhone icon, and the screen swapped to a map of the Upper East Side, a green dot floating on Park Avenue. He zoomed in. Park and Sixty-Second, on the south side. Henry Lee was in a good ZIP code. He memorised the location and shut the computer down. When he turned around Lana was standing in the bedroom doorway, arms folded, wearing a T-shirt that reached her knees.

  She said, ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’ Almost a murmur.

  He said, ‘When I know, I’ll tell you.’

  ‘No, don’t talk shit. You know what’s happening, you’re just not saying.’ Sounding matter-of-fact, rather than aggressive.

  He stood and picked up his jacket from where he’d left it on the couch and put it on. She watched him adjust the zipper, getting it perfect, just below his throat.

  She said, ‘Is it something to do with Page?’

  He looked up. ‘Maybe. I don’t know yet.’

  ‘But you’re good at making guesses.’

  ‘Often I’m wrong.’

  ‘Marshall.’

  He headed for the front door.

  She said, ‘You’re going out?’

  ‘Yeah. I need to talk to someone.’

  ‘Are you coming back?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘So what does that mean?’

  He said, ‘I’ll call you. It was good to see you.’

  Light overcast and light rain, cold enough he was looking forward to the subway. Engine heat to fix the shakes. He walked over to Delancey Street and caught an F train back uptown. It was busy but not yet manic, personal space still unthreatened. He stood in the aisle, hands in pockets to keep them germ-free, watching passengers as the train gently rocked. It looked like funhouse trickery, carriage after carriage of heads swaying and bobbing, like some mirrored illusion of a crowded, endless tunnel.

  Seeing people in their headphones, thumbing through texts or whatever they did, he realised he’d forgotten Perry’s goddamned phone, so occupied by Lana he’d left it on his desk on the MoMA book. No point going back for it now. Talk to Henry and then see where things go.

  He couldn’t shake the thought that Lana was a bad idea. People were trying to kill him, so it wasn’t the best time to go visiting. But that wasn’t some new revelation. He’d known it yesterday, and it hadn’t stopped him. It could have, if he’d thought about it. Or maybe he just wanted the company, and was fooling himself now with false concern.

  Even your own motives aren’t transparent.

  He got off at Fifty-seventh. Two young guys with a ghetto blaster were just getting on, warming up for carriage acrobatics, nailing backflips in the aisle before the train was even moving. Marshall merged with the exit crowd and went up the stairs into the fresh air, up Sixth and then east on Fifty-ninth. It was nice at this hour at this time of year, Central Park looking pretty with the trees laced in Christmas lights. A soft mist floating knee-high and the stately old buildings keeping watch, flags heavy with rain. The place had a solemn feel that was missing in full daylight, a whole different atmosphere among the crowds and traffic and the lines of horse-drawn carriages.

  It was 7:45 now, the sun only thirty minutes old. He bought coffee at a Starbucks on Madison, and then headed over to Park Avenue, continued north to Sixty-second. The thick of a New York City morning: harried masses huddled in their coats, subway vents breathing steam, the Doppler whine of horns as cabs b
arrelled through the crosswalks.

  The dot on the map led him to an apartment building, an upmarket place with a glossy stone façade and a little green canvas awning supported on poles out over the sidewalk. The address in gold script on each side. A uniformed doorman stood at parade rest, just inside the foyer.

  Marshall walked past on the other side of the street. There was a vehicle entrance beyond the awning, protected by a metal roller door. He leaned against the window of a building diagonally opposite, hiked one leg so his foot was flat against the glass. There was a woman ten feet away, smoking a cigarette, one hand on her hip, staring at the gutter as she sucked. Marshall drank his coffee, watched the day emerge. Shades of grey, a winter palette already.

  He didn’t have to wait there long. A little after 8:30, the metal door rose and a white 5-Series BMW eased out across the sidewalk, nice and slow so it wouldn’t graze anything coming up the internal ramp. It nosed out into the Sixty-second Street traffic, headed west toward Lexington. A gentle slish as it cut through puddles, and then a deep exhaust note as the driver punched the gas. Marshall watched it go, brake lights stained in the groundwater, the car rendered tiny by that sheer corridor.

  He slipped a hand in his pocket and walked across the street, taking his time, sipping coffee as he went. If the doorman was sharp, he might catch him in his periphery, but there were other people on the street, too many distractions. Marshall stepped in through the entry to the garage, ducked slightly to avoid the metal door as it lowered, and walked on down the ramp. He made a right when he reached the bottom, and there was Henry’s Escalade, parked near the end of the second row. Twice the height of its neighbours, and white as new dentures.

  The door settled with a faint boom. Quiet now without the squeak and clatter. He waited a moment, just watching carefully. Before him was a concrete landing maybe twenty feet long, and beyond it another ramp led down to the second-basement level. Neon strip lights in a ladder along the roof, giving everything splayed shadows. He crouched and set the cup down beside him, and then lay on his stomach. All tyres and no feet. No one hiding under a parked car.

  He stood up quietly and brushed grit off his front. Then he picked up the cup and walked over to the Caddy, sidled down beside the driver’s door. He touched a knuckle to the hood. Cold. It probably hadn’t moved since it got back from Connecticut. No wet tyre patterns anywhere. He waited and listened. Footsteps on the next level down. A door slamming, the echo of it dying away. He had some coffee. All that concrete and sheet metal, the acoustics were unforgiving. He’d hear someone coming. Probably.

  He sidestepped out of the narrow gap and went and stood behind a column against the street-side wall. The rear of the Caddy was directly ahead of him, across the little vehicle lane. Raw concrete against his shoulder, fumes in the air. Faint rush-hour noise from outside. He pried the lid off his coffee. He’d drunk maybe two-thirds. He placed the cup on the trunk of the car next to him, slipped the lid in his jacket pocket, folded his arms as he stood waiting.

  THIRTEEN

  Cohen

  He called his FBI guy, Sean Avery, and asked if he could spare him thirty minutes this morning. The Bureau man told him he had meetings all day, but he’d be up for breakfast if Cohen was paying. That seemed fair enough.

  They met in the dining room of the Best Western at 9:00 A.M., Cohen already set up with coffee and The New York Times. He lowered it as Avery pulled out the chair opposite and sat down. He was about forty-five, clean-shaved and close-cropped, wearing the kind of formal but inexpensive suit Bureau fellers go for. They’d met once before. The New York office had sent him to Santa Fe for a post-kidnap interview, let him hear firsthand what it’s like to be thrown in the back of an SUV.

  Avery said, ‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’

  Cohen shook his head. ‘No, I’m happy as a clam.’ He folded his paper. ‘One of life’s great pleasures, reading a genuine New York copy of The New York Times.’

  Avery said, ‘You here on marshal business or Marshall business?’

  Cohen smiled. ‘The two-L variety. Let’s get some food first.’

  Avery found some coffee, and they made a couple of passes at the buffet tables, loaded up with eggs and toast and bacon before they sat down again. The place was half-full, mostly corporate types eating alone, a few elderly tourists in raincoats and very sensible footwear.

  Cohen said, ‘Wouldn’t believe it, I had a solid week of debriefs after you left. Said to them, I know you take federal abductions seriously, but I kinda wish I’s a postman, wouldn’t have to go through all this hoopla.’

  Avery said, ‘Depends who snatched you. Al Qaeda starts targeting U.S. Mail, we’d probably take it pretty seriously.’

  ‘Yeah. I guess.’ He looked out the window at the parking lot, a couple of cleaning staff there sharing a cigarette. He said, ‘So you know who grabbed me yet?’

  Avery dabbed his mouth with his napkin, though he hadn’t eaten anything. He said, ‘We know who gave the order. Bit harder finding out who actually took you.’

  Cohen said, ‘And you can’t prove who’s pulling strings until you prove who did the grabbing.’

  ‘Well. Yeah. More or less.’

  Cohen said, ‘We haven’t had too much feedback from you guys. Didn’t know whether you’re all sitting around scratching your heads or if you’re just averse to sharing.’

  Avery started in on his eggs, keeping his eyes on his plate, putting something together in his head. He said, ‘Marshall’s undercover work was with a guy called Tony Asaro. Not a pleasant character. In prison right now on a tax dodge.’

  ‘Yeah. I know all about Tony.’

  ‘Right. So you know he and Marshall parted ways fairly dramatically.’ Smoothing his tie as he said it, like that’s where he kept his euphemisms.

  Cohen nodded. ‘I didn’t get the blow-by-blow, but yeah. I know Marsh wreaked some havoc before he came to us.’

  Avery said, ‘So clearly there’s a revenge motive, from Tony’s perspective.’

  ‘None of the Bureau people managed to actually tell me that. But yeah, I agree.’

  Avery smiled. ‘Can’t go sharing theories, let you guys take the glory.’

  Cohen didn’t answer. He thought back to his call last night, Marshall telling him it was one of the Asaros coming for him. Chloe or the old man. He watched the parking lot smokers for a moment and then said, ‘So it’s just a question of who picked up the contract when the Asaros put the word out.’

  Avery nodded. He held his coffee below his chin, steam drifting past his face. ‘We’ll get them.’

  ‘I haven’t seen a lot of progress.’

  Avery said, ‘Shitload of money must’ve changed hands, or it will eventually. Aggravated kidnapping probably costs a lot.’

  Cohen ate some bacon. It was perfect, slightly burned at the edges. ‘Crozzled’ was the term. He said, ‘Yeah, I hope so. I was a real handful.’

  They ate for a while without talking, looking at their plates, cutlery making quiet squeaks. The odd sip of coffee to punctuate the chewing.

  Avery said, ‘So why are you up here?’

  Cohen jiggled one knee, stopped when he heard the cutlery ringing. He said, ‘Marshall’s in town. He called me yesterday.’

  Avery looked at him, obviously surprised, but Cohen just continued chewing.

  Avery said, ‘Called to tell you what?’

  ‘He’s more of a listener than a teller. He wanted to know what I knew, which was not a lot.’

  ‘He mention anything about Tony Asaro?’

  ‘Yeah, he talked about Tony. He said it’s either him or his daughter who put the contract out.’ Watching Avery as he said it, seeing how he took it.

  Avery said, ‘The daughter’s a full-time job in herself. We got three people trying to track her down. Last known address was an apartment, Upper West Side, but that was six years ago now.’

  ‘So she’s either dead or good at hiding.’

  Avery shook his head. �
�I don’t think she’s dead. You have enough cash, don’t leave an online footprint, not hard to disappear.’

  ‘So you think she’s out there somewhere, bossing people around?’

  Avery nodded. ‘Quite possibly. And Tony doesn’t seem stressed. You’d think if he knew his daughter was dead or AWOL, it might put his blood pressure up.’ He speared some food. He was very evenhanded with his fork—one square of bacon and one square of toast per mouthful. He said, ‘So what are you going to do? Follow Marshall around, hope he turns up something good?’

  ‘I don’t know about “follow”, but it seems like a good idea to be in the vicinity. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t have his nose to the ground.’

  Avery swirled his coffee gently, watching the currents. ‘You know where he is?’

  ‘Not specifically.’

  ‘Is he going to get himself in trouble?’

  Cohen said, ‘Yeah, I’d say so.’

  Avery just looked at him.

  Cohen said, ‘He’s got kind of a knack for it. You hear about the ruckus we had last year? Marshall trying to find this missing girl?’

  ‘Mmm. I heard about that.’

  ‘We were down at this motel, Bernalillo, bit north of Albuquerque. Me and him, I mean. And I had a guy draw on me in the parking lot there. Cartel-related thing. Anyway, Marshall shot him from across the street, second-floor balcony of this other motel. Three-oh-eight, right through the head.’ He tapped a finger by his ear. ‘Bang-on perfect. And then he just lowers the gun and walks off, like he’s got other things to do today. You know what I mean?’

  Avery nodded. ‘I read the report.’

  ‘Right. But what I’m getting at, this is the kinda guy who just goes and does what he wants and doesn’t worry about consultation. People who make a point of asking permission all the time don’t tend to shoot guys in the head. You gotta be a bit unilateral about it.’