by Ben Sanders
Marshall pushed Frankie away and picked up the shotgun, nudged open the door Carl had been waiting behind. It was a bathroom, empty. The adjacent door was just a coat cupboard. He held the shotgun in one hand and put Frankie’s pistol in his inner jacket pocket, picked up Henry’s Python from the chair and slipped it in the back of his belt.
There was a kitchen over to his left, with a dining table beyond the counter, and a door to another bedroom on the right. A woman of about twenty-five was sitting on the edge of the mattress, foot up on a vacuum cleaner, an elbow on her raised knee, actually looking bored. A little girl maybe six years old was crouched down by a side table, hugging a corner of the bedspread.
Henry saw him looking. ‘She’s normally with her mother on weekdays, but she’s finally filed on me. Gone to Florida to celebrate, so.’
Marshall smiled at her. It was a wasted gesture. All she could see was this huge stranger, threatening her father with a gun.
Henry said, ‘Bridgette, why don’t you take her downstairs, just sit with her in the lobby a while. Actually no, get the spare key from reception, and then you can hang out in the truck. Watch a DVD, fucking perfect.’
Bridgette looked at him blankly. ‘Terrific.’
‘Frankie, where’d you get the cup from?’
‘He made me hold it.’
Henry said, ‘God sake.’
Bridgette said, ‘Am I getting paid extra?’
‘Yeah, just, whatever. Take her down for half an hour and then we can sort it out.’
The woman named Bridgette took the little girl by the hand and led her out to the hallway.
‘I want to stay here.’
‘It’s all right, sweetheart. Just go with Bridgette. That’s a good girl.’
The door opened and then closed firmly, not quite a slam.
Henry turned to Marshall. ‘No point smiling at her. You could tell her you’re here to rescue one-eyed kittens, won’t change the fact you broke in, won’t change the fact you’re a piece of shit in her eyes.’
He couldn’t argue with that. He took a moment to get his thoughts in order, sat down on the couch with the shotgun across his knees, nicely centred. It was a Mossberg 500, mattblack with no stock, just a pistol grip. He said, ‘All you have to worry about is what you look like in my eyes.’
Nobody answered.
Frankie still had the Starbucks cup. Marshall tossed him back his wallet and said, ‘Why don’t you all sit down. We can talk about who’s trying to kill me.’
FIFTEEN
Cohen
Lana Greer’s address was an apartment on Allen Street on the Lower East Side. Cohen took the subway: Twenty-fifth Street in Prospect Park, over to Canal in Manhattan. Not an experience he’d cherish, the clatter of a train for twenty minutes in the crush of a New York rush hour, but it only cost him two seventy-five.
Her building looked to be fifty or sixty years old, and a man of similar vintage was wrapped in a sleeping bag, lying on the bottom step. The street door was locked, so he pushed the intercom button labelled GREER.
The speaker beeped a half-dozen times before she said, ‘Yes?’
He said, ‘It’s Lucas Cohen. We spoke on the phone a couple days ago, regarding Marshall Grade.’
She didn’t answer, but he heard the electronic lock click, and he stepped inside. Her apartment was on the third floor, and she was waiting for him, holding the door with her shoulder. She was a good-looking woman in her forties, slight but in shape, seeming more tired than curious at the prospect of talking to him.
She said, ‘You just missed him.’
‘Who, Marshall?’
She turned and stepped back inside, and he took that as an invitation to follow. He closed the door behind him and she said, ‘Well, the ghost of Ronald Reagan was here too, but I figure you’re only interested in Mr. Grade. Or whatever he’s called now.’
He didn’t answer, but he wondered what ‘just missed him’ meant. Whether Marsh had visited early, or departed post-sleepover. He could see through to the living room: chairs and a desk, and a window facing the street. The kitchen was to his right, Lana Greer standing with her hip against the end of the counter, legs crossed, watching him across a steaming mug she held two-handed.
He said, ‘So he did call you back.’
‘He did.’ She was watching him quite openly, not shy about taking his measure. It might’ve been an old police tactic, a warning not to shade the truth.
She said, ‘You and I could’ve talked on the phone, saved you the flight.’
He smiled. ‘I was hoping to talk to Marshall. But you’ll do in the meantime.’
‘Flattered.’ She recrossed her legs and said, ‘You did well to find me. It’s only been two days. And I called you from a pay phone.’
‘NYPD helped me out. I figured you were a cop.’
She took a mouthful from the mug. ‘Ex-cop. But well done anyway.’
He gestured at the living room. ‘Maybe we could take a seat.’
‘No, I think you’re fine where you are.’ Nodding at him as she said it, as if where he stood was exactly far enough.
‘All right then.’
She shrugged and said, ‘I don’t really know what to tell you. He told me he’s in trouble, but he’s never been good at sharing details.’
‘He say where he’s going next?’
She shook her head.
‘So why the visit?’
‘I don’t know. Old times’ sake. We worked together. But he didn’t have any great revelations.’
He said, ‘You worked with him at Brooklyn South?’
She nodded. ‘On and off.’ Not one to share details, either.
He said, ‘But you quit recently, is that right?’
‘Something like that.’ She looked away, and then back to him as she said, ‘I was pushed out on a bullshit corruption charge.’ Lifting her chin a touch, letting him know it hadn’t cost any dignity.
He didn’t know how to handle that, but she said, ‘You the guy who was kidnapped?’
Cohen said, ‘Did that not count as a great revelation?’
She didn’t answer.
He said, ‘Yeah, I was kidnapped. And now I’m trying to find who’s behind it.’
‘And what, your New York office is too busy? Or is this one of those hobby cases?’
‘Don’t know about hobby. But I’d like to see it wrapped up, put it that way.’
She said, ‘You should’ve stayed home. They only took you to get at Marshall.’
‘I’m still part of it, though.’
‘Yeah. But it’s not personal until you go looking for them.’
He didn’t answer, and she changed direction slightly, saying, ‘I was thinking about the Marshals Service for a while, but I stayed with the cops.’
It was a funny swing, going from peril to career choices like that, but he nodded and said, ‘I was with Albuquerque PD originally. Got out after four years.’
‘Glad you changed?’
‘Yeah, I think so. Santa Fe’s a small office. We get a bit of everything.’
She said, ‘Including kidnappings.’
‘Mine might’ve been a first.’
She didn’t answer for a moment, but then she smiled, raised the mug slightly. ‘Don’t know how many times I’ve been in your shoes, doorknocking and asking questions. Can almost see your script from here.’
Cohen said, ‘If you can see it through my eyes, you could cut me some slack.’
She gave a half-smile, caught for a second without a rejoinder, but then she said, ‘I’m looking with my eyes first, and all I can tell you is “don’t know”, or “none of your business”.’
None of his business. Definitely a sleepover, then. He said, ‘Sure. Cuts out the grey area, doesn’t it?’
He removed a business card from his wallet, but paused before he gave it to her, like cuing his own question: ‘You see Marshall again, can you give me a call?’
She was holding his gaze, not looking
at the card. She put the mug down on the counter. ‘I think if he wanted your help, he’d ask.’
‘Yeah. I’ve no doubt at all he wants to be left alone, but that’s not the point.’
She said, ‘I’ll think about it, then.’ She stepped forward and took the card, but didn’t read it.
‘That sounds like a no.’
She glanced in the living room and then back at Cohen and said, ‘I lost my job because of lazy police work. So I don’t owe the law any favours. Nothing personal.’ Flicking the card on that last word, a crisp tap with her index finger.
Cohen said, ‘Think of it as doing Marshall a favour.’
She nodded at the door behind him and said, ‘Sure. Have a good day.’
He’d seen that going better.
He walked back west to the Canal Street station and caught another R train, uptown again, all the way to Fifty-ninth.
Maybe Tony Asaro’s lawyer would bring him more joy.
The guy’s name was John Fitzer, of Fitzer, Walford and Croon, which occupied the twenty-eighth floor of a building on Lexington Avenue. He showed his credentials to security on the ground floor, and a guard in a suit showed him to an elevator. On 28, he stepped out into the kind of splendour that seemed about right for big-city law. The company name was in gold metal serif on the curved wall behind the reception desk, the woman seated at it no less polished than the lettering. He identified himself and asked for Fitzer, and was directed through to a boardroom to wait.
They had a good view up here, full-height windows showing Central Park on the right, the Financial District way off to the left, obscured by cloud. At street level the city had seemed homogenous and overwhelming, but from this perspective he could see more order and character: the tidy grid patterns, the building heights tapering through Midtown before growing taller further south. He remembered reading somewhere about bad soil through the middle of Manhattan, which he guessed accounted for the saddle.
The guy showed up after ten minutes. He was in his fifties, looking lawyerly in a dark suit with a faint pinstripe. They shook hands and Fitzer introduced himself, polite enough without conveying any interest. Cohen handed over his badge and ID, and Fitzer checked them carefully before handing them back.
‘All the way from Texas?’ Picking up on his accent.
Cohen nodded. ‘Yeah, Texas originally.’ He slipped his ID in his coat, putting on a hint of yokel as he said, ‘Sometimes they let me out, see the East Coast.’
Fitzer said, ‘What can I do for you?’
Cohen looked at the window, the attorney’s pale reflection hanging over Central Park. He said, ‘I had some trouble a couple weeks back near Santa Fe—two guys kidnapped me, held me at gunpoint.’
He turned around to find Fitzer smiling patiently, no doubt knowing where this was headed, not appearing to give a shit about the story.
Cohen said, ‘Fortunately I shot one of them in the head and got away.’
Telling it with no frills, trying to evoke something more than cool indifference in the man, but Fitzer just said, ‘Mr. Asaro has already been approached for comment by the FBI, and he has nothing to say.’
It seemed rehearsed, or maybe that was just his normal lawyer manner. Cohen took his time, looking at the window again before turning back.
He said, ‘It’s been speculated Mr. Asaro may have information about my kidnapping, or that he’s been visited in prison by someone who does.’
Fitzer said, ‘I’m his only visitor.’
Cohen had seen it coming, and it was too big an opening not to nail. He smiled, keeping eye contact as he said, ‘Well, have you been facilitating any kidnappings for him?’
He knew it would wreck the chat beyond salvage, but it was nice to put the question straight to him. And it was worth something as well, telling him the charge and seeing him parry.
As it was, he didn’t get much reaction. The lawyer blinked twice through a long pause, and then sure enough he said, ‘I think we’re done now, Deputy.’
Cohen could have argued the point, held his ground a minute longer to see where it got him. But he could feel his phone buzzing in his pocket, maybe a better avenue to pursue. He raised a hooked forefinger and nodded slightly, like touching a hat brim, and said, ‘Thanks for your time.’
The elevator had glass on three sides, opposing walls doing that infinite reflection thing, countless Cohens standing there alone with their cell phones.
When Karen Kaminski picked up, he said, ‘You called me just now.’
‘Yeah, I did. NYPD’s on a roll. They sent some stuff down about the man you shot, the Terrence Arceneaux guy.’
‘OK.’
‘I don’t know what the date here is, but he got brought in at some stage on an assault, turned out he was working, had an alibi for it.’
‘He on another kidnapping job?’
She said, ‘Yeah, probably. No, according to this he was cooking at a diner in Brooklyn called the Tol Booth. One L. His alibi was a guy named Perry Rhodes.’
SIXTEEN
Marshall
Henry said, ‘You want eggs or something?’
Marshall looked out the window, not much of a view, just buildings on the other side of Sixty-second Street. Rain falling on a lean. It irked him, how it wasn’t quite straight. Instinct told him to fix it, but he had to settle for not looking.
He said, ‘Yeah, all right. Poached, with toast, no butter. And coffee as well.’
Henry let his breath out through his teeth, ran a hand through his hair. ‘You want bacon, too?’
Marshall said, ‘Just a couple pieces. Too much gives you bowel cancer.’
Henry said, ‘And we can’t have that. Christ.’
He knotted his robe firmer, stood at the window with his hands on his hips. His hair was wet-combed back, a few rebel strands sticking forward like antennae. Frankie was slouched in a chair, one leg hooked over the armrest, probably trying to look nonchalant, compensate for earlier.
Henry said, ‘Carl, sort the man out.’
Carl spread his arms, let them fall slack. ‘I cooked yesterday.’
Henry dropped his chin to his chest, pinched his nose. ‘Carl, I don’t give a shit, just do it.’
‘Man, always say that.’ He went over to the kitchen, slid some plates around, banged a few drawers. Let them know he wasn’t happy. Marshall got up from the couch and followed him over, sat on a stool beside the bench, laid the shotgun across his knees. Just enough clearance he could swivel back and forth without knocking anything.
Carl said, ‘Where’s the vinegar?’
Henry said, ‘In the tall cupboard behind you. Look, pour him some coffee for a start. Out of the French press.’
‘The what?’
‘The tall glass thing with the handle on the side. Full of fucking coffee, Jesus Christ.’
Carl found the tall glass thing, and then a mug, and filled it with coffee. Marshall watched him carefully, checking there was no sleight of hand, nothing special in the brew.
He said, ‘What happened last night?’
Henry shrugged. He’d struck a bit of a pose, holding one elbow, propping his chin with the other hand. ‘I don’t know, I wasn’t there for most of it. Clearly you weren’t killed, though.’
Carl set the mug on the counter next to him. The ceramic clicked politely on the granite.
Marshall said, ‘The guy followed me down to Darien. I stopped at the diner there and got in his car.’
Henry looked at him, waiting for the rest. He said, ‘What, he let you in?’
Marshall nodded. ‘After I broke his window.’
Carl ran some water in a pot.
Frankie said, ‘Use the real big one, else it’s hard to pour the eggs in.’
‘That’s the one I got, dumbass.’
Henry stood with his eyes closed, waiting for quiet again, and then said, ‘What did you do to him?’
Marshall said, ‘Nothing. We just talked. He needs some new glass, but that’s it.’
Marshall said, ‘His name’s Perry Rhodes. I want to know how you know him.’
Henry laughed through his nose, almost a scoff, adjusted his belt knot. ‘Perry Rhodes. Yeah—’
Marshall said, ‘Do not lie to me.’
Henry stopped, a brief jolt of surprise, like a dog caught by its leash. He laughed. ‘I wasn’t. Just, I dunno. Getting everything together in my head.’
Marshall said, ‘I told Mr. Rhodes last night, I’m prepared to give him a pass, one time only. But if I see him again, it’ll be more acrimonious.’
He tried his coffee, kept his eye on Henry over the rim of the mug, figured that was a nice touch. ‘Same goes for you, too. If you tell me what’s happening, we can stay chummy. But it’s a dog-eat-dog world, and I’m not going to do you any favours if you won’t help me.’
He liked that last bit, the dog line. Henry stopping dead had inspired it. Carl laid some bacon in a pan, cranked the heat on.
Henry said, ‘Perry and I go back a little ways.’
‘Yeah. I gathered that.’
‘I hadn’t seen him in a while. He went inside, did a couple years, so we kinda fell out of touch. But then just the other day he called me up, touch base again I guess, said he was looking for you.’
‘Looking for me.’
‘Yeah, that’s what he said.’ The lid on the pot was starting to rattle. Henry said, ‘Get some vinegar in there, Carl.’
Marshall said, ‘And you didn’t think to ask him why.’
‘Well, you know, it’s a discreet business. Don’t-ask, don’t-tell sort of thing. And he said there’d be a financial reward if I could hook him up.’
‘How much?’
Henry took a few seconds to get it out, tracing patterns on the floor with his toe. Carl cracked an egg. Henry said, ‘Ah, ten grand. Yeah. Ten.’
Marshall didn’t answer.
Henry said, ‘You know, with the divorce coming through, thought it’d be good just having a bit of petty cash on hand.’ He rubbed his thumb on his forefinger. ‘Like, unofficial assets that won’t get divvied up, if that’s what it comes to. You know what these things are like, once the lawyers are part of it.’