Uh-huh. And then what? Call for help and turn myself in? I didn’t think so.
Or leave him there, maybe to bleed to death? Like he’d left Kilgallon? First, though, I’d have to go through his pockets to see if he had the unloaded Beretta, which was registered in my name. And if he didn’t have it, I’d have to look around for it in this dark shed, or maybe back in the dining room. And then sneak away and hope no one saw me. And hope I’d left no prints, no strands of hair, no bits of skin or fingernail. And then wait, and wonder how long it would take them to tie me to—
I heard something.
Or rather, I didn’t hear something. And what I didn’t hear anymore were the sheets of rain, pounding down on the roof. They were scattered drops now, pinging against the metal above my head. No thunder, either; and no screeching wind. The storm had finally blown through and gone, taking the rain with it. The night was suddenly very still, very quiet. And I didn’t even know quite how long ago that had happened.
Theodosian was still frozen in place. But then—maybe because the new silence made him as uneasy as it made me, maybe because he sensed someone’s eyes on him—he moved. First just a rolling of his shoulders, then a stretch of his neck. He turned and glanced behind him. I tensed, but he didn’t look up—and might not have seen me in the darkness if he had.
And finally he couldn’t take it anymore. “Hey!” he yelled. “Foley!”
I didn’t answer. He had to be wondering whether I was still down there at the end. He made an odd movement, and I realized he was sticking his weapon into his shoulder holster. He slipped out of his sport coat and crouched to the floor, where he picked up something I couldn’t see. Maybe a scrap of lumber, a two-by-four or something. He hung the jacket on it and eased it out into the open. When there was no response he started waving it around.
Nothing happened, of course, and by then, even though it was dark, he must have known something was wrong. He took a quick look around him in every direction, including up toward me. But I was in deep darkness, with Kilgallon’s black coat on and my ski cap over my face, and I could tell he hadn’t seen me.
He stepped out into the open, his gun back in his hand, stretched chest-high in front of him, and called again, “Foley! You sonovabitch. I’m coming after you!”
When no answer came, he made a big mistake. He should have turned around and headed back toward the kitchen door. But he didn’t. Something compelled him to see if I was still hiding behind my wall. So he went that way, walking fast, and I lost him in the darkness. I went the other way, but turned sideways to keep an eye out for him, or at least in his direction.
We’d probably both have gotten to our respective ends of the building at pretty much the same time, but I hadn’t yet gotten even with the door into the kitchen when my left foot went through a hole in the floor where a board must have rotted through. My ankle bent the wrong way and I groaned without meaning to, lost my balance, and fell hard against the guardrail. The rail creaked and gave a little—but didn’t break.
Knowing he must have heard me, I ran a few more steps as well as I could on a badly sprained ankle, no longer worried about noise. There must have been a ladder down to the floor at that end, too, but I couldn’t see it and didn’t have time to look around in the dark. Jamming the Sig under my belt, I climbed over the railing and dropped to the concrete below. I meant to land mostly on my right foot, but my left foot hit first, half-on and half-off what felt like a large brick, or a rock. The ankle twisted a second time, in a different wrong direction, and this time there was a definite crack. Pain shot up my leg and into my lower back, and I went down, hard, on my side.
I got to my knees and the pain was so sharp and so high up that for an instant I thought I’d been shot. I could hear footsteps running my way. Maybe he had shot at me, using the silencer. No one can run and aim at the same time, though, and by then I was up and dragging my useless foot across the open space toward the door to the kitchen. I’d have fired in his direction to slow him down as I went, but God only knew where the Sig was—because I sure didn’t have it anymore.
I made it to the door and yanked it open. “Come through here,” I yelled, “and you’re a dead man!”
I pulled the door shut behind me, and had to close my eyes against the bright kitchen light. I still had Kilgallon’s .38 snub nose in his coat pocket. It was a Smith & Wesson revolver and carried just five rounds. Theodosian might have been thinking by then that I probably didn’t want to shoot him. But how could he be sure what I’d do? He’d think twice about bursting through the door after me, which gave me time to drag my broken ankle around to the other side of the stainless-steel counter.
Now what? Into the dining room through the swinging doors? Or outside through the door with the exit sign and the burglar alarm? The pain wanted all my attention, but I had to keep my eyes on the closed door … and I had to think.
If I was right, the door with the alarm opened onto an area outside the fence around the lumber yard. But even so, if I went that way I still wouldn’t be able to run very fast or very far. My mind raced. If the alarm brought help, would it be on my side? Or had Theodosian disabled the alarm? The whole thing was a crapshoot and, by default, I found myself backing up toward the swinging doors.
Then the door to the shed was pulled open, just a little. “Foley?” Theodosian called. When I didn’t answer, he tried again. “Foley?” Then, staying hidden, he pulled the door all the way open.
Light from the kitchen spilled out across the lumber shed floor and I saw the chunk of concrete I’d landed on when I dropped from the railing. I saw something else out there on the floor, too, catching the light. The barrel of Kilgallon’s Sig-Sauer.
“Foley,” he called a third time, “you there?”
“Yeah I’m here. You ready to give up?”
“I’m just wondering,” he said. “Do you see what I see?”
“I see an open doorway. And as soon as I see you in it, you’re a dead man.”
“Not likely,” he said. “Not with your weapon out here on the floor.”
“It’s up to you. Take a chance if you like.”
He pushed on the door a little and I fired out through the opening. There was a whine when the bullet ricocheted off something metallic on the other side of the lumber shed. And then it was quiet.
“Well,” he finally said, “you said you might have two guns.”
“I said maybe three. Maybe it’s four now. You’re a dead man if you come after me.”
“You’re repeating yourself,” he said. “I saw you dragging that leg. I hit you. You’ve been shot, you’re in pain, and you’re repeating yourself. The fact is, you need medical attention. I’ll take you in, Malachy. Everything will be fine.” We were back on a first-name basis, and it was amazing how reasonable he sounded. “You’re scared,” he added, and that part was certainly true.
“I’ve been counting shots,” I called back, “and you have just one round left. I’m figuring you weren’t carrying more than one extra clip.”
“You don’t have a clue what I’m carrying.” But I heard him snap open the magazine, then jam it shut again.
“Maybe,” I said. I didn’t even know what kind of gun he had, much less how many rounds were left
It meant something, though, that he made a sudden dash across the stream of light from the doorway, scooping up the Sig-Sauer as he passed. However many rounds he’d had left—in his gun or in his pocket—he had six more now, because I’d used four of the Sig’s ten. I took the opportunity to shoot out the ceiling fixture, then the exit sign. Two rounds left in the .38.
I stood with my back to the swinging doors. “C’mon in!” I called. “I’m waiting.”
CHAPTER
49
I BACKED SILENTLY through the swinging doors. Theodosian would come after me, for sure, but the dark kitchen would slow him down some.
It was still very dark in the dining room, too, but easy going compared to the lumber shed. With o
ne eye on the kitchen doors—and using the backs of chairs for support—I hopped my way on one foot through the sea of tables to where I hoped the Beretta was, on the floor beside Kilgallon’s body. It was easy to spot the only bare table in the room, but when I got there, there was no body—and no Beretta. Only smears of blood, leading in the direction of the archway. Beyond that was the front entrance.
Kilgallon could have taken my unloaded gun with him, and I had two clips for it, seven rounds each. I started after him, but felt suddenly light-headed and dizzy. I dropped to the floor—half-crouching, half-sitting—with my eyes just above the level of the tables. The pain in my ankle was way out of control, and I wasn’t sure I could make it all the way to the archway without losing consciousness. So I stayed where I was, took long, deep breaths … and listened very hard.
I heard a sound from the kitchen—like someone bumping something. Then silence. And then another sound, more like a loud exhalation, or a sigh—but this time from another direction. Beyond the archway, near the front door.
The greater threat was from the kitchen, I decided, and not from the front doorway and a wounded Kilgallon. “Theodosian?” I called. “You out there?”
“I’m sure not going anywhere,” he called back. “Not till I take you in.”
“You can give that bullshit up,” I said, not even trying to keep the pain and fatigue out of my voice. “You came here alone, way before the rest of us. You shot Kilgallon and didn’t call for help before you came after Frankel and me. You still haven’t called this in. You’ve gotta have a cell phone. And if you don’t, you could open that exit door out there and trip the alarm.”
“I must have left my phone in the car,” he said, “and I’ve opened and closed that damn door five times. The alarm must be off.” He paused. “I’m not walking out of here without you, Foley. It’s my job. Let me do it. We’ll get you to a hospital. After that … well, if you’re not guilty, you’ll be fine.”
Damn, he could sound reasonable. “You convinced Frankel,” I said, “and look what it got him.”
“I told you, Frankel shot at—”
“Jesus!” I said. “You think I don’t remember what I heard? Like I’m delirious, or what?” He didn’t answer, so I went on. “I may be hurting and I may be shot.” Let him believe that. “But you can give up trying to convince me you’re clean.”
“You’re not thinking straight,” he said.
“Could be. But I’m a better shot than you are, and if you come through those swinging doors … well, I don’t wanna repeat myself. I could have dropped you before, in the shed, but back shooting’s not my style.”
“I told you,” he called back, “I don’t think you’re a killer. I’ll take you in and you’ll get medical care.”
“Except you don’t plan to take me in,” I said, “because I know everything.”
“Really?” he said. “What’s there to know?”
I felt less dizzy now, and it was time to go see if Kilgallon had my gun. I raised up a little. And as soon as I did, one of the swinging doors opened and Theodosian fired several shots. Glass shattered and there was the clang of a bullet against an iron table or chair. I dropped down again, firing back without looking. That left one more round in the .38.
“So much for taking me in,” I said. “And y’know what? You got three choices.”
“Bullshit!” At least I had his attention.
“One, call the cops and try to explain away the bodies in here. Which is impossible. Nothing adds up, and I’ll tell what I know. That’s choice one. Wanna hear the others?”
“Hey, I got nothing but time,” he said. “You’re the one needs a doctor.” Plus, I thought, my voice would help him locate me if I moved.
“Two, come on in and force me to shoot you. I’m well-armed, and I’m better than you.” He didn’t answer. “Three, we make a deal.”
“Deal? Shit. Why would I deal? If I thought I couldn’t take a wounded man, I’d go out the door back here and get help.”
“But you can’t do that because I’d tell what I know. That Sal Coletta and Richie Kilgallon were doing a deal with Lonnie.”
“So what? I’ve thought that for a long time. It’s one of the cases Frick and I are working on.”
“Right. And now Kilgallon’s dead. You took care of that. Because he could have told what I’ll tell, that there was no ‘unidentified man’ up there with Lonnie. Kilgallon flat-out murdered Lonnie while Sal Coletta looked on. They didn’t know Fay Rita was there till she started shooting. That’s when Frankel went up. But that was it. Only after the shooting did someone else show up. Someone who found bags of coke in the squad car and Lonnie’s car. Someone who already figured Sal was rotten. His sergeant.” I paused. “You. You looked around, figured there’d be money on the scene, and went upstairs and got it. And walked with the coke, too.”
“What about Jimmy Coletta?” he said. “You think I’d shoot a fellow copper in the back for money?”
“People have done a lot worse for a lot less. But even so, that was maybe an accident. There’s a call of ‘shots fired.’ You’re very close and arrive on the scene and spot someone in the alley. It’s dark. He turns and he’s got a gun and … you shoot him. That happens. You’re scared, but what’s done is done. Then you see the coke, put two and two together, and … well, who’s gonna look in the trunk of your car?”
“Kilgallon said there was another shooter up there. So did Frankel.”
“Yeah, right. And they’re both dead. Kilgallon’s not the brightest cop on the beat, so you told him what to say—about seeing Lonnie with a gun and all. Then you gave him a cut of your good fortune. And Frankel? He was hurt bad and maybe never even saw you up there. He may really have thought my client ran off with the coke and the money. But he couldn’t say so, of course, so he went along with Kilgallon’s story.”
“Take your time, pal. Talk all you want,” Theodosian said. “’Cause I got a fourth choice you didn’t mention. You keep talking and keep losing blood. I just wait you out.”
I wasn’t losing blood, though, and time was on my side—as long as he wasn’t shooting at me and I didn’t have to move. “And Maura Flanagan?” I said. “You paid her to shut down the O.P.S. investigation. I showed her I could prove the money came from you.” Not true. “That’s why she had to die. Because she was ready to break.”
No answer, but one of the doors opened, maybe half an inch. He was getting ready to try again.
“You think I believe it was a coincidence,” I asked, “you being on the scene when they picked me up near Flanagan’s house?”
“Hell, I was in the area and—”
“Won’t work,” I said, “and here’s why. I file for reinstatement and right away I start getting threats to drop it. I barely get a subpoena issued to Jimmy Coletta to testify, and someone tries to kill me. Who? I knew the answer as soon as you let on it was you behind the threats from the start, I—”
He pushed the door open, firing several shots as he did. I fired back, once, and the door closed again.
“You wanna try again?” I called, and started crawling.
There was no answer … and I had no more bullets.
Kilgallon might be by the entrance and might have my gun, but crawling took too long. I got up and hopped toward the archway. The kitchen door opened and Theodosian got off another shot, but I raised the .38 and he ducked behind the door again.
I dropped back onto the floor, crawling, dragging my foot. He’d know exactly why I didn’t shoot back. Maybe if I lay down and played dead he might—
The doors swung open and banged against the walls. “Too bad, Foley,” he said, “but it’s—”
“Theodosian! Hold your fire!” The shout came from in front of me, beyond the archway.
“Thank God!” Theodosian called. He’d stepped back into the kitchen. “Frick? Is that you?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Thanks, partner, I—”
“Throw your weapo
n through the door there,” Frick said, “and come out.”
“What the hell you talking about?” Theodosian sounded offended. “Listen to—”
“I been listening. I’ve heard enough. Throw your weapon out, and come out with your hands on your head.”
“But it’s all bullshit.”
“I hope to God it is. I’ll let you explain it all, but without shooting at this asshole anymore.”
I thought of objecting, but didn’t. A few seconds passed, and then there was some noise in the kitchen and a loud buzzer sounded … very loud. Theodosian had gone out the door.
Several shots were fired back there. And then more shots. Too many more.
“Hold your fire!” Frick ran past me toward the kitchen. “Fucking goddamn cowboys!” he screamed “Hold your fire!”
Through it all the alarm buzzer never stopped and I couldn’t stand it. I dropped the .38 and managed to hop my way across the room and through the archway. The entrance door was open and somehow I got outside. There was loud talk—but no more shooting—from the rear door of the restaurant. And across the parking lot, near the street, I saw two men—one of them very fat—load something that might have been a third man into the backseat of a car, a Jaguar.
The fat man got into the front seat, and his partner squeezed into the back and the Jag drove away with its lights off and disappeared into the dark. As it did, squad cars—Mars lights flashing, but no sirens—came from the other way and roared into the lot. And behind them a fire department trauma unit.
There was a lot of yelling and confusion, and two cops came running my way with guns drawn. I sat down a few feet from Frankel’s Corvette, laced my fingers across the top of my head, and stared down at the wet asphalt. Someone sat down beside me, but I didn’t dare look because a cop leaned over me, inches away, screaming in a high-pitched, hysterical voice.
“We got an officer dead out there, you bastards,” he yelled. “So if one of you moves a muscle I’ll be happy to blow your balls off.”
No Show of Remorse Page 24