by Adam Hamdy
‘I haven’t finished,’ Wallace protested. ‘There’s got to be something. Please!’
Byrne eyed Wallace with pity.
‘If I’m right, if your daughter was murdered and you do nothing—’
‘Don’t you dare accuse me of doing nothing!’ Steven growled, his raised voice drawing concerned looks from the surrounding diners.
‘Would you like me to have this gentleman escorted from the building?’ the maître d’ asked.
Wallace could feel Steven’s growing hostility as he slowly nodded.
‘If you please, sir,’ the maître d’ said to Wallace. The two security guards stepped forward and one of them placed a hand on his shoulder.
‘You’re making a mistake,’ Wallace cautioned. ‘You owe it to your daughter.’
‘Let’s go!’ the first security guard said, grabbing hold of his arm and hoisting him out of his chair.
Wallace realised that he had drawn far too much attention to himself and that things were running out of control. Neither Steven nor his wife had reacted well to his theory, and who could blame them? Without any evidence, these grieving parents would just view Wallace as a deranged opportunist. He needed to defuse the situation, to regroup, and find a way to convince Byrne that his daughter had not killed herself. If her death followed the same pattern as the others, there would be evidence linking her to another victim or directly to the killer; he just had to find it.
‘OK,’ he said as he stood. ‘I’m going.’
‘I’ll need to see some ID,’ the security guard instructed, tightening his grip on Wallace’s arm. ‘We’re going to need to file a police report,’ he advised Steven, ‘so we have a record in case he ever bothers you again.’
Wallace felt his chest tighten and his stomach broil with panicked acid. ‘I’ll just go,’ he tried nervously. ‘I promise I won’t bother you again,’ he assured Steven.
‘Let’s see it,’ the security guard commanded. ‘Or we’ll just hand you over right now.’
‘Look, I don’t have anything on me right now. My passport is at my hotel, but my name is William Porter, and I—’
Before Wallace could say anything else, the maître d’ cut in, ‘I think we should call the police, sir.’
Steven looked from the maître d’ to Wallace and nodded. ‘Call it in,’ he said.
Wallace simply couldn’t risk being caught and knew that he had to act fast. He punched the first security guard in the face, knocking him cold. As the restaurant filled with outcry, he saw that Steven Byrne’s bodyguards were already on the move. The nearest two were on an intercept course and the third had left the bar and was already halfway to the table. Wallace suddenly felt a heavy hand grasp his shoulder and pull him round. He allowed himself to be turned, and, using his assailant’s force to add momentum to the blow, struck the second security guard in the face with his elbow. The impact sent the man thudding to the ground.
With the building security guards incapacitated, Wallace now faced Byrne’s bodyguards. The first man swung for Wallace, but he ducked the blow and brought the top of his skull up into the bodyguard’s chin. The second bodyguard came for him, but he barrelled forward, sending them both crashing into a neighbouring table. Wallace got to his feet and saw the third bodyguard blocking his route to the elevators. He started running towards the kitchen, colliding with staff, bouncing off fleeing diners, and rolling over tables in a panicked mess.
As he neared the kitchen doors, Wallace had the wind knocked out of him when the third bodyguard hit him with a flying tackle. Wallace landed on his back, with the bodyguard on top of him. The powerful man was agile and quickly rolled to his feet. Struggling for breath, Wallace was slower, and he paid a heavy price: the bodyguard kicked him, catching him in the ribs as he tried to stand. Wallace’s vision flared with spinning sparks of pain, and he knew he couldn’t take many more hits like that. As the bodyguard came in for a second kick, Wallace blocked the strike, and flung his right leg out in a sweeping blow that knocked the man off balance. Wallace saw the other two bodyguards coming towards him, and knew he had no chance against three men. He rolled towards the fallen bodyguard and drove his fist into the man’s groin with every ounce of power he could muster. It was the dirty move of a street brawler, but it was effective; the anguished cry of pain told Wallace that the third bodyguard would no longer pose a threat.
He got to his feet and stormed through one of the free-swinging doors into the kitchen. He collided with a group of chefs who had been drawn by the noise. A couple of hands made feeble attempts to grab him, but shock and momentum were his allies and he pushed through the group towards a fire exit. As he raced past the stainless steel appliances he heard a commotion behind him and turned to see the remaining two bodyguards follow him into the kitchen, no more than twenty feet off his pace. A heavyset, middle-aged man in whites emerged from a small office and ran straight into him. Wallace pushed the man aside, forcing him back into the office, but the collision broke his stride and enabled the first of the bodyguards to reach him. The bodyguard punched him in the neck and slammed him into a workbench. He grabbed Wallace’s hair and pushed his head down on to the metal countertop. Wallace felt another set of hands on his shoulders; he was pinned down.
‘Keep fighting,’ one of the men said in an accent that oozed with thick Southern sarcasm. ‘So we can keep hurtin’.’
Wallace lashed out with his right foot and felt a satisfying crack as he caught one of the men’s shins. He felt the pressure on his head lighten and brought his body up as quickly as he could. Pain snapped the back of his head as it connected with something, but as he spun round, Wallace saw that his opponent had come off worse: he’d cracked the second bodyguard’s nose into a bloody mess. He popped a punch at the first bodyguard’s face. The blow connected and Wallace followed up with a cross that sent the man reeling. Wallace kicked him in the gut, and, as the first bodyguard slammed into the wall, turned and ran for the fire exit.
He burst into a stark concrete stairwell and bounded down the steps three at a time, and as the staircase snaked round and back on itself, he looked up and saw the two bodyguards barge through the fire door and steam after him. Wallace bounced between the black metal railing and the whitewashed walls as he devoured the stairs. Ten floors down, and he misjudged a jump. He landed badly, and had to roll to avoid putting his weight on a precariously positioned ankle, then tumbled down the next flight of stairs. He bounced to a halt against the far wall of the next landing, and, before he could get to his feet, was set upon by the two bodyguards.
The bodyguard with the broken, bloody nose drove a kick into Wallace’s gut. The other man punched him in the face, smacking him on to the hard concrete. Wallace scrambled to his knees and barged his shoulder into the man’s legs, knocking him off balance and sending him tumbling down the next flight of stairs. He stood up and took a glancing blow to the head as the bloodied bodyguard tried to put him back down. Fighting in close, confined quarters presented perfect conditions for aikido, and with the panic of his initial flight subsiding, Wallace remembered his years of training. When the bodyguard swung a punch, he blocked and caught the man’s wrist between both hands. In a single fluid, forbidden movement, Wallace snapped his hands in different directions and heard the crack of the bodyguard’s wrist breaking. The man’s face went white with pain and he instantly dropped to his knees, cradling his broken arm. Wallace turned, ran down the stairs, and collided with the first bodyguard who was hauling himself to his feet on the next landing. Wallace punched the man, dazing him, before grabbing his head and smashing it against the concrete wall. The first bodyguard dropped like a dead weight and Wallace sped on, bounding down the stairs until he reached the ground floor.
Breathless and sweaty, but certain he was no longer being followed, Wallace tried to compose himself before stepping on to the street. He waited a few moments in the cold concrete corridor until his hands had stopped trembling and then stepped through the fire exit.
&
nbsp; ‘Don’t move!’ a powerful voice commanded.
Wallace stopped in his tracks, dismayed by what he saw ahead of him. The street had been closed to traffic and the only vehicles he could see were four cars in the familiar blue and white livery of the New York Police Department. Ranged around them were eight pistol-toting police officers. He glanced down the street and saw a small crowd of onlookers standing in the snow, waiting to see whether someone was going to get shot. Wallace had no intention of giving the audience any macabre entertainment. He put his hands high above his head.
29
Christine Ash tapped her pen impatiently as the members of the Disciplinary Review Board filed back into the room. Assistant Director Randall did not look at her as he took his seat, but Ash couldn’t tell whether that was a bad sign, or whether Randall was just being his usual, misanthropic self. The other board members – five suitably senior agents who spent six months hearing appeals – studiously avoided Ash’s gaze. The signs weren’t good, and Ash gave her attorney, Isla Vaughn, a concerned glance.
‘Looks bad,’ Ash whispered, inwardly reminding herself that she’d known the risks when she’d taken the shot.
‘Let’s wait and see,’ Isla replied quietly.
The two women attracted the ire of Edward Omar, the Review Board’s legal counsel, and his glare yelled silence.
The committee members sat behind a long table on a raised dais that was only six inches off the ground, but the slight elevation made it clear to everyone where the power resided. The room had no windows and the walls were covered with soundproof insulation. Ash and her lawyer sat at a small table opposite the committee and Ed Omar and his assistant sat at a duplicate that flanked them a few feet away. A dozen chairs lined the back wall, but only one was occupied. Ash’s boss, Assistant Special Agent in Charge, Hector Solomon, had watched the final day’s proceedings with the impassive mask of a seasoned poker player.
‘Agent Ash,’ Randall began, ‘the Disciplinary Review Board has considered your appeal. Last year, on July sixth, you shot and killed Marcel Washington, the leader of the Hopeland Family, an organisation implicated in murder, racketeering, drugs smuggling and gun running. Your superior, Assistant SAIC Hector Solomon, impressed upon you the need to capture Washington alive; however, in your report, you claimed that when your team raided the Dover Plains compound, you confronted Washington, who produced a weapon, and that you were forced to shoot him. Despite the efforts of attending paramedics, he died at the scene. Upon learning of the death of their leader, six members of the Hopeland Family refused to surrender and instead opened fire on your team, killing Special Agent Valerie Templeton. All six members of the Hopeland Family were eventually shot by your team. Three of them subsequently died.’
Randall paused and stared directly at Ash. Templeton had been a heavy loss, and Ash still struggled with the burden. If she’d played things out differently, maybe Templeton would still be alive . . . Ash suppressed the thought; it didn’t lead anywhere good.
‘Due to the seriousness of the incident, the Office of the Inspector General and the Internal Investigations Section concluded a joint inquiry into you and your team’s actions leading up to the shootings. While the investigation supported your account of events and considered it a clean shooting, the OIG and IIS investigators could not rule out the possibility that your judgement fell short of the standard required of a Supervisory Special Agent. As a result, the investigation panel recommended that you be suspended for three months, during which time you were to receive professional training and counselling, and that you be demoted two ranks to Special Agent. You filed an appeal and this Disciplinary Review Board was convened to consider it. It should be noted that you have served the suspension and completed the mandated training and counselling, and that this appeal applies only to your demotion.’
Randall looked to his left and right and received a couple of slight nods of encouragement from his fellow board members. ‘Having considered the evidence and submissions from the OIG and IIS, this committee finds that there are no grounds to overrule the original disciplinary measures and that this appeal should be denied,’ he said. ‘The Board is confident that, if you learn from this tragic experience, the same diligence that earned you such rapid promotion will ensure a swift return to your former rank, Special Agent Ash.’
Ash felt a flush of humiliation, but she was determined not to be anything other than courteous and professional. ‘Thank you, Assistant Director Randall. I’d like to thank you and the other board members for considering my appeal with such great care and attention.’
‘Sorry,’ Isla said softly as she patted Ash on the arm.
‘It’s OK,’ Ash replied as she got to her feet. But it wasn’t OK; her career had just regressed five years.
Ash switched on her cell as she hurried along the fourth-floor corridor, desperate to get out of the Hoover Building, away from the scene of her humiliation.
‘Ash!’ Hector called out behind her.
She turned to see her boss approaching. At five ten, he was only a couple of inches taller than her, which gave Ash an inch advantage in her heels. Hector was beaming a perfect smile of sympathy. Everything about him was elegant and refined, from his perfectly coiffed dark hair to his gleaming black brogues. His mixed heritage had blessed him with a light tan and he had the good judgement to know that it was enhanced by a crisply pressed white shirt and dark blue suit.
‘I spoke to Randall,’ Hector said as he caught up with Ash. ‘He really wanted to find a way, but—’
‘They didn’t have a choice,’ Ash interrupted.
‘You know how it is,’ Hector observed.
Ash nodded. ‘Can’t fight the machine.’
‘Listen, I’m going to talk to Alvarez, see what he’s got for you.’
Ash sighed. Alvarez was her contemporary, one of her rivals, and her mind clouded with dirty shame at the thought she’d now have to report to someone who, until a few months ago, had been her equal.
‘You know how to do this, Ash,’ Hector added. ‘Some good cases and you’ll make rank in a couple of years. Maybe less.’
Two years to recover lost ground while her peers advanced, despite the fact that everyone agreed it had been a clean kill. Washington was a scumbag and Ash knew better than most what a man like him did to people, but the hard lessons of her brutal past didn’t count for anything, they couldn’t count for anything. Ash could never explain the real reason why Washington deserved to die. They would never understand. As it was, there had been enough question marks over the shooting for her judgement to be challenged, and it had been found wanting. She felt a surge of angry frustration but knew better than to show it.
‘I’ll report to Alvarez tomorrow,’ she replied.
‘Great,’ Hector smiled. ‘I gotta run. There’s some people I need to see while I’m here.’ He patted Ash on the arm and hurried along the corridor.
Ash watched him stride on, certain he’d spend the afternoon shaking the right hands and smiling at the right faces in an effort to increase his chances of taking over the New York office when SAIC Harrell finally retired. Special Agent in Charge Hector Solomon; it had an inevitable ring to it.
Ash checked her phone, saw that she had a missed call, and dialled her voicemail.
‘Special Agent Ash, this is Detective Pinelli Fifth Precinct,’ said the recorded voice in deep, gnarly tones. ‘We picked up a John Doe perp on an assault charge. British guy. No ID, no record, and he ain’t talkin’. Says he’ll only speak to you, so I was wonderin’ if you could come down to the Fifth and maybe help us out.’
Ash hung up. She knew one Brit and the chances of him getting picked up on an assault charge were slim. This was probably some nut who’d got hold of her name at random, but, as a newly demoted foot soldier, she had a responsibility to check it out. Her flight out of Dulles wasn’t until eight p.m., and she had planned to spend the evening wallowing in pizza and margaritas, a final commiseration before she started
this unwelcome, retrograde phase of her career. The perp would have to wait until morning.
Wallace could hear the police station coming to life. Distant shouts bounced off the white breezeblock walls. He’d spent two nights in a nine by five cell. A stainless steel sink and toilet unit protruded from one wall. A bunk ran the length of the other. A thick metal door had bars cut into it so that the custody officers could peer in and check on their prisoners. A heavyset custody sergeant known to his colleagues as Dozer had passed an old copy of the New York Times through the bars, providing Wallace with some small distraction from the dark thoughts that preoccupied him. He’d spent most of the first night lost in flailing depression, his mind spinning into dangerously dark territory, wondering about the dangers of the American justice system. Exhausted, he’d managed to sleep most of the second night, waking to the early morning sounds of one of the precinct janitors cleaning out the adjacent holding cells, filling the air with the caustic stench of bleach.
Detective Pinelli, the squat New Yorker running his case, had warned Wallace that they could only keep him in custody for seventy-two hours, after which he’d be transferred to Rikers Island where he’d be held until he could be identified and processed for trial. Wallace had no idea whether it was the truth or whether Pinelli was simply threatening him in an effort to get him to divulge his name, but he’d heard of Rikers through countless movies and TV shows, and, despite the jail’s notorious reputation, he was not about to relinquish the safety of anonymity.
He heard footsteps approaching and turned to see the rotund Dozer swagger into view.
‘You got a visitor,’ the custody sergeant announced through the bars.
Wallace’s handcuffs were secured to an anchor point on the table, which in turn was bolted to the floor. He sat in one of two cheap chairs that faced a matching pair on the other side of the small, windowless room, which couldn’t have been more than eight feet square. The floor was covered in thin carpet tiles and the walls were lined with white wood panelling. Wallace had been waiting long enough to lose track of time. His wrists ached and he felt nagging discomfort in his upper back as he hunched forward to keep his forearms on the table.