Lucas Holt Series: Books 1-3

by JP Ratto

  “I’m not sure that’s possible. Everyone wants in on the investigation.”

  “Rein them in, and assign the case to a few detectives you can trust not to go too deep.”

  Burke looked ready to object, and Sheppard held up his hand. “Relax. It’s just for a few days. I have an idea who might be behind this whole debacle.”

  Chapter 5

  The previous night’s deluge and dawn drizzle made way for a crisp October morning. Breaking sunshine streaked between the city’s skyscrapers to warm pedestrians on the street. Douglas Cain, Esq., personal counsel to presidential candidate Senator Todd Grayson, left his Fifth Avenue office and walked to Central Park.

  With a grueling schedule to keep, he hurried to his destination. He had something to take care of before his daily briefing with Grayson at noon in the senator’s Central Park South apartment.

  He entered the park and strode past the children’s zoo, keeping to the path that would lead him to the park’s pedestrian mall. He checked his phone for messages and the time. It was a twenty-minute walk from his office to the area of the park that on most sunny afternoons would be filled with people. Ten a.m. was a good time to avoid the crowds.

  Familiar with the park and its attractions, he easily found the statue of Christopher Columbus and sat on a bench a few yards away. He pulled a newspaper from his briefcase and scanned the front page. The headline read, “Police Shooting at Twelfth Precinct.” Below it, he skimmed the brief account of what had allegedly happened outside the downtown police precinct…target unknown…no suspects…sniper still at large.

  Cain read for a few more minutes, then folded the newspaper. Before folding it again, he took an envelope from his briefcase and placed it on the paper. He set it in his lap and waited.

  It wasn’t long before he noticed Tom Keeler moving toward him with long, swift strides. Over six feet tall with his buzz-cut blond hair, worn black jeans, and the sleeves of his black sweater rolled up to reveal muscular tattooed arms, he stood out among the few others strolling along the path. He came closer, and Cain could see the tight expression on the man’s face.

  What’s his problem? I’m the one who should be pissed.

  Just as the lawyer turned to glance at the empty space beside him, a young woman wheeled a stroller in front of the bench and sat down. Damn.

  Cain watched Keeler pass by, shaking his head, and then stop to examine one of the statues exhibited along the mall. Shoving the newspaper under his arm and grabbing his briefcase, he stood, nodded at the woman, and walked away.

  Douglas Cain groaned at the poor timing of events. These payoffs go like clockwork on TV. He continued along the pedestrian mall until he felt he could reasonably sit again without drawing attention.

  To his surprise, Keeler sat down next to him, the burly man’s weight stressing the slats of the bench. Eyes ahead and barely opening his mouth, Cain hissed, “What are you doing? You’re supposed to wait till I leave the package.”

  “Not taking any chances,” Keeler said, making no effort to hide their association. “I want my money.”

  “You’re lucky I’m paying you at all. That was a botch job, and all you did was alert the whole goddamned city.”

  “Hey, I did the best I could. You told me to watch the precinct, and I did. Then you give me five-minutes’ notice and tell me to take the shot, which I did.”

  “You missed.”

  “I had the weather against me. Next time I won’t miss.”

  “I doubt there’ll be a next time.” Cain slid the folded newspaper onto the bench between him and Keeler. “But I’ll let you know if I need you again. In the meantime, maybe you should take a vacation.”

  “Worried? I left the place clean as a whistle. Nothing to tie me—or you—to the shooting. Just like the other job.” Keeler relaxed against the bench and swung one arm over the back.

  “The other job? You were supposed to make it look like a robbery, but the only thing you took was his wallet.”

  “I was in a hurry and the ring was on so tight, I would have had to cut his fucking finger off.” Keeler shrugged. “Besides, cleaning up the scene was more important and throwing him in that dumpster…shit, he should’ve been fertilizer instead of at the morgue.”

  Cain winced at Keeler’s callousness and nonchalance. He had to remind himself he sat next to a killer. Glancing around, he noticed more people seated on the benches across from them. One woman averted her eyes when he caught her staring at him.

  Suddenly self-conscious of the unlikely acquaintance of he and Keeler, the lawyer shifted uncomfortably. Keeler unfolded the newspaper and tapped the envelope with a meaty finger. Cain gripped the man’s arm. “Stop.”

  Keeler chuckled. “Hey, man, relax. I’m not gonna count it here.” He folded the paper again, tucked it under his arm, and rose. “You know where you can reach me. Have a nice day, Counselor.”

  Chapter 6

  Da Bronx. If you had asked Tom Keeler fifteen years ago where he hailed from, that would have been his answer, or “das Bronx” as his German ancestors called it. He still lived in the same Woodlawn apartment his parents and grandparents had lived in. But after a stint in the Army, stationed far south of the Mason Dixon Line, Keeler lost his Bronx accent. It had been a matter of survival.

  When most people think of the Bronx, they picture rundown buildings covered in graffiti, windows boarded up with plywood, and gangs on every corner. That wasn’t Keeler’s Bronx. He was fortunate enough to reside in an enclave once inhabited by Germans and later known as Little Ireland.

  Finding street parking in late morning was easy when most in his working-class neighborhood were at their jobs. Keeler entered a six-story brick building and, bypassing the elevator, jogged up the stairs to his fourth-floor apartment.

  Entering the apartment, the lingering odor of the previous night’s dinner mixed with years of staleness embedded in the rugs assaulted his sense of smell. Furniture his mother had purchased forty years ago, still in its original place, stuffed the three-bedroom, one-bath apartment. The only changes made over the years were the living room sofa and chair and the mattresses on the beds. The landlord had done a minor renovation twenty years earlier and updated the kitchen appliances and the carpets. Keeler couldn’t remember the last time he vacuumed.

  When home, Tom Keeler spent most of his time in the living room watching television. The bedrooms held all the memories of his family—photos, books, even clothing that belonged to his grandparents and parents. His own bedroom, which he had shared with his older brother until Ryan enlisted in the Army, held the deepest heartfelt memories. Keeler opened the door to the smallest bedroom. The beds, formerly bunk beds, stood foot to foot in a ninety-degree angle against two of the walls. Sitting on the one under the room’s only window, he scanned the walls crowded with photos of him and Ryan. One photo of them taken on the eve of Tom’s Special Forces training reminded him how much he had wanted to be like his brother.

  Tom Keeler twisted his head from finishing the hospital corners on his cot. A barrel-chested, uniformed figure stood in the barracks entrance with his fists on his hips.

  “Fall out! On the double!” Each candidate paused, then raced past Staff Sergeant Johnson, and formed up on the lawn’s worn spots.

  After three weeks, Keeler understood what was coming. Special Operations Preparation Course—the physical phase—and Special Forces Assessment and Selection—survival skills, were complete. Keeler knew he wasn’t the best nor the worst. There were ten candidates. On day one, they were told to expect that forty percent of their new friends would not be around for Phase Two.

  “If I call your name, step forward two paces and form up in front of Sergeant Ramirez.” Johnson tested their patience by examining each face before lifting his clipboard.

  “PFC Calloway.”

  The tallest man took two steps forward, pivoted left, paced five yards, and pivoted right to halt within six feet of Sergeant Ramirez, at attention.

 
; “PFC Browne.”

  Keeler knew the first two men were the best performers in the physical phase. Each likely earned the maximum 300 points for their efforts. This assured him the names were those advancing to Phase Two. It was no coincidence that these two had become pals.

  “PFC Ryder.”

  The sun beat down and perspiration beaded on Keeler’s forehead. He covertly looked to his left and right. Four people would not advance and three had already been chosen. Shit. If the percentages hold, only three more names will be called.

  “Sergeant Gonzales.”

  Gonzales was the most liked man in their unit. Every candidate wouldn’t hesitate to follow him into battle. Is that why he was chosen? Is there more to this than we were told? Keeler had kept a secret; under stress, he got migraines.

  “PFC Washington.”

  Keeler hadn’t made any friends among the candidates, but if he did, the strong black man would be his choice. With one name left, his migraine felt like a hammer slamming an anvil. I performed better at running, swimming, and sit-ups than any of the remaining four. I came in second on the obstacle course. Call my name, Johnson, you bastard! Tom Keeler hated the mind games as Staff Sergeant Johnson, once again, tortured the remaining candidates. The pause stretched into a full minute before he spoke with authority. “PFC Keeler. The rest of you stand fast.”

  He stepped forward and marched to Ramirez. Keeler stood erect and couldn’t help a small smile on his face.

  Ramirez sauntered over to Keeler and put his face six inches away. “Keeler!”

  “Sir!”

  “You remember that smile on those nights when you swear you should have been a hot-dog vendor! You know why, Keeler?”

  “Why, sir?”

  “What? I don’t believe you said that. I expect a ‘sir sandwich’ from you. Can you figure out how to do that, shit-head?” Keeler blinked at the spittle from Ramirez’s shouting.

  “Sir. Yes, I can. Sir.”

  Ramirez turned from Keeler to face the others. “Damn it. This is the sorriest looking group I’ve been handed in five years. I’m getting too old for this shit. But I’ll tell you right now, if I don’t see something special in each one of you, I’ll break you and send you home cryin’ to your mama!”

  Tom Keeler smiled. He made it to the “Q course.” His Green Beret brother would be proud.

  Keeler went back to the living room and emptied his pockets, tossing keys, wallet, and loose change on the coffee table. He turned on the television and popped a frozen meal into the microwave for four minutes. Opening a small closet, he stashed the money Cain gave him into a two-foot square floor safe.

  He took his hot food to the sofa and flipped channels until he settled on an infomercial touting exercise equipment, the sales person promising rock-hard abs in ten days. Keeler glanced around the apartment. Maybe I’ll get rid of some of this old shit and get a machine.

  He muted the sound and, as he ate his lunch, thought about the man he’d murdered little more than two weeks before. It wasn’t his first hit, but for some reason it had bothered him. Most of his targets were bad people—thieves, drug dealers, molesters. Keeler reasoned they’d deserved it.

  When Cain approached him about killing Giaconne, he asked the lawyer what the guy had done. Cain had refused to discuss his reasons and told Keeler to take it or leave it—no questions. The money was great so he took it, but did a little checking of his own and found that Giaconne had recently been released from jail. That was good enough.

  Then Cain asked him to keep tabs on the detective who was investigating Giaconne’s murder. He followed Detective Scully to Moravia Correctional Facility. Within hours of reporting the news to Cain, the lawyer gave him the order to take a shot at Scully. It all happened too fast, and Keeler was distracted by the fact that Detective Scully was a cop.

  Keeler trusted few people in his life. Douglas Cain wasn’t one of them. In fact, the lawyer gave him such a bad vibe that Keeler thought he needed some security. He needed to know something Cain didn’t.

  Done with his lunch, he grabbed his wallet and rummaged through the folded slips of paper that took up the space reserved for dollar bills. He unfolded one of the two he removed and laid it on the coffee table. Keeler stared at the barely legible handwritten series of initials, numbers, and one name.

  C -> G 50K

  G ->JC 15K

  Abrams ?

  On the second piece of paper was an upstate New York address. After an internet search of the address, Keeler began to make sense of the notes he’d taken from Giaconne’s wallet before he had handed it off to Douglas Cain. The lawyer was being blackmailed. Keeler prepared for a road trip upstate to find out why.

  Chapter 7

  After Ray left for the precinct, I slipped out to get something from the gourmet grocer down the street. When I returned, I found Maddie in the hallway standing over the console table. With her two hands closed around a mug, she sipped coffee and stared at the old photo of Susan and Marnie.

  I had attended my ex-wife’s funeral a couple of weeks before. She’d been terminally ill for months when she succumbed to her illness. I’d visited her right before she died and had shown her the photo of a teen-age Marnie. It was a bittersweet moment and, in a sense, we were all together again.

  Maddie looked up, turned her head toward me, and smiled. “Hi.” She glanced at the bag in my hand. “Smells good.”

  “They are,” I said. “Muffins, hot out of the oven. I don’t keep much in the house.”

  “Muffins are great.”

  We stood five feet away, facing each other. Maddie was barefoot and wore an above-the-knee thin, silky robe, belted at the waist. It was the first time I’d seen her long, shapely legs. Her deep red hair was tousled from sleep. I had the urge to take her by the hand and lead her upstairs, but instead continued to talk about muffins.

  “They’re the best in the city.” I walked past her toward the kitchen.

  Maddie took a seat at the counter. “I waited upstairs to give you and Ray more time to discuss what happened.”

  “That wasn’t necessary.”

  “Well, Ray seemed a bit awkward about me being here…besides I don’t want to get in the way.”

  “You wouldn’t be.”

  Maddie, a small-town sheriff, was no stranger to violent crimes. Before settling in Broome, Pennsylvania, she’d been a homicide detective with the Baltimore police and had a stint working undercover. We’d talked at length about our personal and professional lives, but she provided few details about her time within Baltimore’s crime syndicate.

  “I heard him say he was going back to the precinct. Is that a good idea?” Maddie asked.

  “He can’t hide. The only way to find out what’s going on is to know what the police know. I don’t think he’s in any danger at his desk.”

  “So instead of hiding at home or here, he’s hiding at the precinct. He said he believes the attempt on his life has to do with your daughter’s kidnapping. I don’t know all the details, but it sounds like someone doesn’t want the case reopened.”

  I nodded and proceeded to fill Maddie in on all that Ray had told me. It was helpful to lay everything out again, but the exercise still left me with more questions than answers. I’d told Ray to keep a low profile and not investigate any further. He wouldn’t hear of it, and I understood where he was coming from. I still recommended he not put himself—or his family—in harm’s way.

  Maddie finger-combed her hair and relaxed on the high-back stool. “Let me get this straight. Many of the same people who were involved in the investigation of Marnie’s kidnapping are now major players in the NYPD and in a position to manipulate a current investigation.”

  “That’s right. Our captain at the time is now Commissioner Harold Sheppard. The lead detective on the case, Roy Burke, is now the Twelfth Precinct’s captain.”

  The revelation of Burke’s deliberate mishandling of Marnie’s case made me seethe with anger. I explained to Maddie that
while investigating Giaconne’s murder, Ray had met with Billy Dougal, former records officer. He told Ray that Burke’s partner, Scott Hamlin, added a note to his report months after all leads on Marnie’s kidnapping were exhausted.

  “The note subsequently disappeared,” I said.

  “What was in the note?” Maddie asked.

  “At the time Marnie was kidnapped, the daycare owner’s cousin visited with a baby girl. Burke and Hamlin’s reports said Rose Bardinari’s neighbors verified it. But Hamlin’s note refuted one important fact.”

  “What fact?”

  “That the cousin ever gave birth to a daughter.”

  Maddie stared at me in stunned silence.

  “You see the implications,” I said.

  “Yes. The child could have been Marnie.”

  “And those bastards knew it and then tried to cover it up by removing Hamlin’s note,” I said through clenched teeth.

  Maddie rose to wash out her mug. “I agree, and you can safely assume either Sheppard or Burke sealed those files.” She turned and leaned against the sink. “Sheppard’s actions at the time are suspect. Especially now that Burke, an unlikely candidate in your opinion, has made it to captain. Questioning either of them will be nearly impossible.”

  “True, I didn’t leave the force under the best circumstances. Neither would give me the time of day.”

  “At this point, you don’t need them. If I were you, I’d concentrate on Hamlin. He’s retired now, right?”

  “Yes, he was a bit older than the rest of us. I have to say, I thought he was a decent guy, but Burke called the shots. It seems I was right since he likely left the note in a fit of conscience.”

  “Yes,” said Maddie. “But more important, if Hamlin was able to find out that Bardinari’s cousin never had a daughter, then—”

  Excited, I interrupted Maddie. “He must have known the cousin’s name.” I slipped off my stool. Clasping Maddie’s face in my hands, I kissed her long and hard. I reluctantly pulled my lips from hers. “You’re brilliant.”