COPS SPIES & PI'S: The Four Novel Box Set

by David Wind

  “Thank God,” Ronald Davis said.

  I gave him a hard stare. “Is that what you care about?

  “I….” Flustered, the man choked on his words. “I just meant it was a good thing—a small thing, but a good thing.”

  Lia Thornton leaned forward. Her breasts pushed against the fabric of the blouse, exposing three inches of well-defined cleavage. “Mr. Storm, have you been able to find out anything about Scotty’s murder?”

  Her eyes matched the low and cheerless tone of her voice. I shook my head and looked into her green ones. Was this an act? “Nothing yet, but I have his computer and am going through it. There may be something there.”

  “Please let me know if you find anything. I…” she stopped to swallow.

  Her grief was palpable. Why was it more than it should have been? Better yet, was it real? “I will. Is there anything else?” I asked, looking at the others.

  Albright shifted. “As executor of Scotty’s estate, will you be handling his affairs with the play, or will Mr. Gottlieb be doing that?”

  At last, the reason for their visit was in the open. My eyes narrowed. “I’ll be handling it, you can count on that.” The hard edge of my emotions struck like a snake from behind a rock.

  Albright didn’t react to the tone of my voice; instead, he nodded, stood and extended his hand. “Very well then, you’ll make sure the director gets the rewrite tomorrow.”

  I shook his damp hand, and did the same with Mason and Thornton. When I released her hand, they turned and walked out in the same single file way they’d entered.

  Alone, I gazed at the space they’d vacated. Dealing with Albright wouldn’t be easy, but easy wasn’t what I was looking for. A killer had my attention.

  Femalé sat in the chair Lia Thornton had just vacated. Leaning forward, she rested her elbows on her knees, steepled her fingers and set her chin on them.

  “What do you think?”

  She raised both eyebrows. “Not much. I don’t like Albright—he’s…sleazy: the Thornton woman seems okay, but something about her bothers me. The other guy is a follower. He’s the CEO of a small electronics company and the info we have on him is he’s one of Albright’s clients. And you?”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw the copy of Variety which Femalé had set on my desk earlier. There were two headlines: The first was an announcement listing the top ten Broadway shows that had earned over one hundred million dollars; the second was the announcement about Scotty Granger’s death.

  The first headline grabbed my attention: The amount of money snapped my thoughts into place. “Albright invested in the play because the odds were better than the stock market. He needs to make money—big money, and he wants something that’s almost a guarantee.”

  “Broadway plays are nowhere near that,” she said.

  “Think about it.” I pointed to the headline of Variety. "Three of the four plays Scotty wrote were hits—the last three. There aren’t a lot of playwrights out there with Scotty’s kind of record. I would bet Albright believed the odds were in his favor. Oh, yes,” I mumbled thoughtfully, “if the play is a success—and I’ll tell you right now it will be, Albright will have his loan paid back within six months and will be making a ton of money from his investment.”

  Femalé did her one eyebrow trick while locking her large brown eyes on mine in a silent command to continue. “To insure he made lots of money, he invested in the last work of one of the best playwrights in the world. Sounds to me like a good reason for murder. If the reviews are good, everyone will go to the play -- maybe even if the reviews aren’t good, because it was his final play.”

  “Perhaps.” She hesitated, then, "the call the other day - the one warning you off the case? Maybe there’s a connection to him.”

  I tossed her words around, letting them bounce off every other meaningless thought whirling in my brainpan. “See if you can find the money trail to Albright’s million and a half.”

  She leaned forward and straightened the pen and pad in the center of my desk. I found myself smiling. Setting Femalé on the trail of the money was akin to setting a hound dog on the trail of a raccoon. Her obsessive-compulsive streak would drive her until she found something, or proved there was nothing out of the ordinary about his loan.

  “Scoot,” I told her. “I need more thinking time.”

  Standing, she gave me a half salute and left. The closed door left me to the noises of the street floating in through the window. Midafternoon on Thirty-Fourth Street always brought the sounds of frustrated cab drivers and their horns.

  I picked up the Daily Variety and thumbed through to the article on Scotty. It was a nice piece, half-eulogy, half-informational. It ended with the hopes that his last play would be his finest and place his name with the other great playwrights of previous generations.

  I had a feeling that’s what would happen.

  I put the paper down and let myself sink deeper into thought. Scotty’s murder had been a crime of anger. Could it have been a crime of passion as well? A lover? But the anger of the killing was much more. It was violence in its worst form. Eviscerating someone with a gun is a wild, manic thing. It wasn’t something done to protect money or property. But then, it could all have been a set up to make it look different from what it was.

  What leads were there? I picked up the pen and wrote:

  Albright—money.

  Thornton—affair with Scotty?

  An unknown enemy of Scotty’s?

  My notes were pitiful. I couldn’t imagine Scotty making an enemy who would kill him, but could envision a crazed lover or a desperate man trying to salvage his fortune.

  With my eyes glued to Albright’s name, I grabbed the phone and called Gina Torrelli.

  “Hi Gabe, how are you?” The concern in her voice felt good.

  “I’m fine.” We both knew it for the lie it was. “Is there any way you can trace the source of Albright’s money?”

  “Not if it was private,” she said, her voice going all business. “But I’ll take a look-see.”

  “Thanks.”

  “When are we getting together for the dinner you promised?”

  “Soon, kiddo, soon,” I hung up before the subject could change to Scotty.

  “Gabe,” Femalé called, striding to my desk and putting a single faxed sheet on it. The paper had three lines on it. A telephone exchange with the time of day and the incoming and outgoing numbers listed. The last notation was a cell site location in Queens.

  “This was the call you got the other day. It came from a cell and the call was made from Whitestone. According to my friend, a pre-paid cell phone was used.”

  It did me no good to know I had been right: whoever had called was connected. He was one of the ‘boys’. “Okay, that’s good.” Before I could say anything else, the phone rang. Femalé answered it and a moment later handed it to me.

  “It’s Rabbit.”

  I took the phone. “Yeah?”

  “Meet me at the Looker’s Club on the corner of Forty-sixth and Eighth.”

  The tension in his voice set off my inner alarm. “Ten minutes.”

  Chapter 15

  Slipping the Sig from its holster, I popped the magazine. The top round of the fifteen gleamed up at me. I checked the slide. There was one in the chamber. I holstered the piece and pushed back from the desk. Femalé watched me.

  “He sounded wrong.”

  “You want me for backup?”

  When I shook my head, she said, “Be careful.”

  The cab ride took nine minutes. I had him go around the block once so I could see the place. Like most of the other strip joints in Hell’s Kitchen, it had a painted window filled with pictures of half-naked centerfold type girls. This club and the dozens like it had all been moved from Times Square in one of the last major clean-ups. The ‘clean-up’ hadn’t helped much: While their numbers had dwindled, the surviving strip clubs and porno shops moved to Eighth and Ninth Avenues and, after the move, they contin
ued to feed on tourists and businessmen who went in to build a few fantasies before heading home to what they thought was their drab lives.

  Although it was afternoon, the storefront club’s neon signs glowed in sun-dulled invitation to see the topless dancers. A bouncer stood by the front door. He was big, maybe two-twenty five and a little over six feet. He had black hair pulled into a ponytail and even in the summer heat, he wore a silver suit with an open collared shirt. His eyes locked on my cab when it pulled to a halt.

  Stepping onto the sidewalk in front of the Looker’s Club, I started toward the door and took in the hard lines of his face while judging his strength. In turn, he spent a long second running his eyes over me from head to toe before stepping aside.

  The inside was dark. I let the door close behind me as I waited for my eyes to adjust. To my left was a woman whose breasts were barely contained. The air conditioning made her nipples stand stiff against the fabric. She gave me an inviting smile. “There’s a ten buck cover.”

  I pulled out some bills from my pocket, separated a ten and handed it to her.

  “Enjoy yourself.” Smiling, she leaned forward to give me a better view. I didn’t waste my energy; instead, I stepped deeper in and looked around. The walls were black, the floor some faux marble and the furniture black and glitzy chrome. No dancers were on the small stage with its spot lighted steel pole. Two men sat three quarters of the way down the bar.

  I went to the bar and motioned to the topless barmaid. She was young and could have been pretty except for the nose ring, pierced eyebrow and a tattoo of a hummingbird perched atop her left breast. I wondered if the hummingbird would end up as a distorted Pelican in twenty years. “What’ll you have?”

  “I’m meeting someone here, a short guy with big eyes by the name of Rabbit.”

  She flicked her head toward a staircase near the back and said, “Second floor.”

  A sense of unease grew as I walked to the stairs. I slipped my hand under my jacket and touched the Sig for reassurance. The deep bass beat of music hit me halfway up. Emerging at the top, I found myself staring at a round platform built in the middle of the room. In the center of the stage was a woman making love to a bright steel pole, her surgically enhanced breasts jutted on each side of the gleaming steel. She wore a G-string, but you had to look hard to see it. A tattoo of a wide winged multi-color eagle was on the center of her lower back, just above the double curve of her rear. Three tables were occupied.

  A black lacquered bar was to my left, a bartender rested his elbows on its top. He shifted when he saw me. I ignored him and started toward the stage when, for the second time this week, the unmistakable sensation of the flat tipped barrel of an automatic pressed against my spine. It’s not a feeling you tend to forget. I didn’t turn and I didn’t raise my hands.

  “Walk left of the stage to the back. Don’t think about doing nothing.”

  There are points when time stands still. This was one of them. Every muscle in my body tensed. My senses turned acute. The sounds in the room became amplified: The thumping music, the breathing of the man behind me, the dancer’s flesh pressing against the pole, and even the sound of the fabric of my jacket brushing across the forty millimeter hanging on my left side. I could’ve taken him. It would’ve been easy. Tough guy types with guns don’t expect resistance, but for now playing the game was the right move. A quick glance over my shoulder revealed a round pudgy face replete with a small nose and two thin eyebrows topped by short black hair. I walked forward. The piece stayed locked on my back. When I reached the far door, he said, “Open it. Do it slow.”

  I turned the knob and pushed. The door opened and the man behind me pressed me forward. A single light glowed on a desk across the room. There was a dark figure seated in deep shadows. My eyes flicked left to where Rabbit sat strapped into a chair with silver duct tape. His face was white, his eyes even larger than usual. The smell of fear rose from him.

  “Mr. Storm,” said the figure behind the light.

  The routine was all too familiar. The light was directed at me and away from the man. It was a scenario set up to frighten, but for me it was a replay of a bad B-movie.

  “It has come to my attention that you are sticking your nose into places where it doesn’t belong.”

  The voice had a bass resonance; his words were clean and crisp with no discernable accent. “And what place is it, that I’m sticking my nose?”

  “You’ve become involved in something you should not have. Walk away from it. Let things run their course.” His articulation told me he wasn’t just one of the boys. Irrationally, given my situation, I thought about how, as each new generation of thugs grew up, they took on a flavor once reserved for the good guys.

  “And if I choose not to?” Flexing my knees, I pressed back as I spoke. The gun pushed into my back, just where I wanted it.

  “You are in no position to bargain. Let it go, or you will be gone.”

  I shrugged. The hard metal moved with me. “I don’t take orders from shadows. Turn the light so I can see you.”

  “We know your reputation, Mr. Storm. You believe you are a tough man. Trust me, you aren’t. You’ve involved yourself where you should not.” He paused for a moment. “You lost a friend the other day. Let me assure you, if you don’t drop this matter you will join him.”

  His threat pissed me off. How in the hell had Scotty gotten involved with these people?

  “Nothing you do will gain you any further knowledge,” he went on in a well-oiled way.

  “I’m learning more every minute,” I said sarcastically and let the training I’d sacrificed three years of my life to gain, take over.

  Again, time stood still; I rammed my elbow up and back, jamming it high into the belly of the man behind me. The instant I heard the satisfying grunt, I spun, drawing my piece with my right hand. My timing was good and I was able to yank his automatic out of his hand while he was doubled over in an effort to breathe. Still moving, I whipped my right hand across and down and caught him in the temple. The Sig Sauer crunched against his head: He hit the floor with a loud bang.

  I whirled, the Sig aimed at the shadow behind the desk. There was a muzzle flash and thunder exploded in the closed room. The sting of heated air zipped passed my cheek. I held still and fired three quick shots; one of them took out the lamp in front of him. Two more shots came at me, but I’d already moved. There was a cry of pain behind me: My heart pounded from sharp surges of adrenaline.

  I charged forward, but was too late as a door behind the desk opened and light flooded the room. An instant later, it slammed shut. It took me a couple of seconds to reach it, and when I got there and pulled it open, I found myself staring into the back alley of the building, blinking against the blinding afternoon sun.

  The bastard had used the metal stairway and all I could see was the flap of his jacket as he rounded the corner.

  Turning back, I found a light switch next to the door and flipped it on. The man I had elbowed was unconscious on the floor. Rabbit was in the chair, his eyes wide and staring at the blood spurting from his shoulder.

  I went to him and pressed my palm on his shoulder. “Hold on buddy.” I ripped away the tape securing his arms, then took his hand and put it beneath mine on his shoulder. “Keep it tight.” His face was white: he wouldn’t be conscious very long.

  I used my cell to dial 9-1-1. When the operator answered, I gave my name and the address and reported the gunshot wound. Then I called Chris’s number and gave him a quick run through.

  With the call finished, I bent and pulled the rest of the silver duct tape from around Rabbit’s chest, freeing him from the chair. His eyelids were closed. “Rabbit?”

  His lids flickered. He moistened his lips with his tongue. “It hurts,” he said. Then his eyes closed and his hand slipped from his shoulder.

  Kneeling, I applied hard pressure to the wound with my palm and waited for the cavalry to arrive.

  Chapter 16

  Forty
minutes from start to finish was all the time it took for Chris and his team to wrap up. Rabbit went to St. Vincent’s by ambulance ten minutes after the paramedics arrived. The bullet had hit an artery and he’d lost a lot of blood, but the prognosis was good.

  A second ambulance took the flunky who’d been behind me to the hospital. Two patrolmen had followed the ambulance and after treatment, they would bring him to the precinct for questioning and booking.

  “His name is Arthur Pinella, and he’s junior muscle for the Conte family,” Chris said as we stood on the sidewalk in front of the club. Traffic slowed as the cars streamed passed, wondering why a half dozen police cars were blocking two lanes of Eighth Avenue. “You hurt him pretty bad.”

  “Not as bad as he wanted to hurt me. This isn’t Conte Family territory.”

  “No, it isn’t: the question is why?” Chris asked.

  I’d given him the full rundown of the events, but I had not been able to give him any explanations. “It’s about Scotty. That’s all I know. Like I said before, Rabbit called me and told me to meet him. When I got here, he was taped to the chair and the bozo had a piece in my back. Rabbit got caught in the crossfire.”

  “Why Rabbit?”

  “Damned if I know. I’d asked him to look into something for me—something else, not Scotty. But I also asked him to keep an ear open to see if he might hear something about him as well.”

  “It seems like he kept more than an ear open.”

  Keen observer was my friend Chris. “Yeah, seems like.”

  “And you will let me know if you tag the guy who shot Rabbit, right?”

  “You’ll be the first.”

  “I can’t wait.” Sarcasm dripped with each word. “You’ll need to come in and make a statement.”

  “I know.” It was standard procedure in a shooting.

  One of the forensic techs opened his palm to expose five flattened bullets. Three were forty-millimeter rounds—the ones from my sig. The others were nine millimeters.