A Reason to Kill

by Michael Kerr

  “Any ideas yet on who might have given us up to Santini?” Matt asked, wanting to talk and keep his mind off Linda being gone.

  “No. I looked at everyone who knew where Little was stashed, and came up blank.”

  “We have to nail him, Tom. If he’s in Santini’s pocket, then every move we make will be compromised. Get me a list of everybody who knew about the operation. Something might click. Or at least we can eliminate some of them and see what we’re left with.”

  Tom reached into a pocket and pulled out a couple of folded sheets of A4 copy paper. “I’m ahead of you,” he said.

  Matt gave him a quizzical look. “You said I was out of it. Why the change of heart?”

  “Because you’d go after it like a dog with a fucking bone. I don’t need a loose cannon, and anyway, being a victim makes you the only cop on the case I can really trust.”

  “That could be a false premise, Tom. It could have been me, or Donny, Bernie, Keith or Tony. The hitter wouldn’t have known or cared if he took Santini’s man out.”

  “You really think¯”

  “No, Tom. I don’t believe for a second it was one of the team. But I don’t know for a fact that it wasn’t. What about the cop on the inside? Hasn’t he heard anything?”

  Nick Marino was an undercover cop; a DC who had worked his way into Santini’s organisation. He was still on the bottom rung, little more than an errand boy and driver. It took time to build up trust and get anywhere near Santini, his son, and the inner circle that ran the show.

  “Not a whisper,” Tom said. “But there was a big party at Santini’s club on the night following the hit. It was common knowledge what they were celebrating. My man is all eyes and ears, but they don’t stay one foot ahead of us by running off at the mouth. It’s like a fucking Mafia family. They don’t trust their own shadows. They expect us to try and get close. Remember Joey?”

  Matt had met Joey Demaris a couple of times. He’d worked undercover, supposedly got close to one of Santini’s lieutenants, but had been sussed, and vanished. That had been over a year ago. Joey had been murdered, of that they were certain. But without a body there was nowhere to go. Joey was no doubt at the bottom of the Thames estuary wrapped in chicken wire and weighted with breeze blocks, or maybe in the foundations of a new high-rise office block. The possibilities were endless.

  “What’s the latest on the Page woman?” Matt asked.

  Penny Page had made good progress, physically, but had blanked out the incident; her mind closing down to escape the horror of what had happened.

  Tom scowled. “She’s in the Twilight Zone. The doctor says it’s disassociative amnesia. She doesn’t remember a thing. She’s a blank page, no pun intended.”

  “Do they expect her to get her memory back?”

  “You know how anal the medical profession can be. They let me in to see her, but it was like trying to interview a retard. The light was on, but nobody was at home. I feel sorry for her, but that doesn’t help us. A psychiatrist gave me a lot of psychobabble over how her mind had escaped from a situation that was untenable. She may not remember what went down for days, weeks or months, if ever.”

  “What about the baby? Maybe if he’s taken to her, she’d snap out of it.”

  “I put that to the doc. He said they don’t want to shock her out of whatever state she’s in; that it would be better if she came out of it naturally, when her brain is good and ready to deal with the situation.”

  “Is she under wraps?”

  “Yeah. We’ve kept it from the media so far, but it’ll leak, it always does.”

  “The hitter will kill her if he gets wind of where she is.”

  “I know. We plan on moving her to a private clinic. The bastard must have spoken to her. Whatever’s locked inside her skull could be priceless.”

  “Maybe. Though even a description wouldn’t necessarily help us find the shooter, or tie Santini to it. He could have flown him in from across the pond.”

  “That would be a good scenario for you and Penny Page, Matt. If he’s back in Chicago or somewhere, chugging Budweiser and watching baseball on TV, then you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  Matt had been looking through the names on the list as they talked. “The priority is digging out whoever served us up to the wop on a plate,” he said.

  “I’ve got Kenny Ruskin over in Computer Crime Section running a check. If anyone on that list is living above his means or looks dirty, Kenny will red flag him, or her.”

  Matt nodded. He suddenly wanted Tom to go. He felt sick and tired. His leg and side hurt, and the need for a Scotch or two, then bed, were becoming more attractive by the second.

  “I think I need to get some kip, Tom. I feel shot.”

  “You were shot, remember?”

  “Is that a poor attempt at humour?”

  Tom smiled. “I’ll make up the sofa bed, and then piss off.”

  “Thanks.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Tom was gone. Matt was sipping Black Label on the rocks. He put the glass down on the coffee table, drew the lounge curtains together, and then lay on the bed and closed his eyes. Sleep wouldn’t come. He missed Linda like hell. Without looking, he knew that her drawers and wardrobe would be empty. The bookshelves in the lounge were almost bare. She had taken all the material, personal items that had made the house a home. He didn’t collect anything. It made him a little sad to realise that he had made no time to read, rarely watched TV, and had no pastimes. Christ, he wasn’t even into sport. He’d played golf, badly, a decade earlier; his clubs were out in the garage, cobwebbed and rusting. It grieved him that he had driven Linda away. Their time together should have been more fulfilling. She had wanted...deserved more than a workaholic cop. It hit him surprisingly hard. He hadn’t got a life. The job was what fuelled and drove his engine. Now, shot-up and feeling totally pissed-off, he wished he’d nurtured their relationship. Nothing grows without sustenance. Love can wither and die like a plant starved of water. And a part of his mind admitted that his being a cop wasn’t making any real difference. The shit he dealt with every day didn’t go away. He had become like a hamster on a fucking wheel, and life was passing him by as he ran on the spot, getting nowhere fast. It struck him that Linda had been a trimming, to kid himself he was a regular guy. If he had really loved her, he would be hurting more, not just feeling sorry for himself. Oh, yes, he missed her, but not enough, or for the right reasons. On one level he knew she had done the best thing by moving on.

  He got up with difficulty. His side and back were sore and his leg ached. After pouring another Scotch he went through to the kitchen. Stared at the wall-mounted phone for over a minute before finally removing it from the cradle and dialling.

  After ten rings a weary voice answered. “Yeah.”

  “Hi, Dad. It’s Matt.”

  “You at home, yet?”

  “Yeah. They kicked me out this morning.”

  “So take a medical and walk. You don’t need to go back to it.”

  “And do what, Dad? You know what it’s like. You were a cop.”

  “I should’ve been something else. Maybe a plumber or a cabbie. You’re still young enough to get some sense and follow the money. You don’t get paid enough to be a target in a shooting gallery.”

  “How’re you feeling, Dad?” Matt asked, changing the subject.

  “How should I feel? I’ve not had a good night’s sleep since your mother died, God bless her,” His voice hitched. “I couldn’t get up to visit you in hospital, son. You understand, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. You phoned. I appreciated that. How’s the ticker?”

  “Still ticking, but it’ll get me sooner or later. Damn thing’s on bobbins.”

  “You should quit smoking and get out more. Walking and fresh air would help.”

  “You a cop, or a bloody quack?”

  “You’re right. We all have to do it our own way. It’ll be a few weeks before t
he cast comes off my leg. When it does, I’ll drive down and let you buy me a pint.”

  “Okay, son. How’s Linda? She making sure you rest up and give yourself a chance to heal properly?”

  Now wasn’t the time to discuss it. “She’s fine. I’ll give her your love.”

  “You do that. She’s too good for you.”

  “I know. I’ll call you in a day or two. Bye, Dad.”

  After racking the phone, Matt made coffee. The chat with his dad had not helped. He felt even more dejected than before. Arthur Barnes was a little remote, and always had been. He’d made sergeant, and then manned the front desk at Greenwich for the last fifteen years of his service, before retiring to a poxy flat in Hove that was set well back from the front on a narrow side street. The odd seagull sitting on a chimney pot or shitting down the window was the only visible clue to his being near the sea. And just twelve months into what should have been their ‘Golden Years’, Nancy Barnes had developed lung cancer and faded away within six weeks of being diagnosed. It was ironical. She had never smoked a fucking cigarette in her life.

  Arthur hadn’t dealt with it well. And within six months of Nancy passing, he had suffered a massive heart attack and undergone quadruple bypass surgery. Now, he was just waiting for the end, impatiently, as though death was little more than an overdue bus. He’d told Matt that if you had nothing to look forward to, and there was no more you wanted from life, then you were just like an empty Scotch bottle; a complete waste of fucking space.

  Back on the sofa bed, Matt fell asleep as he contemplated life and all its incongruous twists and turns. It was a rollercoaster, and he decided that all you could do was hang on tight and go with it. There was no getting off until it came to a stop.

  “MAATTT!” Bernie’s voice, as once again Matt was in the bungalow, feeling secure and in control of the situation. The slim figure appeared, and he froze his dream to study the face below the peak of the I ♥ NY baseball cap. Saw the first explosive flash from the silenced muzzle. The scenario that followed was a fabrication. He reached for his gun, and like Dirty Harry, cut the figure down in a hail of lead. But dreams were like movies; any comparison to reality was purely coincidental.

  Crying out, he reared up, bathed in sweat. It was as dark and quiet as a crypt. The panic ran its course and subsided, to be replaced by a searing anger. Purpose overcame all other emotions. Santini and his paid assassin were going down for what they had done. Tom was right, he was too close to the case. It was in his face; personal business. Only revenge would extinguish the fire that raged in his soul. And if he got his hands on the cop who’d sold them out, then he didn’t think he would be able to stop himself from ripping the no good bastard’s heart out with his bare hands.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  DOMINIC Santini was seated behind an oversize solid oak desk in his father’s office on the top floor of Rocco’s. His loafer-clad feet were up on the leather-bound blotter, ankles crossed. The room looked to be a throwback to Victorian times; dark, panelled walls that matched the desk. And opaque glass-masked wall lights, their glow a dull ivory creating soft-edged shadows that melted to black at the room’s edges.

  Rocco’s was a private gambling club off Wardour Street. The haunt of high-rollers. There were suites for the serious players, for whom booze, nose candy and even female or male company was laid on gratis, should they wish to partake. Inside, the club was as lavish as many of the joints on the Strip in Vegas; a magnet to both serious players and well-heeled celebrities visiting the capital.

  In the foyer – hung pride of place – was a poster-size photograph of Frank, pallying up to his namesake, Sinatra, who had played the tables for a couple of hours one evening back in the early eighties, after a gig at the New Festival Hall.

  The interior of Rocco’s was done in an Italianate motif, with gilded chandeliers and ornamentation. Frank had spared no expense to impress.

  “I got the cop here,” Eddie Costello said into the intercom on the outside of the office door.

  Dom pressed a button on the console in front of him. Detective Inspector Victor Pender entered nervously, with Eddie behind him.

  Take a load off, Vic,” Dom said, sitting up and placing his feet on the floor, nodding to the dark green upholstered chair facing him.

  “I don’t like this, Dom. What if someone saw me come up here?” Vic said, lowering himself onto the edge of the seat, feeling as uncomfortable as he looked.

  Dom’s smile resembled an animal’s snarl. “What you do or don’t like counts for shit, Vic. If I snap my fingers, you jump. That’s the way it is, so don’t whine.”

  “Your father¯”

  “My father owns your chickenshit arse, Pender, which means I do, too.”

  Vic’s head dropped and his shoulders slumped. He sighed audibly, and then waited to be told why he had been summoned.

  “That’s better, Vic. You gotta get a philosophy. Realise that you reap what you sow in life,” Dom said, motioning for Eddie to get them a drink from the well-stocked corner bar.

  “So what’s the problem?” Vic asked, taking the proffered Scotch from Santini junior’s goon.

  “You tell me. Because I hear that the cop who survived when Lester was creamed isn’t going to leave it alone. And that the woman from next door to the safe house is also pulling through.”

  Vic fidgeted, pulled at the knees of his trousers. Shuffled his feet. “There’s no sweat, Dom, believe me. The cop, Barnes, is out of the loop, and he’s hurting. He lost a kidney and can’t walk without a crutch. He got a look at a baseball cap and a gun. There’s no way he can identify the shooter.”

  “And the woman?”

  “She’s cabbaged. They moved her to a private clinic, but she doesn’t even know her own name. She’s a pot noodle.”

  “Okay, Vic, stay on top of it. If this...Barnes saw more than you say, then he gets to lose his other kidney. So keep him out of it, or order a wreath.”

  “I’m not his boss. I¯”

  “Don’t start getting fucking negative, Vic. Just use your limited initiative,” Dom said, putting his glass down and standing up to signal that the meeting was at an end. “Why don’t you go and relax...Play a little roulette? Eddie will organise a few chips to set you up. Have some fun.”

  Vic went downstairs, but didn’t take Dom up on his offer. He walked through the casino, ignoring the sound of dice being thrown, the ball careering around a roulette wheel, and the non-stop metallic clunks of fruit machines being worked. The allure of all this shit was the reason he had become bought and paid for by Frank Santini in the first place.

  Walking out onto Wardour Street, he moved quickly away from the club, head down, staying close to the buildings and praying that no one he knew spotted him.

  Just a slight, nondescript looking man, Vic Pender was in a hole that he couldn’t climb, buy or talk his way out of. He had somehow run up a marker for forty grand at another West End club as he tried to play his way out of debt with the dumbfuck optimism that always keeps gamblers coming back to the well for more heartache.

  Stopping in shadow, Vic lit a cigarette with shaking hands as he recalled the night his life had changed forever. He had parked the car in the drive of his semi at Feltham, opened the garage and been braced by two thugs who appeared from nowhere to push him inside and pull down the up-and-over door. That was when he was read the gospel according to St Francis Mario Santini.

  “Say your prayers, copper,” Eddie Costello had said, pressing the muzzle of a gun to his temple as the other gorilla gripped him by the neck and forced him to his knees.

  Vic still had nightmares in which he heard the crisp metallic click as Eddie pulled the trigger on an empty chamber, and the resulting laughter of the two greaseballs as a stain spread out on the front of his pants.

  “Here’s how it is, Pender,” Eddie had said. “Mr. Santini bought your marker, so you now owe him forty big ones, plus interest. Call in Rocco’s tomorrow at n
oon, and Mr. S will see what he can do to help you straighten things out.”

  Christ, how had it come to this? He’d gone to the club as instructed. Been told by Santini that for just a little intel here and there, he could soon wipe out the debt. And that was it; he’d stepped over what had always been a hard line, and got in way too deep. Had even given up Joey Demaris to clear the books and get out from under the cosh. But that had just been the beginning. Frank Santini had made it clear that it was in Vic’s best interest to stay on the winning side.

  “If I go down, you go down harder,” Frank said at the dockland warehouse where Vic had been taken to witness the demise of the undercover cop he had sold out.

  He had openly wept as Joey – his mouth taped and arms bound – looked at him, accusation mingling with fear in eyes that were little more than slits in bruised, torn and swollen flesh.

  Vic had watched, mortified, as the young cop was beaten to a bloody pulp by four men wearing overalls and wielding pickaxe handles.

  It had been Dominic who had performed the coup de gráce, cutting Joey’s throat, even though his multiple injuries had rendered him unconscious.

  “Now you’ve been blooded, so to speak,” Frank had said. “This is what happens to anyone who acts against me in word or deed. I want you to know that you work for me now, Victor. You’re in up to your traitorous fuckin’ neck. And if you get noble and try to do the right thing, just remember tonight. What happened to this piece of garbage can happen to your wife, daughter, and everyone you care about. Capite cosa intendo?”

  Oh, yeah, Vic understood all too well. Only by feeding Santini with any intelligence that might harm the organisation, would he be able to keep his family alive and his arse out of prison, which was not a place a cop wanted it to be. Suicide was an option he had considered at least once every day, though he did not possess the strength of character to do what he believed would be the right thing. It would be a pointless exercise. He couldn’t even leave incriminating evidence behind to bring the gangster down. His family would only be victimised by proxy. There was no way out of the shit-pile he’d jumped into.