A Man's Partner: A Detective Jericho Single

by Walter Marks

  There, in upraised type, he saw the letters QINDA. For a few seconds they meant nothing to him. Then suddenly they meant everything: Q (Queens, the borough), IND (Independent Subway System), A (the A line). Beneath this manhole was the A line stop at the 76th Street Station!

  Jericho walked back to his car, took out his phone, and brought up the Urban Architecture photo.

  It showed the center of the station, photographed from the west. There was a staircase leading up to the street, where the subway entrance would have been.

  With a bit of tunneling, Jericho thought, those stairs could now lead directly into the BBS building.

  The photographer probably climbed down to the station through the same manhole I’ve just discovered. If I can get it open, I can do the same thing.

  He started his engine and drove up alongside the manhole. He stopped, leaving just a narrow space between him and the cars parked at the curb. Confident he couldn’t be seen, he grabbed his tire iron. Squeezing between the two cars, he looked down and saw the manhole had two grooved notches on the outer edges of it.

  He inserted his tire iron into a groove and pried up. At first the metal plate didn’t budge, but after using his foot for additional leverage, it raised up.

  He shoved the manhole cover off to the side and peered down. He could see an iron ladder descending into the darkness below.

  Staring into the hole he wondered if Mouse had gotten this far in his investigation. Did he venture down into that mysterious blackness? And if so, what did he find?

  It’ll take some careful planning before I go down there. It’s gotta be done in the dead of night, with the right gear. Tonight is too soon, I’ve got Mouse’s funeral ceremony to cope with, and then I’ll want to spend some time with the family.

  Tomorrow night. I’ll do it tomorrow night.

  The ceremony in Mouse’s backyard garden was very simple. Keisha and her sons were there, along with Keisha’s sister, Mouse’s aunt, and a couple of neighbors.

  The younger son, Kwame, asked if he could dig the hole. He picked up a shovel and, with great care, he made the excavation.

  His older brother, Darius, lifted the little pine tree and gently placed it in the hole.

  Keisha opened the urn with her husband’s ashes, knelt down and slowly let them sprinkle into the shallow burial site.

  Jericho took up the shovel and filled it with soil.

  Keisha took a watering can and moistened the soil around the tree. Then she lovingly patted the dirt, as if to say, Michael, you’re safe now.

  Her eyes were brimming with tears as she turned to Jericho.

  “Could you...could you say a few words?”

  Jericho didn’t want to, but he knew he had to. His mind raced, but he couldn’t find the words.

  Keisha spoke to him softly. “Just tell us what comes to your mind when you think of Michael.”

  “...Well, for one thing, he had a lot of names,” Jericho said. “He was Michael to his wife, and Pop to his sons. In high school, he was known as Mickey, so when he joined the Force, the guys started calling him Mickey, then Mickey Mouse. Then just plain Mouse.”

  “Why Mickey Mouse?” Darius asked.

  “They were goofing on him — it was a funny-sounding name,” Jericho said. “But look, the Disney cartoon character we all grew up with, he was rambunctious and mischievous. But he was basically good-hearted and righteous. That was your dad to a tee.”

  They all smiled.

  “I’d like to say one more thing,” Jericho said. “I hope someday we’ll all understand why… Michael did what he did. But one thing I do know: He was a man of honor who cared about his family more than anything in this world. Let’s remember him that way.”

  As if on cue, they all started walking back to the house. The women hugged Jericho and one of the men shook Jericho’s hand, saying the traditional and emotionally vapid: “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Jericho put his arm around Kwame.

  “How’s your wrist feeling? I see the brace is off.”

  “Much better, thanks.”

  “You might have an accident claim,” Jericho said. “Did you get the plate number of the car that clipped you?”

  “It was a truck. And no, it happened so fast. All I remember is — it was white. Oh, and it was one of those, y’know, small delivery trucks.”

  Jericho thought for a moment. “Could it have been a panel truck?”

  “Coulda been.”

  “And it was white?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell me something,“ Jericho said. “Did you notice if it had a logo on the side of it. Possibly...BBS?”

  Kwame’s eyes widened. “Geez, I remember now — yeah, BBS. How the heck did you know that?”

  Jericho smiled. “I’m a detective.”

  And then Jericho’s detective’s mind played out a frightening possible scenario:

  El Picador found out that Mouse was investigating him. And he had to be stopped.

  The Mexican gang boss wanted to demonstrate he had the power to hurt Mouse’s family, so he sent one of his trucks to inflict pain on his son.

  Could El Picador have used that threat to force Mouse to write a suicide note and then shoot himself?

  El Picador is a sadistic monster. I can just hear him telling Mouse, “Do as I say or your family will suffer and die in ways too painful to imagine.”

  It was hard for Jericho to get his head around this. But it was certainly an understandable motive for his ex-partner to take his own life.

  It was terrifying, it was tragic — but it was entirely possible.

  CHAPTER 18.

  The following afternoon, Jericho went down to the Galaxy Army Navy Store on West 30th Street. It was a place where NYPD cops often bought gear, stuff they either needed or wanted, paid for out of their own pockets.

  Jericho entered the store, passing under the blue awning printed with the words clothing*footwear*bags*police*military.

  The place was jammed with racks featuring combat and field outfits of every size and style, the shelves loaded with hats, helmets, footwear, duffels, and cardboard boxes marked with felt pens.

  The guy behind the counter was wearing a khaki WWII vintage army shirt with sergeant stripes. His buzz-cut hairdo completed his macho military look.

  Fortunately for Jericho, the clerk knew his inventory very well. When Jericho said he’d be exploring an underground tunnel, the clerk recommended Reebok Rapid Response waterproof combat boots and Oakley lightweight mission gloves.

  But his eyes really lit up when Jericho asked to see a flashlight. He pulled one out of a cardboard box behind him and waved it at Jericho.

  “Blackhawk Military Tactical Flashlight,” said. “Rugged, waterproof, and dig: four settings — Low, Medium, High, and... Strobe.” He pushed “Strobe” and swept the light around the store. The rapidly flashing, dizzying lights bounced off the walls, causing Jericho to shield his eyes and turn away.

  “You don’t want to be on the receiving end of this,” the clerk said. “It’ll fry your eyeballs and jangle your brain-cells.”

  “I can see that.”

  “The effect lasts about thirty seconds,” the clerk said. “People shut their eyes when the strobe hits ‘em ‑ but they still get totally disoriented, and that gives you time to either shoot ‘em or get the hell outta there.”

  “I’ll take it,” Jericho said.

  “You may want a flashlight holster — attaches to your belt.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Three hundred thirty bucks,” the clerk said. “Cash or credit?”

  “Cash,” Jericho said. He had plenty since there’d been no need to pay Rosie.

  He took out his wallet and paid. “Throw it all in a shopping bag and I’ll be on my way.”

  “You a cop?”

  “Nah. Private citizen.”

  “You’re a cop. I was an MP at Fort Bragg, so I can always tell.”

  Jericho smiled as he walked towards th
e door. “I have the right to remain silent.”

  The rest of the day seemed endless for Jericho. He was so jacked about his upcoming mission; it was all he could think about.

  The walk back to his hotel took over an hour, but he was unaware of the people or places he passed.

  When he got to his room, he put on his new combat boots and mission gloves. He strapped on his Beretta, then looped his belt through the flashlight holster and inserted the tactical flashlight.

  He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, drew out the flashlight and pointed it at himself. Suddenly he remembered De Niro in Taxi Driver and turned away in embarrassment.

  He sat down on the bed and practiced using the various modes of the flashlight. He knew he might need to move quickly from one setting to another. It took him about fifteen minutes before he had it down pat.

  He turned on the TV and channel-surfed through talk shows, daytime dramas, sitcom re-runs, news, and infomercials.

  At dinner time he went out to a pizza joint and treated himself. It was far outside his dietary guidelines but he simply needed comfort food.

  Back at the hotel he thought about calling Rainbow but realized he was too stressed and preoccupied to have a casual conversation. Also she’d surely pick up on his tension and he didn’t want to worry her.

  His plan was to carry out this operation at four in the morning, when there was the least chance of being caught. In order to be fresh at that hour, he thought he’d take a little nap.

  He lay down and tried, but his mind was in overdrive — what if lose my footing climbing down there? What if I can’t find my way in the dark? What if I don’t find anything? What if there are guards? What if I get caught?

  I’m breaking the rules every detective knows; never go into a situation without backup, always be clear what your goal is, never take unnecessary chances, never act unlawfully or it will invalidate whatever facts you uncover.

  Sleep was impossible. He turned on the TV again and saw there was a Mets game on. Being a fan, he finally found some distraction in listening to the color commentators as they discussed backdoor sliders, twin killings, and the suicide squeeze. The Mets lost in the ninth inning, due to a miscue and a blown save.

  When it was finally time to get ready, Jericho felt a bit drowsy. He took a shower, alternating hot and cold, then made a glass of extra strong instant coffee mixed with hot tap water.

  He got all his gear together and left the hotel, passing the night clerk who was dozing in his chair.

  He walked the quiet, empty streets on the way to the garage. There was something surreal about the city at this hour — he felt like he was drifting through a dreamscape.

  At the garage, the attendant brought up his car. He got in and headed out to Ozone Park.

  He made it in thirty minutes. At that hour, there was virtually no traffic.

  CHAPTER 19.

  Jericho drove west on 106th Avenue and parked just behind the manhole cover. He got out of the car and looked around.

  The only street lamp was at the 76th Street intersection, its faint pinkish glow too far away to shed much light on the area. Fortunately, the buildings around him were all dark — the church and rectory on one side of the street, the row of stores on the other.

  He checked his gear. His flashlight and gun were in their respective holsters. His combat boots were a little tight but they were okay. Putting on his mission gloves, he grabbed his tire iron from the back seat and walked over to the manhole cover.

  He took out the flashlight, set it to low and placed it on the blacktop, where its light illuminated the round, heavy iron plate.

  Laboriously he pried it up and shoved it aside. Then he used his flashlight to peer into the hole. All he could see was a ladder leading down into blackness.

  Holding the flashlight in his left hand, he lowered himself down onto the ladder. Thankfully, it had a handrail. Step by step, he began to descend. His right hand kept a tight grip on the rail, while his feet felt around below him, testing each rung’s stability.

  He counted the steps as he went down. After fifty-two steps, his feet touched bottom. He’d landed on solid, but muddy ground.

  The air smelled dank, like a stagnant swamp.

  Using his flashlight, he looked around and tried to get his bearings. Suddenly he saw three pairs of pinpoint lights, gleaming in the darkness. Then there was a scuffling sound and they were gone. Rats! Jericho shuddered.

  As his eyes got accustomed to the dark, he seemed to be standing in some kind of moat. Then he realized he was on the subway track-bed.

  About five feet above him was the subway platform. He grabbed hold of the edge, hoisted himself up, then shimmied his body across the platform’s surface.

  When he stood up, Jericho could see he was close to where the archive photo of the station had been taken. But he was further back on the platform. It was dark where he stood, but looking east, about thirty yards from him, there were overhead lights. The same distance beyond that was a stairway leading up to the street level.

  There didn’t seem to be anyone around. He moved behind a rectangular pillar with a tiled sign reading 76th St. Staying absolutely still, he listened for any sound of activity, then looked out, checking to see if the area was deserted.

  Satisfied the coast was clear, he began to move cautiously forward. He kept the flashlight in low mode, yielding just enough light for him to see where he was stepping.

  When he got to the area illuminated by overhead lights, he turned off his flashlight.

  Again he looked around. Nobody.

  Along the left side of the platform, he saw a long row of stacked modular storage bins, exactly like those advertised by Ikea. Everything was neatly labeled, apparently by a label maker.

  Over one large section was a sign with the letter H on it. In the bins were plastic bags Jericho recognized as various forms of heroin — black, brown, and Columbian white. The bags themselves had street names: Obamacare, KFC, Taylor Swiftie, KKK, LeBron.

  Jericho moved on to the next section marked U. It contained bags of assorted uppers — cocaine, crack, and amphetamine.

  Under W were big garbage bags and small plastic bags filled with assorted quantities of weed and hash.

  The M bins held packages of methamphetamines — speed, crank, and ice.

  There were other sections containing club drugs like Ecstasy, MDMA, GHB, LSD, and Rophies, prescription drugs like Vicodin and Percocet, and hallucinogens such as LSD and mescaline.

  The enormous quantity and variety of drugs on display was astounding, even to a veteran detective.

  Jericho saw he was now about twenty yards from the stairway.

  A faint but acrid, ammonia smell of cat urine suddenly assailed his nostrils. He quickly recognized it as the smell of a meth lab, the result of “cooking” ingredients like paint thinner, sulfuric acid, drain cleaner, and cough medicine.

  The odor was coming from the subway platform beyond the stairway. He couldn’t see the lab very well, but he could make out a few tables and jars. There was no movement; like the storage area, it seemed to be shut down for the night.

  Across from him, Jericho noticed a five-foot-high steel safe, with three separate digital locks. He was crossing over to check it out when he heard a clattering noise. He looked up and saw two men, storming down the stairway. Both carried semi-automatic pistols with extended magazines.

  Jericho ducked behind the safe. He peeked out and watched them.

  “...You sure somebody’s down here?”

  “I saw somethin’ movin’ on the camera.”

  “Yeah, but c’mon,” the first man said. “You think the cops are crazy enough to send another guy down here, after we caught that dickhead just last week?”

  “Cops have shit for brains,” the other man said. “Anyway, Zambada will turn us into pin cushions if we mess up.”

  “Okay, where’d you see somethin’ movin’? The meth lab?”

  “No.” He pointed in Jericho’
s direction. “This side.”

  “All right. Let’s check it out!”

  The two men took out flashlights, raised their guns into firing position and started moving towards Jericho.

  The detective dropped prone on the platform. Cautiously he worked his way over to the edge, swung his body down, and dropped onto the subway track bed.

  He could see their flashlight beams swinging back and forth on the tunnel wall as they approached him.

  Laying down on the fetid, muddy ground, he felt the wetness seeping into his clothes. He struggled just to keep his face out of it.

  He rolled under the ledge of the platform. They’d have to lean over and shine their lights directly down on his hiding place to find him.

  The men passed above him.

  “I don’t see shit,” one of them said.

  “Be careful. He could jump outta the shadows, or shoot us from wherever the

  hell he is.”

  “If there’s even anybody down here.”

  “Let’s spray the whole fuckin’ area with bullets. That’ll either kill him or scare him

  outta hiding.”

  “Good idea, dude.”

  “Ready. Aim. Fire!”

  A barrage of shots rang out, echoing off the subway walls. Jericho hunkered down, the hellish din blasting his eardrums. Bullets were ricocheting everywhere.

  Shit! Jericho thought. Must be those damn Glock thirty-three round magazines.

  The fusillade finally stopped. After a few moments of silence, Jericho could hear them speaking. He guessed they were about twenty yards past him.

  “Fuck it. The boss ain’t payin’ me enough to cope with this shit.”

  “Yeah, but if somebody’s down here and we don’t catch him, we’re dead meat.”

  “All right, let’s go back to the stairway, sit down and keep watch. If we see anything, or hear anything, we’ll start shootin’ again. And we’ll keep our flashlights trained on the tunnel.”