Epsilon Creed (Joe Venn Crime Action Thriller Series Book 5)

by Tim Stevens

  The second thing that happened was that the hostage with the eyepatch was flung violently forward.

  Harmony leaped up from behind the banister and yelled, “No, dammit,” and fired, at the same time as the window at the end of the corridor exploded outward.

  Venn whipped his head round to see the eyepatch guy stagger and fall forward onto the linoleum.

  The gunman, Micky, had gone through the window.

  To Harmony, Venn yelled: “You hit him?”

  “No.”

  Venn ran toward the staircase, shouldering past Harmony. He took the stairs four at a time, reaching the first floor and struggling for a moment with the release button of the main door to the building and bursting out onto the street.

  He stared around, trying to orient himself. He ran to the corner of the block and saw the alleyway down the side, strewn with broken glass. A dumpster piled high with overflowing garbage was directly below the shattered window.

  Venn sprinted to the dumpster and jumped up to look inside, his gun aimed. There was nobody there.

  He ran down the alleyway, in the direction Micky must have taken because he hadn’t emerged into the main street or else Venn would have spotted him. The alley opened up into a sunlit road behind the block.

  Venn looked left and right. Cars eased past in both directions.

  He stared at the sidewalk. There was no blood, no trail of crud from the dumpster to give him a clue where the guy had gone.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said through clenched teeth.

  He pulled out his phone and punched in to dispatch. Yelled his location and a description of Micky.

  But he knew he’d lost him.

  Chapter 18

  Mrs Ho sat with a uniformed policewoman on the bamboo couch. Her wails had dwindled to a shuddering, tearless sobbing which was in some ways more distressing to behold.

  One of the four patrolmen who’d responded gazed at the body inside the doorway, then at the guy with the eyepatch, who lay facedown and cuffed in the corridor. The cop looked perplexed, as if he was trying to compute the sequence of events.

  “You say this guy was the hostage?” He pointed to the man with the eyepatch.

  “Yeah.” Venn didn’t feel like answering questions. He had an almost overwhelming urge to go back out on the street and start running, as if he’d find the gunman that way somehow.

  “So how come you got him cuffed?” asked the cop.

  Harmony, who was standing around looking pissed off, said: “Because he was with the gunman.”

  The cop said, “Huh?”

  Venn ignored the cop and, for want of anything better to do, went into the apartment. Mrs Ho looked up at him in terror.

  The policewoman with her was Chinese-American herself. She said, “The man with the one eye is her son, Charles.”

  Venn said, “Tell her he’s unhurt. But we’re arresting him on a charge of attempted murder.”

  The cop spoke quickly. Mrs Ho buried her face in her hands and began howling once more.

  “Ask her if she knows the dead guy,” said Venn. “Or the one that got away. Micky, I believe he’s called.”

  Mrs Ho didn’t wait for the policewoman to address her in Mandarin. She peered up at Venn above her fingers and said, “Micky Wong. He bad kid. Lead my Charles astray.”

  Micky Wong. Michael Wong. The other man who’d been linked to the Triads.

  “Where does he live?” said Venn. “Do you know?”

  Mrs Ho shook her head.

  Venn spoke into his phone as soon as dispatch picked it up. “This is Venn again. We have a possible home address for the escaped perp.” He listed the address Fil had found. It was an old one, and might not be current, but it was something, at least.

  Venn tipped his head at the dead man in the doorway. “And him?”

  “Don’t know him.”

  Venn’s phone rang just then. He stepped away into the cluttered kitchen.

  “Yeah.”

  “Venn, it’s Harpin. We got a break.”

  Venn looked back through into the living room, where the woman cop was doing her best to comfort Mrs Ho.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “You okay?” said Harpin. “You sound a little... tense.”

  “I’m fine,” said Venn. “Tell you about it later. What you got?”

  “Another case of poisoning,” said Harpin. “One of the catering staff at Torvald’s fundraiser. A man named Harold P. Stubbs.”

  “Poisoning? The same kind as Ignatowski?”

  “The same,” said Harpin. “He was a waiter. Started feeling sick in the early hours of Saturday morning. His wife got him to hospital. Guy died last night. Bled out. The doctors hadn’t seen anything like it. Well, they got the autopsy result, the tox part, this afternoon. Same poison as ours. We’d put out an alert for any cases of the same agent to be notified to us ASAP.”

  “Smart,” said Venn. “So that means Ignatowski almost certainly was poisoned at the fundraiser.”

  “Looks that way,” agreed Harpin. “I’m guessing this Stubbs guy was tidying up or something, and found the glass with Ignatowski’s drink, with some left over. He decided to swig it.”

  “You serious?” said Venn.

  “My daughter works as a waitress during the college vacations,” said Harpin. “She says it’s common practice among certain of her fellow wait staff to partake of the leftovers like that. Desserts, sandwiches. Booze, especially.”

  “Huh,” said Venn. “Okay. That’s good. So we know Ignatowski was probably poisoned at Torvald’s bash. You identify any likely suspects among the list of attendees?”

  “What do you think?” Harpin sounded despondent again. “It’s like needles and haystacks. Has your data guy come up with anything?”

  “Not yet.” One of the uniformed cops was hovering nearby, trying to get Venn’s attention. Venn said, “Listen, I gotta go, Harpin. Catch up with you later.”

  “What’s going on your end?” said Harpin. “I can hear somebody crying.”

  “Domestic incident,” said Venn.

  He turned to the patrolman, who said: “Ambulance is here, Detective. You want your prisoner to ride with them?”

  “He’s fine,” said Venn. “Let’s take him straight to your precinct house.”

  *

  Charles Ho held out for forty-five minutes, but his heart wasn’t in it.

  All through the interrogation, Venn could see the conflicting emotions wrestle their way across the young man’s disfigured face. When the cops reminded him of how Micky Wong had taken him hostage, his brow creased in hurt and anger. But whenever they asked him what Wong had been doing outside the gallery last night, a studied blankness came down, as if loyalty to his boss had got the better of him.

  Venn and Harmony and two of the local precinct detectives carried out the interrogation. The local cops were at first annoyed by Venn’s presence, but they grudgingly agreed that he and his partner could be in on the questioning, since they’d been the ones under fire.

  Charles Ho sat at the small, bolted-down table with his hands folded tightly in front of him. His wrists were raw and red from the cuffs, where they’d chafed as he’d struggled against them. Apart from that, though, he’d offered up little resistance when Harmony had cuffed him and when he’d been loaded into one of the patrol cars. His gaze was intermittent, with his eyes occasionally glowering at each cop in turn as he or she questioned him but mostly directed at the table top. His lawyer sat beside him, a fellow Chinese-American.

  “What’s your relationship with Micky Wong?” said Venn.

  Ho said nothing.

  One of the local detectives said: “What’s the name of the dead man? The one Detective Venn shot?”

  Again, nothing from Ho.

  Harmony sighed. “The guy sold you out, Charles. He held you in front of him as a human shield. You don’t owe him anything. He’s an asshole.”

  Ho was silent.

  Venn said: “What happened
to your eye?”

  Ho shot him a furious look with his good eye.

  The lawyer, a public defender who looked bored, piped up at Ho’s side: “This is badgering. Allow my client to answer, please.”

  “He’s being given plenty of opportunity to answer,” said the other precinct detective. “He’s just choosing not to. You might want to advise him that it’s in his best interests to cooperate, Counselor.”

  “Where were you last night at around nine p.m.?” asked Venn.

  Ho didn’t reply.

  “Because we have a positive ID on Micky Wong outside the Desiderata Gallery. The person who made that ID is me. I was there. He opened fire on me with an automatic weapon.” Venn took a step closer to the table. “Any of this sound familiar, Charles? Any of it resonate?”

  Ho didn’t look at him.

  “Because what happened last night was attempted murder of a police officer,” said Venn, lowering his voice while infusing it with menace. “You know the penalties for that kind of gig? Even if you weren’t present, if you knew about it you’re aiding and abetting. You’re looking at some serious jail time.”

  “Why are you selling yourself short like this?” said Harmony. “You prepared to go to jail to protect this piece of crap, this Micky? You think he’ll be grateful to you? After what he did today, nearly getting you killed?”

  They went on in similar vein for three quarters of an hour. Venn, who’d sat down, stood up again, noisily pushing his chair back.

  “Okay. Enough.” He looked at the detectives. “It’s your baby, but if I were you I’d book him on obstruction of justice. You’ve got him there, and you’ll gradually prize the rest out of him.”

  “Might take a couple days,” remarked the cop.

  “Couple of days without much sleep on our part,” said the other. “Or on Charlie’s.”

  The four of them began to move toward the door.

  Ho raised his head. He said, “Wait.”

  Even the public defender looked surprised to hear him speak.

  Ho said, “I’ll deal.”

  “Deal,” said Venn.

  Ho glared at him sullenly through his one eye. “Complete immunity.”

  One of the precinct cops laughed. “No chance.”

  Venn looked at him. The cop shifted uncomfortably. “But we can talk to the DA. How far you can plea-bargain down depends on exactly what it is you’ve done.”

  Ho watched each of the four detectives in turn.

  “Charles,” murmured the PD. “You don’t have to say -”

  “The target last night at the gallery was the artist,” said Ho flatly. “Louis Q. Mykels.”

  After that, it came out fairly straightforwardly. Micky Wong was the leader of the Shadow Dragon Triad. They were a small and relatively new outfit, with access to high-end arms from suppliers in Hong Kong who were willing to grant donations of weapons to fledgling and promising gangs.

  “Kind of like seed funding,” remarked one of the precinct cops later.

  Wong had received a commission from an unknown individual on Friday, two days ago. The man had wanted Mykels to be taken out, and had directed Wong and his men to the gallery where his exhibition was opening.

  “Who was this guy?” said Venn.

  “I don’t know.” Ho sounded convincing.

  “But Wong knows?”

  Ho shrugged. “Probably, yes. But he didn’t share it with us.”

  “You ever hear this guy speak?” Harmony asked.

  “No. He only ever talked with Micky.”

  “I mean, were you ever near Micky when the guy called? Did you overhear his voice, even if you couldn’t make out what he said? Was he young, old? Did he have an accent?”

  “No,” said Ho. “I never caught anything like that.”

  “How much did he offer Wong?” asked Venn.

  “Half a million. Ten per cent up front, which he deposited in the bank account Micky uses. Micky checked, and it was there. The guy was legit.”

  A half mil, thought Venn. Not exactly chump change.

  Ho gave up the names of the other men in the Shadow Dragon Triad. There were thirty-four in all, minus James Xing and Tyrus Yee who’d been killed the night before. The one Venn had shot back in the apartment was Stephen Smith.

  “And Johnny Lee,” said Ho. “He’s one of Micky’s drivers. He was out with us today, riding backup. Micky most likely escaped with him.” He told them Lee drove a Honda Civic, though he couldn’t recall the license plate number.

  “What did this mystery caller have to say when he learned you guys had screwed up?” asked Harmony. “That you hadn’t managed to whack Mykels? Or haven’t you talked to him yet?”

  “Oh yeah,” said Ho, and Venn thought he looked a little smug. “Micky spoke with him this morning. The guy gave us Mykels’ home address. Told us to get the job done properly this time if we wanted the rest of the money.”

  Yes, the hoodlum swagger was definitely back, even if only partially.

  Ho added, “We were just on our way to Mykels’ place when I got your call about my mom.”

  Venn watched him for all of five seconds, this messed-up kid, this wannabe wiseguy.

  He decided Ho was telling the truth.

  Which meant Micky Wong would be on his way to finish the job.

  Venn was out the door and mounting the fire stars of the precinct three at a time before he saw he had reception on his cell phone.

  He found the business card Louis Q. Mykels had given him the night before, and he dialed the cell number on it.

  Hoping he wasn’t too late.

  Chapter 19

  Mykels’ apartment was on the Upper East Side, in a quiet square well back from the main avenues. Micky glanced around at the mish-mash of buildings lining the square. He didn’t know a lot about architectural style, but he understood the concept of self-consciously arty. It was just the kind of neighborhood an asshole painter would choose to live in.

  For the third time, Johnny Lee, who was driving, asked: “You sure this is wise, Micky?”, and for the third time, Micky told him to shut up.

  He was pumped on adrenaline, was Micky, so that he felt like he was being born aloft on a cushion of air. He was invincible. Not only had he survived a shoot-out with two cops, he’d gotten away through a window without being hurt and had made his escape in Johnny’s Honda before the dumb pigs could even see where he’d gone.

  Despite Micky’s loyalty to China, the mighty land of his forefathers, his knowledge of its history and traditions was workmanlike at best. But he thought there might be something in the notion of the actions of one generation having an effect on its successors. Maybe his ancestors had been heroes, and had pleased the gods. Maybe the gods were now looking down favorably on him, Micky Wong.

  Johnny had tried to argue him out of continuing to Mykels’ apartment, especially after Micky had filled him in on what had happened back at Charles’ mom’s place.

  “You say they got Charles?” Johnny said, as he navigated out of Chinatown.

  “Yeah,” said Micky.

  “Got him alive?”

  “I said yes.”

  Johnny shook his head. “They’ll make him talk, man. He’ll squeal like a canary. He’ll tell them all about the Mykels hit. They’ll have that place locked down faster than Mexican food through a tourist’s guts.”

  “Not if we get there quick enough,” snarled Micky, suddenly irritated. He was boss. “Now step on the goddamn gas.”

  Johnny fell silent for a few moments. Then: “This was supposed to be a recon trip. We don’t even know if Mykels is home.”

  “If he isn’t, we sit there and wait for him.”

  “But that’ll give the cops more time to -”

  Micky pressed the muzzle of the QSZ-92 against Johnny’s neck. “I’ll drive myself, if I have to,” he said.

  The apartment block which housed Mykels’ place was on a corner of the square. Micky told Johnny to pull in diagonally across from it. The c
enter of the square contained a small, well-tended park, with few enough trees that Micky had a good view of the block from the car.

  He knew Mykels occupied a loft apartment, just like you’d expect an artist to. He’d have valuables in there, in the form of his own artwork if nothing else, and so the alarm system would be sophisticated.

  Ordinarily, Micky would have approached a hit in a swanky neighborhood like this by posing as that most acceptable of interlopers, a delivery guy from a Chinese takeout restaurant. The problem was, Mykels knew the men who’d tried to hit him the night before were Chinese, so anybody of that ethnicity who was sighted in the vicinity of Mykels’ apartment would automatically attract suspicion. Which meant Micky couldn’t simply walk up to the door and press the buzzer. There’d probably be some kind of camera monitoring the front of the building.

  Fortunately, Micky had a skill to fall back on. The skill which had enabled him to finance the building of the Shadow Dragon Triad in the first place.

  Micky was a cat burglar. He’d ripped off seventeen homes in total over the past eight years, starting with practice runs on the crappy apartments in Chinatown’s less salubrious neighborhoods and gradually working his way up the scale to places in the Villages, Washington Heights, and TriBeCa. He’d come close to getting caught on three occasions, once by a homeowner who wasn’t supposed to be there and had surprised Micky with a show of opposition which had led to the guy bleeding out all over his Persian rug with a slashed throat. That one had pissed Micky off. The rug had looked valuable.

  This time, Micky very much hoped the owner of the apartment was home.

  Beside him, Johnny Lee said, “You want I should call some of the other guys? For backup?”

  A small voice in Micky’s head told him that yes, backup would be a very good idea, that he was crazy even to consider breaking into Mykels’ apartment on his own. But Micky was still coasting on the rush which had set in during the shootout back at Mrs Ho’s apartment, and though he wasn’t entirely blinded by euphoria, he felt bulletproof in a way he never had before.