by Tim Stevens
Silence.
At the end of the corridor was a door, slightly open. He reached it, squinted through the crack. He made out some kind of office, with the corner of a desk and half a filing cabinet.
Well, he’d lost the element of surprise. So he’d have to rely on noise and fury and overwhelming force.
Venn raised a foot and kicked at the door and lunged into the room, roaring, “Police. Get your hands up,” swinging the gun in a tight back-and-forth arc.
His peripheral vision caught the shape of a man to his right, just inside the doorway. He registered that the guy was white, young, slight of build.
Then the guy Maced him.
Chapter 5
Venn considered his first proper meeting with Beth to be the time he’d taken her hostage. But in actual fact, their first encounter had been earlier that night, when he’d approached her to help her as she fled a man who was trying to kill her, and thinking Venn was also a threat she’d sprayed Mace in his face.
Now, here in this dingy abandoned office, it was happening again.
Venn acted quickly enough to avert his face and squeeze his eyes tight shut, and thereby avoided the full force of the spray. Plus, the guy’s aim was off, and the nozzle was turned a fraction to one side. Still, the blast of wet air took immediate effect, burning Venn’s eyes and nasal lining and throat, and he brought up a sleeve and gagged on it.
But he cracked his eyes open, saw the guy bolt for the doorway, and Venn made a grab for him. With his vision blurring, his judgment of distances was impaired, and he felt the guy brush past his fingers.
Venn stumbled out the doorway after the kid, saw his thin frame weaving in the corridor ahead through waves of tears. The kid reached the empty doorway of the front room, disappeared inside. By the time Venn got there, the guy was at the jemmied window board, squeezing through.
Venn covered the distance between them in three long strides. He grabbed at the guy’s ankle with his free hand, felt the leg thrash and flail like a caught fish. Venn held on, hauling backward, ignoring the guy’s cries of pain as his torso was dragged back through the gap between the window frame and the flap.
The kid flopped on the floor, banging his chin on the hard concrete. Without pause, pressing home his advantage because he still couldn’t trust his vision, Venn reached down and hauled the guy up by the collar of his shirt and slammed him against the wall. He propped him up with a hand against his chest, while he pointed the Beretta at his face.
“Who the hell are you?” Venn snarled.
The kid was twenty-three or -four, naturally pasty with an overlay of sunburn. He stood five nine or ten, and weighed probably one hundred thirty pounds. He didn’t have the sick, wasted look of a junkie. Rather, he looked like he didn’t eat a whole lot, and probably had the jittery, jumpy kind of energy that burned off calories as soon as they were absorbed.
The kid stuttered so much that at first Venn thought he didn’t speak English. But then he realised the accent was British.
“I could... please don’t kill me... I... who the hell are you?”
Venn was taken aback by the question. He blinked his stinging eyes, wondering if Harmony had heard anything and was on her way back round the front.
“I’m a police officer, asshole,” he said. “And you just assaulted me. Know what that means?”
“You didn’t identify yourself as such,” said the kid, his voice still shaky but with more confidence in it now. “I thought my life was in danger, so I took legitimate measures to defend myself.”
“What’s your name?”
“Danny Clune,” said the kid.
Behind Venn the wood panel was prized open and Harmony appeared. “Jesus, Venn. What –?”
“This is Danny Clune,” said Venn. “So far he’s looking at breaking and entering, assault on a police officer, and resisting arrest.”
“I told you,” said the kid. “You failed to identify –”
“Myself as a police officer. Yeah, yeah. Your word against mine.” Venn grabbed the kid’s collar, turned him round, hustled him into the corridor again. Over his shoulder he said to Harmony, “There’s an office with a couple of chairs along here. Let’s make ourselves comfortable.” He didn’t want to go outside just yet, thought his eyes wouldn’t be able to cope with the glare of the sun.
In the office where he’d encountered the guy, Venn dumped him on a chair, then perched on the corner of the desk. Harmony stayed standing, hands on her hips. They flashed their shields at him.
“You got some ID of your own?” said Venn.
“Passport.” The kid handed it to Venn, a mauve Euro one. Venn examined it. Daniel Clune, from London, England. Age 24. It looked authentic enough, but Venn wasn’t an expert in forgeries.
He put the passport in his pocket.
“Hey,” said Clune, his eyes wide with panic.
“Don’t worry,” said Venn. “You won’t be needing it any time soon. You’re not going anywhere.”
The kid gnawed at a thumbnail.
Venn said, “So, like I asked at the beginning: what are you doing here?”
“I got mugged yesterday,” said Clune. “Lost all my money, and my phone. I’m desperate. I need to get back to England. So I broke in here to see if I could find anything to help me.”
“You burglarized a derelict building,” said Harmony, incredulity soaking her tone like acid. “Looking for cash. Oh, boy. You’re either the stupidest burglar I’ve ever met, or the worst liar.”
“I was... looking for somewhere to stay,” said the kid. “I’ve got no money, so I couldn’t rent a room. I need a base, while I try and come up with a solution.”
“So you’re a squatter,” said Venn.
“Yeah. That’s it.”
“Where’d you get mugged?” Venn asked.
“Manhattan. Vandam Street.”
“You report it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Clune shrugged. “Back in Britain, the police aren’t much interested in street crime. I assumed it was the same here, that it would be a waste of time.”
“So you get mugged in Manhattan, and then travel to the Bronx to find a place to hole up?” said Harmony.
“As I said, it happened yesterday,” said the kid, a note of impatience creeping in. “I’ve been drifting around, trying to work out a plan. I ended up here, saw the building, decided on an impulse to break in.”
“You were searching the drawers of this filing cabinet,” said Venn.
“Yeah. On the off-chance there was cash in there. But they’re empty.”
“You know a guy named Stefan Kruger?” Venn said casually.
The reaction was as if he’d not just slapped the kid, but punched him in the face with a full-force haymaker. Clune paled, even with the sunburn, and his posture in the chair became drawn-in and defensive.
He swallowed, his dry throat making an audible click.
“No,” he rasped. “Who?”
“Okay,” said Venn. “You know him. And you’re scared of him.”
“No, I –”
Venn stood up from the edge of the desk, jerked his head at Harmony. “Come on. Let’s get this kid back to the office. The cops’ll be here soon.”
“Wait,” Clune gasped. “I thought you were the cops.”
“He means normal cops will be here soon,” said Harmony, taking a firm grip on Clune’s arm and propelling him out the chair. “We’re a special kind.”
Chapter 6
Back in Midtown at the Division of Special Projects office, only Shawna was around. She appraised Clune with raised eyebrows.
“Another handsome young stray. Where do you find them?”
Walter had left Venn a note: The guy gave me a few descriptions, but they’re pretty generic. I’ve gone out to sniff around a little. I’m not hopeful. PS I let Righteous go, since you didn’t say not to.
Venn dumped Clune in a chair, shoved a bottle of water at him. The kid drank greedily
. Harmony had ridden in the backseat with him on the way home, in case he tried to get out the door or doing anything similarly stupid. But the kid had looked more scared than calculating, and had almost seemed reluctant to get out of the Mustang once they reached the office.
“So Danny,” said Venn. “You got a green card?”
“No. Three-month tourist visa.”
“When’s it run out?”
“A month tomorrow.”
“What you doing here in the US?”
“Look,” the kid said, his voice rising, “I have a right to speak to a lawyer.”
“Sure you do,” said Venn. “But what would be the point? You’re not under arrest.”
The kid’s mouth stayed open, but he didn’t speak.
“That’s why I haven’t read you your rights,” Venn continued. “That’s why we didn’t cuff you. You came with us voluntarily, Danny. A helpful citizen, or in your case tourist, assisting us with our inquiries.”
Clune stood up. “In that case, I’m leaving.”
“You can do that, yeah,” said Venn. “I’m not interested in busting you for breaking and entering. Not even for assaulting me. But the local cops, the Bronx boys, may see things differently. I’d need to keep you here till they arrived. Then I’d hand you over and tell them I found you committing felonies on their turf. Maybe they’ll let you go. Probably not.” Venn patted the seat of the chair. “Sit down. Have some water. Answer a question or two. Afterwards, I’ll let you go. I promise. No comebacks.”
Clune eyed Venn warily. Then he glanced at Harmony, seemed not to like what he saw in her look, and sat down opposite Venn once more.
“So what are you doing here in the US?” Venn repeated.
“Holidaying.”
“Alone?”
“Yeah.”
Venn looked him up and down. “Young guy like you, traveling on your own? No girlfriend, no college buddies?”
“Right,” said Clune, though he didn’t sound convincing.
“Plus, forgive me for leaping to conclusions, but you don’t look like the kind of guy who has a stellar, high-end job. How the hell can you afford a three-month trip to America?”
Clune looked at his hands, opened his mouth, shut it, opened it once more.
“Coffee?” said Venn affably.
“That’d be great,” said Clune, relief flooding his voice.
“Okay. After you quit bullshitting me. Then you can fuel up to your heart’s content.” Venn rose to his feet, towering over the younger man.
He said mildly, “Come on, Danny. It’s hot, everybody’s temper’s fraying. Give us a little of the truth, and calm us all down.”
“All right,” said Clune, his eyes cutting away. “Yes, I’m on holiday here. But it’s a busman’s holiday.”
“A what?” said Harmony.
“Busman’s,” said Clune. “I guess that’s an expression you don’t use over here. A working holiday.”
“You’re working?”
“Researching.” Clune reached inside his pocket, took out a tiny flash drive. “I’m writing a thesis on rock music since the 1960s. Specifically, how it’s shaped and been shaped by the cultures and locations it’s arisen from.”
“A thesis?” said Venn. “Like, a degree?”
“Postgraduate,” said the young man, warming to his theme. “The University of London. I already have a Bachelor’s degree in English from there.”
“So why do you need to travel?” said Harmony. Her tone was disbelieving, but at the same time fascinated, Venn noted. “Why can’t you just sit at home listening to a bunch of records?”
“No, no, no.” Clune faced her for the first time, the excitement catching fire in his eyes and his voice. “That’s just skimming the surface. I mean, you have to start with the music, yeah. But seeing the places where the great artists were born and raised, breathing the air in the studios where they recorded their masterpieces, walking the arenas and stadiums where they gave their classic performances... there’s no experience to match it.”
“So you’ve been doing one of these celebrity trails,” said Venn. They were a dime a dozen in New York.
“I’ve been following my own itinerary,” said Clune. “Muscle Shoals in Alabama, where the Stones recorded part of Sticky Fingers. Hibbing, Minnesota, where Dylan comes from. Seattle, home of the late, great Kurt Cobain. I’ve been to all of them. Soaked up the atmosphere, developed new insights into the music, the people.”
“Next you’re going to tell us you got a research grant to fund this road trip,” said Venn.
“That’s right,” said Clune.
Venn and Harmony looked at one another.
“And I thought our education system was supposed to be dumbed down,” Venn said.
Clune went on as though he hadn’t heard. “So I came back to New York yesterday, hoping to visit Madison Square Gardens, cross the river to Jersey and visit Giants Stadium and Meadowlands... when I get mugged in the street. My suitcase gets taken, along with my wallet and phone. By the time I cancel my bank cards it’s too late. I’ve been cleaned out. I’m skint. I have a prepaid return ticket to London, and that’s it.” He spread his hands beseechingly. “Now can you understand how desperate I am? Why I did what I did?”
“Not really,” said Venn. “I don’t understand why you ended up in the Bronx, busting into a vacant building, and why you freaked out when I came in so much that you Maced me. I don’t understand why you suddenly looked so scared when I mentioned the name of Stefan Kruger.”
This time Clune’s eyes flickered a little, but he maintained his composure. “Look, I swear to you, I don’t know who that is. I got scared back there because I suddenly thought you were going to charge me with assault. I happened to think of it just as you mentioned that name. It was coincidence, that’s all.”
Venn gazed down at him for a few moments. Then he shrugged. “Okay.”
He noticed Harmony look at him. Clune himself seemed startled. “That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“I can go?”
“Yeah.”
Clune stood uncertainly, as if expecting to feel Venn’s hand on his head and shoving him back down. He stepped gingerly to the side, away from the chair.
“Inspector, I –”
“It’s Lieutenant. Detective Lieutenant Venn.”
“Lieutenant. I don’t suppose you could bung me a tenner?”
“What?”
“Advance me some cash? I’ve got no money for a subway fare, or a meal.” Clune nodded obsequiously. “I’ll reimburse you. I’ll post it back once I’m in the UK.”
“Sure you will.” Venn jerked his head at Harmony. “Give the kid something out of petty cash, if Walt has left anything.”
The kid took the banknotes gratefully. As he headed for the door, he said, “Sorry.”
“For what?”
Clune pointed at his eyes, winced. “Sorry for spraying you. Looks nasty.”
Harmony escorted him to the front desk, and Venn could hear her giving Shawna instructions to call the kid a cab and take him wherever he wanted to go. By the time Harmony came back, Venn was already pulling his jacket back on.
“We’re following him?” she asked.
“We’re following him.”
Chapter 7
The sweats began in earnest the moment Clune was out the door and heading at a fast clip down the street.
It wasn’t just the merciless July afternoon sun. The full impact of what had just happened hit him like a laser from some satellite, and he felt his pores open and the cloth of his shirt bunch in his armpits and plaster itself to his back.
The coppers. Clune was terrified of them. All coppers, everywhere. Even as a boy of nine or ten, he’d be kicking a football around in the park with his friends and a pair of police constables would come strolling by, not even looking at him, and Danny would cringe and turn away and wish himself invisible. He felt guilt wrap itself around him in bright neon colours, drawing the a
ttention of the law. Even if he hadn’t done anything wrong.
Clune headed north, up a wide thoroughfare he thought was Ninth Avenue but couldn’t be sure. He didn’t know quite where he was going. Just that he needed to put as much distance as he could between him and those two scary, oddball detectives.
The woman – he thought he’d caught her partner calling her Harmony, but that couldn’t be right; what kind of a name was that? – was profoundly threatening. She was small and lean and quick, and quite fanciable with her cornrows and her fine-boned features, but her eyes were mercurial. They’d switch from soft and friendly to burning, intense, like the flick of a cigarette lighter. And she really hadn’t liked Clune, he decided. Really hadn’t liked him. Her gaze back there in the office had been contemptuous throughout, as if he was something they’d dredged out of a sewer.
But the man, Venn... he was, if anything, more frightening. He was the more amiable, less obviously hostile of the pair. A bear of a man, tall and broad and with a shaved head and light scattering of stubble resembling a goatee, he should have exuded menace, but didn’t, oddly. Yet it was this very contrast, this fearsome appearance coupled with a mildness, almost gentleness, of nature, that made him deeply unsettling.
Anyway, Clune was clear of them. He’d persuaded them that he was of no use to them, just some idiot of a Brit who was pissing away his time in the United States before he knuckled down and got a proper job.
Now, he had other things to worry about.
Clune decided to get himself a new phone. He’d tried doing without one for the last 24 hours, and he felt utterly naked without that comforting heft in his hand, almost as though he’d been stripped of his skin. Even if he couldn’t access the internet, even if he’d lost all of his contacts, a phone gave him options.
He walked the streets, eyeing up the computer and phone shops and the street vendors. The woman copper, Harmony, had given Clune fifty dollars, which he didn’t think was especially generous. No doubt she and Venn expected him to eke it out over a few days, while he rearranged his return flight to Britain and got out of town.
Well, Clune had other plans. The trouble was, fifty dollars wasn’t going to get him a whole lot of phone.