by Tim Stevens
Before he realized it, he was on his knees on the sidewalk, drool spilling from his wide-open mouth onto the steaming concrete, his chest gripped in a vise, his heart slamming like a techno beat.
A pair of legs appeared in his line of vision.
Slowly, Clune lifted his head.
“Hey, man. You okay?”
It was a middle-aged man, dark-skinned. Mexican.
With breath he didn’t know he had, Clune yelled. The man started.
“Hey –”
Clune was up again, scrambling away and finding his feet and heading across a wide street, missing the fender of a car so narrowly he felt its slipstream against his thigh.
*
He’d been fleeing for fifteen minutes, or two hours, he didn’t know which. Sometimes he ran; when that got too much to bear, he slowed to a stumbling lope. He had no route to follow, no idea where he was heading. For all he knew, he was going round in circles, and would suddenly find himself back at the street market.
He tried to think rationally. Every time he did, a swarm of gibbering terrors overwhelmed his mind like a zombie horde. What was going to happen to him if they caught him?
Clune forced the fears aside, like a redneck hero hacking his way through legions of the walking dead, and concentrated on the facts.
He hadn’t found what he was looking for in Kruger’s office. Well, that was hardly a surprise. And he’d never find it now.
The Mexicans had tailed him back to the cop’s, Venn’s, office. They must have, otherwise how would they have got on to him at the street market? Which meant they had probably spotted him on the street, when he’d watched them shoot Kruger. If Venn and the woman cop hadn’t turned up when they did, the Mexicans would have grabbed Clune while he was searching Kruger’s office and he’d be dead now, or worse.
The Mexicans were still looking for him. Clune had no idea how extensive their network was, but he had to assume it reached everywhere. He couldn’t leave New York and escape back to Britain, because he’d lied to Venn: there was no return flight booked. He could, of course, flee in the other direction, into the vastness of America itself, but how long would he last? He had no money, apart from the fifty dollars the police had given him. And he’d forever be looking over his shoulder for the Mexicans. He’d never sleep again at night.
He had two options, then. He could go to the police. Turn himself in at the nearest precinct house, tell them his story. But they’d require him as a witness to the shooting dead of Kruger, and that would expose him. The Mexicans would find a way of getting to him.
Or, he could turn to Venn. Venn was a cop, but at least Clune felt he had some kind of relationship with him, however tenuous and confrontational. He’d spill the beans to Venn, apologize for having lied to him, and maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to persuade Venn to keep him out of the story. To help him avoid having to testify in the Kruger killing.
Then, perhaps, Venn might succeed in taking down the Mexicans, freeing Clune from the threat of kidnap and torture and execution which he was currently living with.
Then, a flock of winged pigs might soar across the skies of a frozen hell.
It was, Clune decided, worth a shot. It was his only chance, however remote its prospects of working.
Clune stopped, looked around him, seeing his surroundings properly for the first time. He squinted at a street sign. MacDougal Street.
MacDougal. Despite himself, Clune made the mental link. Bob Dylan had lived there in 1969, and had been pestered by a crazy fan who rooted in his trash. And there, on the corner with Minetta Lane, was Café Wha?, which had launched the careers of Hendrix and the Velvet Underground and Dylan himself.
In other circumstances, Clune would have been thrilled to be there, would have basked in the ambience and snapped endless photos. Now, the bohemian surroundings of Greenwich Village held nothing but menace for him.
How was he going to make contact with Venn again? Reach out, as the Yanks liked to say? Returning to Venn’s office was too risky, even if Clune remembered how to find it. The Mexicans might still be watching it in case Venn found him and brought him back there. Clune considered turning himself over to the nearest precinct house, the idea he’d rejected before, but insisting on speaking with Venn and nobody else. But what if they didn’t take him seriously? What if they beat all the information he had out of him, or waterboarded him, or whatever these American cops did? Or, worse, what if they contacted Venn... and Venn just laughed, said he wasn’t talking to some snot-nosed little Brit who’d Maced him, thank you very much?
The idea hit Clune, then.
It was the longest of shots. But to Clune’s desperate mind, it seemed as brilliant as the shafts of sunlight angling in through the canopy above him formed by the plane trees lining the street.
Chapter 11
Venn saw two men in the room as he stepped inside. One was O’Dell, still fat and sweaty in his too-tight suit, but with a harrowed, haggard air he hadn’t had earlier.
After a quick shower in the staff bathroom down the hall, Venn had changed back into his old clothes, leaving the leather jacket off – it would need drycleaning – and made his way to the interview rooms. A civilian employee had directed him to the one he wanted.
The other man in the room was tall, erect, well-dressed in a light-gray French silk suit that was tasteful rather than flashy. He was maybe forty-eight or fifty, with a head of bouffant hair that was only slightly graying at the temples.
The lawyer, Venn guessed.
“O’Dell,” said Venn, closing the door behind him. “I’d say it was a pleasure but I’d be lying.”
O’Dell was seated at a functional wooden desk, his hands clasped on the top. He looked sullen, didn’t meet Venn’s eye.
The elegant man stepped forward as if he was protecting O’Dell. “Lieutenant Venn,” he said. “Peter Franciscus, counsel for Mr O’Dell. I should say for the record that I have advised my client against this course of action.”
Venn eyed him. The man was tall, almost Venn’s height. “Why?” he said. “You got something against your client offering the law his full cooperation?”
“I believe he ought to be talking to the District Attorney. Not to you.” Franciscus held Venn’s gaze. “But he insists.”
“Yeah, well, me and old Sean here go way back.” Venn pulled up a chair, waited till Franciscus made a move to sit down before seating himself on it. He leaned his elbows on the desk, spread his hands. “So? What you got?”
O’Dell hesitated for only an instant before he started talking. He’d clearly rehearsed his spiel.
“There’s a man. An associate of mine He supplies narcotics. I send customers his way. My...tenants. ”
“Yeah, I know,” said Venn. “One of those saps you were swindling already told me about him. Stefan Kruger.”
O’Dell looked startled.
Venn went on: “I mean the late Stefan Kruger. Oh, you haven’t heard? He was shot dead on the street in the Bronx shortly after I busted you.”
Now O’Dell was more than surprised. His face was waxen beneath the sheen of sweat.
“Why so scared, O’Dell?” said Venn. “I mean, I can understand how you’d be disappointed, angry even, that your bargaining chip had been removed from the equation. But... scared?” He sat back in his chair, rocked on the hind legs.
Beside O’Dell, the attorney, Franciscus, said, “My client’s said all he wants to say. This interview is terminated.”
Venn ignored him. “And why exactly did you want to speak to me, O’Dell? Rather than the DA?”
“You don’t have to answer that,” said Franciscus.
But O’Dell looked Venn in the eye. “Kruger is - was - connected.”
“You mean mobbed up?”
“I don’t know,” said O’Dell. “I never really got to know the guy. But if word got round that I’d ratted him out, my life wouldn’t be worth jack. I was going to put a deal to you. You take him down, investigate and neutra
lize his connections, and then I testify.” He wiped a palm over his face. “Guess it doesn’t matter now.”
Franciscus half-rose, taking O’Dell’s elbow and guiding him to his feet. “As I said, Lieutenant. This interview is over.”
“See you in court,” said Venn, standing with them.
Franciscus ushered O’Dell out the door ahead of him. Before following him into the corridor, he turned.
“Lieutenant Venn. I’m hazarding a guess here, but... Marines?”
“That’s right,” said Venn.
“May I ask when?”
“Ninety-six through 2000. The 26th Marine Expeditionary Unit.”
“Ah,” said Franciscus. “Bosnia, Kosovo?”
“Yes. Both.”
“I’m a Ranger. Third Battalion. Nineteen eighty-five to 2004. It was before your time, but during Operation Just Cause in ’89 my life and those of many of my Company were saved by the Marines.” Franciscus drew himself up, snapped a salute.
Venn returned it.
“Sir,” he said. Franciscus hadn’t given his rank, but with nineteen years’ service he had to be a senior officer.
Franciscus said: “It doesn’t mean I’ll allow my client to be pushed around, though.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Venn.
*
Venn arrived at the Ninth Avenue precinct house an hour later, after stopping by his townhouse in the Upper West Side to change his clothes. This time he put on a light cotton summer jacket. Beth was always encouraging him to dress like that - you look more like a cop, and less like a gangster, she said - but without his leather coat he felt exposed, vulnerable, as if bullets could actually hurt him.
On the dresser he found a note from Beth. He’d left before her, this morning, while she was still asleep after a late shift at the hospital. Even in this age of text messages, she liked to leave old-fashioned handwritten notes. It read: Home by 8 pm. Thai takeout OK? Love you.
Venn smiled, put the note in his pocket.
The precinct house swarmed. Venn guessed they hadn’t had a multiple shooting like this for a while. His shield got him past the harassed desk sergeant in quick time and he found Harmony in a side room, talking with a couple of plainclothes detectives.
“Everything okay?” she said, eyeing him with concern.
“O’Dell wanted to plea-bargain, giving up Kruger. I spoilt his day when I told him we knew about the guy, and that he was already dead.” Venn gestured at the door. “We ready to do this guy?”
The prisoner was seated in an eight-by-ten interview room with a two-way mirror on one wall. His left shoulder was bandaged where Venn had winged him with the Beretta. Whatever influence Captain Kang had exerted, it left Venn and Harmony doing the interrogation with the local detectives watching through the mirror.
The guy’s name was Ramon Jesus Espinoza, and he was a Mexican national. They knew this from the Seasonal Agricultural Worker visa he’d produced. It was, Venn thought, probably forged. Other than that, he’d volunteered nothing so far. He hunched over the scarred table, his fingers splayed on the surface, and stared at the wall opposite.
“Ramon,” said Venn. “You’re asking for a lawyer, I hear. But I somehow doubt you have an attorney of your own waiting on your call, and the Public Defender’s office is jammed up. It’ll take a couple of hours, minimum, before a PD arrives. Then, they’ll have to brief themselves about your case. Another thirty minutes. Now, you may not give a shit about that. You may think the delay will work to your advantage. Allow you more time to come up with whatever bullshit cover story you’re concocting.”
Venn was seated across the table from Espinoza, just as he had been a short while earlier from O’Dell. Harmony lounged against the wall near the door, her arms folded. Before going in, Venn had asked the other detectives if Espinoza had been told what happened to his three comrades, namely that they’d all been killed. The detectives said he hadn’t.
So Venn decided on a bluff.
He said, “But here’s the thing, Ramon. You’re facing more felony charges than there are crabs in a hooker’s panties. You’re going to jail, and I don’t mean some rinky-dink hotel out in the boondocks. I mean Rikers. Attempted murder of a police officer. Hostage-taking. The rest of your life will make Purgatory seem like a party, and hell like a mild hangover afterwards.” He paused. “Now, one of your buddies got away. He took the young British guy, and he’s disappeared. I assume the kid is going to be killed, probably after being worked over till he’s begging for death. It may be too late for him. But if you tell us where the kid is, tell us right now, before you lawyer up, it may buy you some appreciation. It could mean a reduced sentence.”
Espinoza was still staring at the wall, but he appeared to be listening. Slowly, he turned his head and gazed at Venn thoughtfully.
He raised a middle finger and said, “Kiss my ass.”
Venn returned his stare for a few seconds. Then he signaled Harmony with a flick of his fingers.
She leaped forward as if propelled by a spring-load mechanism and grabbed Espinoza by the hair and slammed his face down on the desk. At the same time Venn lunged and seized the man’s arm, the one he’d used to flip Venn the bird. Venn pushed the man’s rolled-up sleeve all the way up his arm.
It was a tattoo that had caught his attention, on the inner aspect of the man’s forearm. An intricate one, done by a skilled artist. It depicted two snakes entwined around an assault rifle.
It was familiar to Venn, and in a second he got it. Back during the gunfight earlier, when he’d rolled on the hood of the Honda to avoid getting shot in the face by the man who’d briefly abducted Clune, he’d glimpsed the gunman’s forearm. The same symbol had been tattooed there. He hadn’t registered it at the time, but it had been imprinted in his unconscious.
Espinoza snarled and tried to shake his head free, but Harmony held on, grinding his face into the desktop. She hissed, “Drop the attitude, asshole.”
Venn straightened. “Nah,” he said. “Come on. We’re wasting our time. Let Ramon here face the music.” He pulled out his cell phone, took a quick photo of the tattoo, released the man’s arm.
Harmony slammed Espinoza’s face on the desk once more and followed Venn to the door, wiping her hands on her jeans. Espinoza lifted his head and glared after them, blood streaming from his nose.
Outside, one of the detectives who’d been watching through the glass approached. Venn said, “Might as well wait for the PD. He’s not gonna give us anything.”
“Okay.”
“By the way,” said Venn. “Whatever you think you saw back there, you didn’t.”
“Hell of a thing, nosebleeds,” said the detective. “They can happen out of the blue, just like that.”
*
Venn and Harmony made their way to his Mustang in the precinct house’s parking lot. It was five-thirty p.m., and the heat had crested the curve of intolerable and was beginning its slow slide into the cool of the evening.
“Bitch of a day,” said Harmony. “What now?”
Venn thought of the paperwork awaiting him. He could put it off until tomorrow, but...
“I gotta do the necessary,” he said. “Let’s go back to the office. I’ll give the tattoo picture to Walter. He’s good at that stuff.”
“You seen it before?” she said, peering at the image on his phone.
“On one of the other guys we took down today. But before that – no. Might be a gangbanger symbol, might be political.”
He’d do as much of the paperwork as he could stomach, but he’d make sure he was home by eight. Evenings with Beth were few and far between lately, with the demands of her job and his, and he wanted to take the opportunity. Plus, it’d be good to discuss today’s events with her. She was smart, intuitive. She sometimes saw connections between things that he’d overlooked.
As he and Harmony climbed into the Mustang, Venn’s phone rang.
“Yeah.”
“Joe, it’s Kang.”
“Any luck with the interrogation?”
“No.” Venn told Kang about the tattoo.
“Can’t say it sounds familiar to me,” said Kang. “Anyhow, I’m calling about something else.” He paused. “O’Dell’s dead.”
“What?”
“Looks like suicide. Jumped from his sixth-floor condo a half hour ago.”
“Shit,” said Venn.
Chapter 12
As Peter Franciscus waited for the electronic gates to swing open, he reflected once again that he couldn’t live anywhere in New York City but Staten Island.
He and Marcia had bought the property, a five-bedroom modern build with decent acreage, four years earlier, when the real estate bubble had burst and prices were low. The location was ideal, with easy access to Lower Manhattan where Franciscus had his office and great schools in the area for the girls. Franciscus was a product of suburbia, having grown up in Wildwood, St Louis, and the noise and pace of the city wasn’t something he wanted to experience twenty-four-seven. Luckily, Marcia was the same.
Marcia greeted him at the door, smiling, aproned, her figure still trim after all these years. She barely had time to kiss him before seventeen-year-old Madison and her sister, Cody, three years younger, crowded in the doorway and began to jabber about their day. Laughing, he hustled them into the house, trying to make sense of the babble of information assailing his ears. Madison had been selected for the school tennis tour, while Cody’s career counselor had advised her that she had the grades and the aptitude to apply for premed studies.
“Defend anybody famous today, Dad?” asked Cody, as Franciscus slung his suit jacket over a chair. It was her standard question, one she asked every day, and he was finding it increasingly difficult to come up with the expected zinger of a reply.
But today he’d thought of one beforehand.
“I did defend a guy who’s been charged with drowning six people in bowls of oatmeal,” he said.