Delta Ghost - 02

by Tim Stevens

  Venn said, “But what were you doing in Kruger’s place? When I found you?”

  “Ah.” Clune looked shifty, as if he realized he could no longer claim he’d been there coincidentally, just looking for a place to bed down in. “I knew Flowers had a contact here in New York. A man called Stefan Kruger. I had a home address for him, as well as the address of his so-called furniture shop. I staked out his home, followed him on foot when he went out, trying to get up the courage to approach him. To tell him who I was, that I’d been an employee of Mr Flowers, and to ask if he could help me out at all. With money, protection, anything.”

  “Let me guess,” Venn said. “You saw him get shot.”

  “Yeah,” said Clune. “I was on the other side of the street from him, about to make contact. Then this car drove up. Tinted windows, so I couldn’t see who was inside, but there were several guys. Bam, bam. I got the hell out of there. Because I knew where his furniture store was, I decided to go there to see if he kept any cash on the premises. The killers, Salazar’s men, must have seen me at the scene of Kruger’s shooting, and tracked me to the furniture store. You and your partner turned up just in time.”

  Venn said, “It doesn’t make sense. Why would they kill Kruger?”

  “As I said, he was an associate of Flowers. Salazar might be eliminating everyone in his organization.”

  Venn shook his head. It didn’t ring true to him. But he left it for now.

  “So why’d you come here? To my house? Why not just turn yourself in at the nearest precinct house?”

  “Because I need protection,” said Clune. “If I approach some police officer who doesn’t take me seriously, I’ll either be laughed at and sent away, or kept somewhere that isn’t secure, or something. I’ll be exposed. And those Mexicans will track me down and kill me.”

  “But if this is all about a drug feud, the FBI or the DEA will get involved,” said Venn. “You’ll be under heavy guard. They handle people in your situation all the time.”

  “No,” said Clune, suddenly vehement. “I’m out of my depth here. I need my name to be kept well away from all this.”

  “Then what do you expect me to do?” asked Venn.

  “Hide me,” said Clune. “Find these Mexicans and stop them. Find Salazar, and stop him. Then help me get out of here, back to England.”

  If he wasn’t still furious at the kid’s invasion of his and Beth’s territory, Venn might have laughed. “Son,” he said. “I’m a New York City detective. My jurisdiction begins and ends here, in the city. I’m not going to go and take down a drug baron, or whatever he is, all the way over in Texas. That’s the Feds’ business.”

  Clune’s face collapsed on itself, his eyes darting about, looking dejected and terrified at the same time. Venn almost felt sorry for him.

  Almost.

  “Come on,” said Venn, standing up. “I’m taking you in. They’ll keep you somewhere safe tonight, under armed guard.”

  “Lieutenant, please.” The kid tried to stand, seeming to forget he’d hurt his ankle, and dropped back onto the couch with a yelp. “They’ll kill me. These people –”

  “Venn,” said Beth.

  He glanced at her.

  “No,” he muttered.

  “It’s gone midnight,” she said. “Let him stay.”

  “No.”

  She folded her arms, in a posture Venn recognized.

  Damn it, this wasn’t his problem. Even if just half of what he kid had told him was true, it was still beyond his remit. A falling-out among thieves, with a semi-innocent bystander caught in the center. There was no political angle. Nothing that concerned Venn or his Division of Special Projects.

  Except... except...

  Sean O’Dell had very much been Venn’s business. O’Dell, with his connection to Councilman Marshall. O’Dell, who was linked with Kruger, just as Clune was. O’Dell, who’d died suddenly just after his release on bail, apparently by suicide.

  Venn couldn’t make much sense of the tangle of connections and relationships. But he knew there was an interconnection. And if he was going to get to the bottom of what had happened to O’Dell, he needed to hang on to Clune. At least for now.

  He said gruffly, “Just one night. In the morning I’m gonna dispose of you to a more suitable facility.”

  Clune beamed in triumph.

  Venn jabbed a finger at him. “But I wake up in the morning and find you’ve robbed the place, you’re through. If I have to search every inch of the British goddam Isles to find you, I will.” He took a breath. “Oh, and Clune?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s LOOtenant. Not LEFtenant.”

  Chapter 16

  Clune lay awake in the darkness of the living room – Beth had suggested he take the spare bedroom, but Venn had drawn the line at that – and listened to the familiar ticking and creaking sounds as the house settled around him, its beams cooling after the heat of the day.

  His relief had cooled similarly, and had been replaced by a gnawing sense of unease.

  Was he safe? He’d taken every precaution he could think of to make sure he wasn’t followed to Venn’s house. But could he be certain? What if Salazar’s men were at that very moment massing around the building, preparing for a full-on assault? He’d seen what they were capable of, back there in Maverick County in the showdown with Flowers’ gang, and the firepower they had at their disposal. Venn was a fighter himself, there was no question about it – Clune had seen him in action at the marketplace. But he’d be no match for a group of heavily armed opponents striking in the dead of night.

  In the middle of his fear, Clune was aware too of a deep feeling of guilt. Not so much for Venn, but for his girl. Dr Colby. Clune was sensitive enough to appreciate just how close they obviously were, now that he’d seen them together. She seemed like a nice lady, and she’d shown Clune a kindness he probably didn’t deserve, given that he’d been trying to break into her house.

  Clune wondered how much of his story Venn had believed, and which bits of it.

  He’d never find the money now, he knew it. One million dollars in cash, and he’d had it in a suitcase in his hand, and he’d lost all of it. The single biggest opportunity he’d ever have in his life, and he’d blown it.

  But it didn’t matter all that much now. What mattered was staying alive.

  Clune pulled the thin blanket over his head, even though he felt uncomfortably hot, and tried in vain to sleep.

  Chapter 17

  Through the city they moved, Salazar’s men, scouring every bar and flophouse and sleazy dive.

  They moved through Chinatown and the Villages and SoHo and NoHo. The joggers and strollers in Central Park were joined by legions of hard-faced men from out of town, whose menacing stare at every passing face quickened people’s steps and nudged their heartbeats up. The Meatpacking District, the Projects, Battery Park, all received the once-over, and sometimes more lingering, in-depth scrutiny.

  Salazar himself prowled through the warrens of the city between the colossal buildings, an entourage of ten men surrounding him like a pack of wild dogs. He’d arrived two days earlier with twenty men. Since he’d gotten there, he’d been joined by reinforcements, sixteen more guys. After he’d lost four of them, the three shot dead by the cops and the fourth, Espinoza, who was as good as lost, Salazar had made a call on his cell phone, his cold fury held in check for the moment.

  He reached out to a sometime rival, a fellow drug captain operating in New Mexico, with whom Salazar had clashed violently in the past but with whom he had for the past couple of years maintained an uneasy truce. He explained his problem, offered cash as well as the promise of some of his own territory. It hurt him to do so, but priorities were priorities.

  The rival agreed to his terms, and to honor his own side of the deal. Which was to provide manpower.

  And this he did, in the form of thirty bodies, veterans of the border drug wars against the other gangs and against the US Marshals and the DEA. Merciles
s killers who’d shoot a pregnant woman dead without breaking a sweat. They reached the city by midnight, arriving from Jersey and from out West, and joining Salazar’s own forces with a minimum of hostility expressed on either side.

  Salazar had been at the top of his game for thirteen years. In the beginning, when he’d first assumed command of the cartel, he’d surrounded himself with advisors. Men who by dint of their experience and age he’d considered fit to guide him, a relative newbie, through the shark-riddled waters of the narcotics trade. He’d dispensed with his advisors, all of them, a few years later, when through bitter experience he’d come to learn that he was best served relying on his own counsel, on his own nous.

  He thought now that if any of the advisors were still with him – if any of them were, indeed, still alive – they’d question his judgment in this matter. They’d suggest to him that his obsession with finding a man who’d run off with one million dollars, a measly one million bucks, chickenfeed in the grand scheme of things, was unjustifiable. Insane, even.

  And that was exactly why Salazar had gotten rid of them. Because they failed to understand the essence of his success. The reason he was where he was, and who he was.

  Respect. That was key. You had to inspire respect, and you did that by doing things that inspired awe.

  Throwing every resource at your disposal into tracking down a pipsqueak of a guy who’d robbed you of a trifling amount of money. That was awe-inspiring. It sent a message that no matter how small the slight shown to you, no matter how trivial the offense, you never, ever allowed disrespect to go unpunished.

  Salazar would find the kid, Danny Clune. He’d given strict orders for the boy to be taken alive. He’d find him, and then he’d go to work on him, personally. He’d draw it out, allowing the boy to linger for days, or however long he was able to withstand the punishment. Eventually, Salazar would locate the money, every last penny, and reclaim it.

  But first, he would get the boy. And anybody who stood in his way – anybody – would be taken down.

  Chapter 18

  Venn woke to the smell of frying bacon. For a moment he thought it was Sunday. Then he rolled over and looked at the bedside clock – 7:50 a.m. – and felt disorientation set in.

  Beth’s suit was gone from the hanger on the closet door, which meant she’d already left for work. Yes, that was it – she had ward rounds this morning.

  Then Venn remembered.

  He groaned, hauled himself out of bed, felt the aches and twinges in his limbs from where he’d rolled and dived the day before. Quickly he dressed, without shaving, and made his way downstairs.

  The kid was in the kitchen, and the kitchen was a mess. The entire contents of the refrigerator seemed to be spread out over the counters and the table. Just about every pan Beth and Venn owned was bubbling away, and in one of them he saw strips of bacon so charred and smokey he thought the fire alarm was about to go off.

  Clune looked up brightly as Venn came in. “Lieutenant,” he said, pronouncing it wrong again. “Hope you’ve got a big appetite.”

  “Feel free to make yourself at home,” Venn muttered sourly as he went over to the coffee machine. He found it cold and empty.

  He turned, incredulous. “No coffee?”

  “I brewed some tea.” Clune nodded at a pot Venn couldn’t recall ever seeing before. “Help yourself.”

  “This is America,” said Venn. “We drink coffee to kickstart our hearts in the morning. Jesus.” He opened a package of Colombian beans and dumped them in the grinder.

  “Well, we survived the night,” said Clune, carrying two heaped plates to the counter. He appeared genuinely light-hearted.

  “Don’t get too damn comfortable,” said Venn. “After breakfast you’re out of here.” He peered at the plate Clune shoved under his nose. Eggs, sunny-side up, bled their broken yolks into a sea of grease that coated bacon rashers, mushrooms, a mess of eviscerated tomato, and something that looked like toast but wasn’t quite.

  “What the hell’s that?”

  “Fried bread,” said Clune. “The food of champions.” He stuffed a forkful of egg into his mouth.

  Venn made to push the plate away. He’d moved toward muesli and oats for breakfast since living with Beth, and in any case he didn’t care for the idea of this snot-nosed intruder taking over his kitchen and cooking for him.

  But the food smelt good. He had to admit it.

  In a show of compromise which Venn knew was half-assed, he grabbed two slices of bread from the depleted loaf on the counter and spread low-fat margarine on them and forked the bacon from his plate onto one slice and bit into the sandwich.

  “So,” said Clune, his mouth full. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

  “I’m taking you down to my office, where we were yesterday,” Venn said. “You’ll tell us everything you know, everything that might be of use. With no bullshit, this time. Then I’ll figure out a plan.”

  “You’re not turning me over to the local cops? Or the Feds?”

  “Not for now,” said Venn.

  Clune’s shoulders slumped in relief. “How many people have you got working with you in your office?” he said. “I mean, I’ve met your sidekick, Harmony. But I didn’t see anyone else there yesterday.”

  “One other,” said Venn.

  “One?”

  “Well, two. Including Shawna, our receptionist.”

  “Just three of you?” Clune looked agitated again. “Against Salazar? Bloody hell, Lieutenant. Maybe I didn’t make myself clear. The guy is dangerous. He has about a million men, and automatic weapons. He –”

  “Make up your mind,” snapped Venn. “First you want me to keep this low-key. Then you whine about how I don’t have an army at my disposal. I told you. I’ll figure something out. But you’re going to have to co-operate, son. And I mean, seriously.”

  “I will. Promise. I said –”

  “Because I’m going to be using a lie detector on you,” Venn cut in.

  “A lie detector? You mean one of those things –”

  “Not a thing,” said Venn. “It’s a person.”

  *

  Venn found a hooded fleece jacket in his closet that he hadn’t worn for six months or more. He told Clune to put it on, and almost laughed. It was many sizes too big, and the kid looked like a child dressing up in its parent’s clothes.

  “It’s bloody hot,” grumbled Clune.

  “That’s too bad,” said Venn. “We want to hide your face as much as possible.”

  “I’ll look conspicuous, dressed like this in this weather,” Clune objected.

  “Nah. City’s full of weirdoes.” Venn grabbed a leather jacket for himself. “You’ll fit right in. Just another oddball.”

  Venn stepped out the front door. Already, at just after nine in the morning, the heat was descending on the streets like an alien invasion. He surveyed the street. Mothers pushing strollers, people in suits hurrying along, late for work. A normal scene. If there were enemies about, they were well hidden.

  “Wait here,” he said to Clune, who cowered inside the doorway. “I’ll bring the car round.”

  He kept the Mustang’s engine running and beckoned to the kid from the curb. Clune hung back, his face almost invisible beneath the hood. Sighing, Venn got out and went to the door and hustled him into the passenger seat.

  “There’s a fine line between cautious and paranoid,” said Venn.

  He’d called ahead to the office. Harmony and Walter were both there, and Venn told them to stay put. He didn’t say why.

  At reception, Venn pulled the hood back from Clune’s head. Shawna’s drawn-on eyebrows shot even higher.

  “Ah, yes. The young man from yesterday.”

  Before Venn could make it through the door, Shawna said, “Main office has been calling. You need to schedule a time for your interview.”

  Venn groaned inwardly. The post-shootout interview, yes. He’d forgotten all about it. “Tell them I’ll call back.”

>   “Well, well,” said Harmony, as they entered. “The prodigal son.”

  Walter rolled his chair over. Today he was sporting a dogshit-brown suit and turquoise shirt. He stared at Clune, a toothpick protruding from a gap between his teeth.

  Venn dumped Clune in a chair.

  “Danny Clune, Detective Sergeant Walter M. Sickert,” he said.

  “Walter Sickert,” said the kid. “Like the artist?”

  “Huh?” said Harmony.

  “He was a German-born artist of the late 19th and early 20th centuries,” said Clune. “Worked in London. A big name in the avant-garde movement.”

  “And possibly Jack the Ripper, too,” said Walter. He looked bored, as if smartasses had commented on his name a hundred times before.

  “What?” said Harmony, looking form Walter to Clune.

  “That’s right,” said Clune, getting excited. “Sickert was fascinated with Jack the Ripper. A theory’s been developed that Sickert himself was the Ripper, or was at least his accomplice.”

  “Really?” Harmony shuffled her chair nearer. “Tell me –”

  Venn had had enough. “All right, people. Can it. We’ve got work to do.”

  He got Shawna to send out for coffee, lots of it. It was going to be a long morning.

  Chapter 19

  They carried out the questioning informally, the four of them sitting around the floorspace on office chairs, the three cops forming a vague semicircle and facing Clune. But before long Clune began to fidget and sweat, just as if he was in an interrogation room under flickering fluorescent lights.

  He described his arrival in the US two months earlier. Venn would check it out, but he assumed the date given was correct. It was too easy to verify to be worth lying about. The details of Clune’s early weeks in the country were of little interest: his road trip to Seattle and down the West Coast, the locations he’d visited. When he started to digress yet again about some piece of rock history, Venn cut him off with a swiping motion across his throat.