by Tim Stevens
Salazar eyed the house. It would be alarmed, of course; the kids had said an alarm had gone off. Salazar and his men could break in, do a quick search, and be out before the cops arrived. But this was the Upper West Side. The cops would be there fast, because rich white people lived here.
Plus, Salazar didn’t like to feel rushed.
He told his men to spread out through the immediate neighborhood, since a gang of seven Latinos would arouse suspicion in this setting. Then he took out his phone and called Cortiz.
*
Jorge Cortiz arrived after a half hour. He was in his early sixties, wiry as a gnarled tree, his gray hair scraped back in a ponytail that enhanced the sharp, hawklike jut of his nose.
Salazar had first met him nine years earlier, when they’d both been incarcerated in Ciudad Juarez municipal prison. He’d been impressed by the older man’s rap sheet, which featured some of the most audacious burglaries Salazar had ever heard of. Cortiz was too cussed a soul ever to work for anybody else in a full-time capacity, but since they’d gotten out of prison Salazar had hired him from time to time on a freelance basis. And Cortiz was one of the reinforcements Salazar had called in to the city when it became clear the hunt for the British kid was going to require extra resources. You never knew when a skilled housebreaker might come in useful.
Salazar was waiting for him a couple of blocks from the house. Cortiz was wearing overalls emblazoned with the logo of a security company, and carried a briefcase. It was one he took with him everywhere, and it contained the tricks of his trade. He embraced Salazar and they slapped one another’s backs.
Salazar told him which house he wanted him to take a look at. Cortiz disappeared round the corner.
Within twenty minutes, Cortiz returned to Salazar on the corner.
“Done,” he said.
They embraced again, and Salazar slipped a clip of cash into the pocket of the older man’s overalls. Cortiz departed.
Without looking for them, Salazar summoned his men. They melted out of the surrounding neighborhood like ghosts.
Back at the townhouse, Salazar sent one of his men ahead. The man reached the front door, turned the handle.
It opened, and there was no sudden whoop of an alarm. Cortiz had not only disabled the electronic system, but kindly picked the lock for them as well.
They were in.
Chapter 25
Venn looked at his watch. The lawyer, Franciscus, would be here soon, and the kid hadn’t finished talking yet.
He told them of his race to New York with the million dollars in the suitcase. How he’d got to JFK and was in the process of booking his return flight, when he realized smuggling a case full of greenbacks wasn’t going to be as straightforward as all that. How he’d panicked, become aware that his agitated demeanor was making him look more and more suspicious to the security guards and the watching cameras, and had left the airport in a hurry, wondering what to do next.
“I knew Salazar would be after me, so I couldn’t hang around in New York for too long,” he said. “So I reckoned I’d try to convert the cash into something smaller, with a high resale value. Something transportable that I could convert back into cash in Britain.”
It was then he remembered Stefan Kruger. Kruger had come to San Antonio one day to pay Flowers a visit – Clune had picked him up at the airport and driven him to Flowers’ office – and the guy had asked Clune casually if he was interested in a little something that might get a party going.
“I knew what he was talking about,” said Clune. “But I’ve never touched that stuff, officers. Honest. Marijuana, yeah, a few times. But not coke or smack or that kind of shit.”
“Huh,” said Harmony sceptically.
Clune had declined politely. Kruger shrugged, but gave Clune his business card. “If you’re ever in New York and you change your mind...”
So Clune found himself lost in New York, clutching a suitcase with a million dollars in high-denomination bills, and needing help to get it out of the country. He called the number on Kruger’s card.
Kruger seemed to remember him, and told him to come down to the furniture outlet in the Bronx. Clune found his way there with some difficulty, as he wasn’t familiar with the city at all.
“It was obviously a shell of a building, not a real furniture warehouse at all,” said Clune. “But Kruger was there, and he took me into that office where you found me and where I Maced you, Lieutenant Venn. He asked me what I had. I said a million dollars, and showed it to him. He asked where I got it. I told him I stole it from a guy named Salazar, right after he shot Oscar Flowers dead.”
“What was Kruger’s reaction?” said Venn.
Clune scratched his ear. “Well, he was kind of... nonchalant, but kind of nervous, too. As if he’d heard Flowers had been killed, but this was bringing the death right up close under his nose. And he seemed spooked by the name Salazar, as well. He asked what I wanted from him, and I said I’d like him to convert the cash into something I could transport more easily to Britain. Jewelry, diamonds, I suppose. I wasn’t the expert, and I wasn’t even sure he was. He was a drug dealer, after all. But he said he’d see what he could do.
“We talked payment. He wanted a fee of twenty-five per cent. I told him that was ridiculous, said I’d find myself someone else. He asked how much I was prepared to pay. I said five per cent. He haggled. We -”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Venn, glancing at his watch and making a keep rolling motion with the index finger of his other hand. “Cut to the chase, kid.”
Clune continued: “We settled on ten per cent. One hundred thousand dollars. It hurt to think of it, but I’d be getting the other nine, which was better than a hundred per cent of nothing. Kruger said he needed all the money now, so that he could purchase the goods. I said he had to be kidding, and got up to leave. Kruger just shrugged, said take it or leave it. So I took it. I gave him the suitcase.”
“You just handed it over,” said Walter.
“Yeah.” Clune’s gaze was distant, as though the realization of what he’d done had finally hit him.
“Chump,” said Harmony in a matter-of-fact tone.
Clune glared at her. “Thanks,” he said. “Thanks a lot.”
“And then?” prompted Venn.
“Then, I went back to Manhattan. Kruger told me to wait a day, then call him and he should have arranged something by then. I had time to kill. I thought I’d take in the sights of New York, have a nice meal, grab a few beers, maybe see a Broadway show. Next thing, I get mugged in SoHo, and I’ve got no money left. No phone, either.”
“So you call Kruger the next day?”
“Yeah. From probably the last existing pay phone in New York, using whatever change I’ve scraped up off the pavement. He says to meet him in Mott Haven in the Bronx, gives the address of a street. When I get there, he’s talking on his mobile phone. Before I can cross the street to meet him, this car pulls up. Mexicans. They shoot him down, then drive off.” His breath caught. “Problem is, they saw me, I think.”
“And you went to Kruger’s office, in case he had the million bucks still there?” said Venn.
“Of course. Stupid idea, but I mean, I was desperate. The man who had my money was suddenly dead. I couldn’t very well go to the police and say, hey, I’ve lost a suitcase with a million dollars that I took off a drug baron during a shoot-out. Can you help me find it? So I went back to his office just in case he had a safe there or something. Then you guys turned up, and the rest is history.”
The intercom on the desk buzzed. Shawna’s voice came nasally through the tinny system. “Lieutenant, there’s a Mr Franciscus here to see you. Says he has an appointment.”
Venn pressed the reply button. “Okay. Just a minute.”
“I don’t have him here in the diary -”
“It’s okay, Shawna,” said Venn. “I’ve arranged it.”
“Well, I should really be told,” she retorted testily, and hung up.
Venn stood. �
��We’ll carry on in a little while, after this,” he said. “Harm, Walter, take the kid into my office and shut the door. Give him, I don’t know, some crayons or something.”
Before they disappeared into the office, Venn said: “Wait. One thing I gotta know now.”
Clune turned.
“You didn’t get my home address by hacking the NYPD system,” said Venn. “So how exactly did you find out where I lived?”
“Ah.” Clune shuffled his feet, looked down at them. “I, er...”
He raised an arm suddenly and pointed at the desk Venn had been seated near. “Her,” he blurted.
Venn looked at the framed photo of Beth on his desk, the commendation she was holding up, which gave her name and the hospital she worked at.
Oh God, he thought.
“I remembered that picture from the first time you had me in this office,” Clune said in a rush. “She’s memorable. You know what I mean. I assumed she was your wife or girlfriend, and I thought I’d try finding her at the hospital and following her. I got lucky. She was there, she left for the evening, and she came home.”
Venn clenched his fists by his sides, relieved that the little bastard was about to disappear into the office.
“We’ll talk about this later,” he growled.
Chapter 26
Franciscus had to wait a couple of minutes in the lobby. The blowzy receptionist was initially put out by his unexpected visit, but she quickly succumbed to his low-key charm, and by the time the door opened she was resting her chin coyly on her palm, blinking fake lashes at him a fraction too rapidly.
Venn was in the doorway, his frame and presence filling it. He looked rougher round the edges than when Franciscus had last seen him yesterday.
“Lieutenant Venn.” Franciscus extended his hand. Venn gripped it.
“Sir.”
There was an instant, just a brief one, of that cliched male power display: the bonecrusher handshake, initiated by Venn, reciprocated by Franciscus. They both held back at the last minute.
“Lieutenant,” said Franciscus, as Venn ushered him into the office. “Please, let’s get this out the way. No sir necessary. We’re civilians now.”
“There’s no such thing as a ‘former’ Marine,” said Venn. “Nor a ‘former’ Army Ranger, I suspect.”
“Point taken. But let’s just pretend, then, shall we?”
There was nobody else in the main office, although Franciscus noted a closed door from beyond which he could hear the murmur of voices, and he saw several workstations with signs of recent use: active computer screens, scattered coffee cups. He accepted Venn’s offer of a seat.
When the brassy receptionist, Shawna, came in and offered a beverage, with much fluttering of her eyelids, Franciscus said: “Black coffee, please.”
Venn eyed Franciscus. “So. What did you want to talk to me about?”
“My client, Sean O’Dell. My former client, I should say.”
“Tragic.”
Franciscus studied Venn. He was evidently the kind of man who wore his flippancy lightly, so that you could never be sure if he meant it or not.
“If you mean, Lieutenant, that it’s tragic that a human being has lost his life at a relatively young age, then yes, I’d agree with you. But let’s not kid ourselves here. My client wasn’t the most upstanding of citizens.”
“Counselor,” said Venn, “I hope you’re not about to admit that your client was guilty of the crimes with which he was charged. Because you’re supposed to assume his innocence, if you represent him in a not-guilty plea. If you’re saying you believe in his guilt, you’re effectively admitting you lied to the police.”
“I might have changed my mind. Evidence of his guilt may have come to light subsequent to his death,” said Franciscus. “But I haven’t come here to play these verbal games, Lieutenant. Rather, I’m here to discuss Stefan Kruger.”
“Okay,” said Venn. “What about him?”
“Kruger was, as O’Dell told you, or was going to tell you before you pre-empted him, a narcotics dealer. O’Dell was scared when you told us that Kruger had been shot dead earlier in the day. I asked him why, afterward. He was cagey, and he wouldn’t tell me directly, but I got the distinct impression that O’Dell was afraid whoever killed Kruger was going to come after him. I suggested we go to the police and ask for protection, but he refused. That’s where I left him. Next thing, I hear he’s killed himself.”
“Doesn’t fit,” said Venn. “If he was afraid of getting killed, why’d he kill himself? Wouldn’t he have been wiser to skip town or something?”
“Exactly.” Franciscus finished his coffee. “Which leads me to believe that O’Dell didn’t kill himself. He was murdered.”
Venn watched him.
“And,” Franciscus continued, “judging by your reaction, I think you believe he was murdered, too.”
Venn shrugged. “Yeah. I do. But it could have been anybody. O’Dell was an extortionist. Kruger was a drug dealer. Both of them would have had a list of enemies as long as your arm. And they probably had enemies in common, too. Junkies. Former employees they’d screwed over.”
Franciscus said, “I represented O’Dell for three years. I know many of the people he had dealings with. What I’m asking, Lieutenant, is that you get me access to the reports on the Kruger shooting. There may be a clue there as to the identity of the killer or killers. I may be able to connect them with O’Dell.”
Venn seemed to think about it. After a moment, he raised his eyebrows. “Can’t hurt. Though it doesn’t sound as if the Bronx cops have made much progress. It was a drive-by, with a car none of the eyewitnesses can seem to agree on. Not even the make or the color.”
“Nevertheless. As you say, Lieutenant, it can’t hurt.”
He watched Venn pick up his phone, dial. While he waited, Franciscus glanced round the office. He became aware again of the presence behind the closed door of at least one person, probably more.
Venn rang off. “The Bronx guys are sending over what they’ve got.”
He beckoned Franciscus over to a workstation. Franciscus shuffled his chair over on its castors so that he was at Venn’s shoulder.
The email that pinged onto the monitor contained several attachments. Venn opened the first one listed, which was the account by the patrolman who’d been first on the scene. Eyewitnesses described four gunshots, fired from a car that had slowed but not stopped, and a man had gone down on the sidewalk. The car was variously described as, blah, blah, blah.
The second file was a forensic report on the bullets found in the dead man. Nine millimetre Parabellum rounds, which could have come from a whole host of different guns.
Franciscus murmured, “You’d think, with the number of people who would have had cell phones in their hands at that very moment, somebody might have been quick enough to take a photo.”
Venn turned in his chair and stared at Franciscus.
“Just a minute,” he said.
Franciscus watched him get up and stride to the closed door. He went in quickly, before Franciscus could see who was beyond.
Thirty seconds later, Venn emerged, a cell phone in his hand.
“Smart idea, counselor,” said Venn. He held up the phone so that Franciscus could peer at the screen.
It wasn’t the sharpest of pictures, but he could make out a street scene, with an ill-defined human figure stretched out on a sidewalk, and a car in the foreground. A black sedan, possibly a Chevy. The windows reflected the sun’s glare so it was impossible to make out who was inside, but on the passenger side, the one closest to the camera, a blurred elbow was sticking out over the lowered window.
Franciscus frowned. “Where’d you get this?”
“My colleagues are questioning somebody through there, in connection with a separate case. He happened to be on the scene when the shooting occurred. I checked with him just now if he happened to have taken a photo, and... hey presto.”
Franciscus felt a stirring inside
him, a quickening of his pulse. He said, “May I speak to this person? The one who gave you the phone?”
“He’s peripheral to this case,” said Venn. “Like I say, we’re asking him about something else. He doesn’t remember anything about Kruger’s shooting. We’ve already checked. Just happened to be passing through.”
Franciscus said, “Might I ask what this other case is, that he’s involved in?”
“You can ask, but I won’t tell you,” said Venn. “It’s not germane.”
Franciscus didn’t push it. He waited while Venn forwarded the photo to the workstation computer, and craned in to study the enlarged image that appeared on the monitor.
Venn fiddled with the image, tweaking it, trying to improve the resolution. But there wasn’t much to see.
Except for the elbow sticking out over the window frame.
Franciscus narrowed his eyes.
What was that, one the forearm, high up near the elbow?
A tattoo. The details were impossible to distinguish, but the overall shape...
And things began to make sense to Franciscus.
He sat back in the chair, making it creak. “Lieutenant, there really doesn’t seem to be much to go on. I’m afraid I’ve wasted your time.”
Venn stood up. “Not really, counselor. I appreciate your help. Give me your card, and I promise I’ll call you if any new information comes to light about the Kruger killing.”
Franciscus shook hands again.
Before he left, he felt tempted to glance at the closed door. But he thought better of it, because Venn’s eyes were on his back.
Out on the street, he got into his BMW but didn’t start the engine immediately. Instead, he took out his phone and dialed.
The call was answered almost immediately, but there was no voice for a few seconds. Franciscus thought the person at the other end was somewhere public, perhaps in a meeting, and had hurried to a more private location before speaking.
“Yes?”
“Senator, we have a problem,” said Franciscus.
Chapter 27