Delta Ghost - 02

by Tim Stevens

  “Describe him,” said Franciscus.

  Espinoza jerked his head feebly toward the door. “Just look on the posters out there,” he grated. “The cops are looking for him too.”

  Franciscus put out a hand, gripped Espinoza’s. “Thank you, Ramon. You’ve shown yourself to be a man. You’ve looked out for your family. And I’ll keep my word, as a man. They will not be harmed.”

  Espinoza’s lips moved again, and his voice was so quiet that Franciscus had to tilt his head.

  “Say that again?”

  “Two things,” Espinoza rasped. “You said you needed two things from me, to ensure my children’s safety.”

  “Yes,” said Franciscus. “I did.”

  He leaned in even closer so that Espinoza had to present his ear.

  Franciscus told him.

  He slipped a tiny object into Espinoza’s hand, closed the man’s fist over it.

  Then, without looking again at Espinoza, he stood, went over to the door of the cell, and knocked for the guard to let him out.

  Chapter 30

  Salazar had searched homes before, and with such great stealth that the occupant would never have known any intruder had been there.

  Today, though, there was no need for such finesse.

  With his six men, Salazar ransacked the house. They did it wordlessly, methodically, starting by securing all of the rooms, making sure nobody was home, then taking apart the rooms one by one.

  One hour after they’d entered the house, they stood amid the debris of overturned drawers and ripped cushions and smashed crockery, and Salazar reflected on the things he’d learned.

  Two people lived there. Elizabeth Colby, who was a physician. And Joseph Venn, a cop.

  Somebody else was staying there with them, or at least had been the night before. There was a carelessly folded blanket on the living room couch, together with a dented pillow. And there were three coffee cups in the drying rack beside the basin in the kitchen.

  Apart from that, there was no sign of the British kid, Clune.

  The single-car garage was empty. The Colby woman probably worked at one of the city’s hospitals and would most likely have taken the subway to work. On a shelf, among the rows of tools, Salazar found a couple of Mustang GT maintenance manuals. Venn’s car, it had to be.

  Salazar gathered his men together in the wreckage of the living room.

  “We need to find this Venn,” he said. “He’s a detective. Not a uniform cop. All the photos suggest this. Probably fairly senior, judging by his age.” Salazar had a sudden thought. He selected a framed photo of Venn and the woman from a shelf, prized the frame away and ripped the picture in half so that he had Venn’s face.

  With his phone he took a picture of the photo, then texted it to all of the men on his contact list who were currently in New York. He added the message: This is Joseph Venn, a cop, probably a detective. If you see him, notify me immediately. He may be driving a Ford Mustang GT.

  Salazar pointed four fingers at an equivalent number of men. “We’re going.”

  To the remaining two he said: “You wait here. In case anybody comes home.”

  Chapter 31

  On the way to the parking lot, Venn called the second number on the business card Franciscus had handed him. The office number.

  A woman answered briskly. “Franciscus and Associates. How may I help you?”

  “My name is Detective Lieutenant Joseph Venn,” said Venn, as he got behind the wheel of the Mustang, Harmony sliding into the seat beside him. “I need to speak urgently with Mr Franciscus. I’ve left a message on his cell phone, but I wonder if you could tell me where he is?”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the woman said. “Mr Franciscus is out of the office this morning. The only contact number I have for him is the cell number you tried. He’s expected back early this afternoon. May I take a message?”

  “Just tell him I called,” said Venn. “Thanks.”

  Venn pulled out into the mid-morning traffic. Harmony said, “Where are we going?”

  “To his office,” Venn replied. “Charm his receptionist a little. See if she’ll give us a clue where he is.”

  “Charm her. You mean, shake her down.”

  “Whatever.” He checked the address on the business card.

  As he negotiated the traffic, Venn made a second call. This one was to a colleague of his in the Marines, Mike Crowe. He and Crowe had lost touch over the years, but Crowe had re-established contact with Venn two years ago when he’d learned he was in New York. Crowe was a trainer of recruits now, at Marine Corps Base Quantico in Virginia. He’d been invalided out of active duty with the Corps after his left foot had gotten blown off in Iraq during Operation Phantom Fury, and his bravery under fire had earned him serious respect within not only the Marines but the armed forces as a whole. As a consequence, he’d established a network of contacts throughout the Pentagon.

  Venn lucked out, Crowe’s secretary putting the call through immediately. He heard the man’s familiar, cheery baritone booming down the line. “Venn. Too long. What’s up?”

  “Love to chat, Mike, but I need a favor.”

  “Sounds ominous,” said Crowe.

  “Could you run a check for me? An Army Ranger vet named Peter Franciscus. Spelled like San Francisco but with a US at the end. Third Battalion, eighty-five to oh-four. I don’t know his rank, but he’d have to have been a major at least.”

  “Okay,” Crowe said breezily. “Anything in particular I should look for?”

  “No... I just want to confirm he’s who he says he is,” said Venn. “But if you can dig up anything on his career after the Corps, I’ll owe you big time.”

  “You already owe me, Venn. But I’ll see what I can do.” Crowe paused. “You driving?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Damned big city cops. No respect for road safety.”

  “Call soon, Mike.” Venn rang off.

  Next to him, Harmony said, “You think Franciscus was bullshitting you about his military record?”

  “No,” said Venn. “It’s too easily verifiable. But there’s something about the guy. Something that’s not right. A feeling I have.”

  *

  Franciscus’ office, a block away from Wall Street, was cool and quiet, the airconditioning so silent and unobtrusive it was like stepping into a forest glade.

  Venn and Harmony took the stairs to the third floor. The reception was silent and empty, apart from the woman behind the desk.

  She looked up, a smooth practiced smile on her face. “May I help you?”

  Venn flipped his shield. “Detective Venn. This is Detective Jones. I spoke to you a little while earlier on the phone.”

  Her eyes flicked for a moment as she searched her memory. Then she said, “Of course. You wanted Mr Franciscus. I’m afraid he’s still not –”

  “We need to know where he is, Miss, uh –” Venn looked at the name plate on the reception desk. “Ms Archer.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose –”

  “Ms Archer. Listen,” said Harmony. “My partner and I could have talked to you on the phone, but we wanted to meet you face to face. Mr Franciscus’ kid is in trouble.”

  The woman’s eyes flared for a second. Then she regained her coiffed composure.

  “Which child?” she asked.

  Venn winced inwardly.

  Harmony said, “The older one.” She gave a small sigh. “Drugs. Probably somebody else’s fault, but...” She shrugged in a you-know-how-it-is gesture.

  The woman touched her fingertips to her chin. Venn thought that in most other people it would be the equivalent of breaking down in worry.

  He said, gruffly but kindly: “We need to locate Mr Franciscus as a matter of urgency. You said you didn’t know where he was this morning. But where do you think he might be? Do you have any idea?”

  The woman pressed her hands together, tapping the index fingers against one another. She said: “He called me an hour ago
, and asked me to phone some people he knows within your police department. He wanted to find out where a certain person was being held in custody, because he wished to offer his legal services to this individual. Mr Franciscus does a fair amount of pro bono work, you see, and –”

  Venn felt the answer hit him before he’d finished asking. “Who was this person, Ms Archer?”

  She drew herself up, her manner assured, as if she was now on clear, unambiguous ground. “I’m not permitted to divulge such information, Detective.”

  “Okay.” He held up his hands in a backing-off gesture. “But can you tell us if you found out where this suspect was being detained?”

  “We really, really need to speak to Mr Franciscus, right now,” Harmony murmured.

  The woman looked at each of them in turn. Then, her face set, she turned to her computer monitor.

  “The client is in custody at the Thurgood Marshall County Courthouse in Foley Square.”

  Venn said, “Thank you, Ms Archer. You’ve been a great help. Mr Franciscus will appreciate it, I’m sure.”

  On the stairs down, Venn said to Harmony, “How did you know Franciscus had kids?”

  “I didn’t,” she said. “Lucky guess.”

  Out on the street, Venn found the number of the courthouse. After being passed along from one person to another, he was put through to a cop who could help him.

  “I’m one of the detectives who took down a man named Ramon Espinoza yesterday,” Venn said to the cop. “I’m trying to locate him. Is he being held there?”

  The cop said: “Lieutenant, you got psychic powers or something?”

  “What do you mean?”

  The cop sounded stressed. “We got a major problem here. Espinoza killed himself in his cell a half hour ago.”

  “What?”

  “Opened up his wrists with a razor. God knows where he’d kept it hidden. Just sat there and bled out. They got to him pretty quickly, but it was too late. DOA.”

  “Ah, damn.”

  “You can say that again,” said the cop. “Doesn’t look good for us at all.”

  Venn thought quickly. “Did he have any visitors before he did it? Friends, family?”

  “No. Just his lawyer.”

  “The public defender.”

  “No, she handed the case over to some other guy. Man named, uh... Franciscus.”

  Venn felt a tightness in his gut.

  “Anything else, Lieutenant? We’re kind of busy –”

  “No. Thanks.”

  Harmony had been leaning in, trying to catch the conversation. Venn ran a hand over his scalp, stared at her.

  He said, “Espinoza’s dead. Cut himself open, shortly after his new lawyer paid him a visit. Guess who the new lawyer was.”

  “Shit,” said Harmony. Then her eyes widened. “An apparent suicide...”

  “Yeah. Like O’Dell’s. And Franciscus was with him just before he did it, too.”

  They got into the Mustang. Harmony’s brow was furrowed.

  “It doesn’t add up. Franciscus kills O’Dell. Kills this gang guy. But he seemed to want to find out who killed Kruger, which suggests he wasn’t involved in that shooting. How does it all connect?”

  “I don’t know,” said Venn. “But this shifts everything up a gear. Franciscus’ secretary will call him to let him know about our visit. He’ll know we’re on to him. Whatever he’s doing, he’ll need to move fast.”

  “The problem is, we don’t know what he’s doing,” Harmony said.

  “Yeah. But we better find out soon.”

  Chapter 32

  When the fat copper, Sickert, finally said, “You can come out now, kid,” Clune lifted the blanket off his head and immediately wished he hadn’t.

  The stink of the car assailed his nostrils once more, as it had done when he’d first climbed in. It was a heady, rancid brew of stale cigarette smoke and stale armpit sweat and fried fast-food.

  He fought back the urge to gag, and sat up cautiously, flinching as he anticipated the sots to come smashing through the car window. Sickert had already climbed out and was holding the rear door open.

  They were in an unfamiliar part of the city. Clune peered around at the slightly down-at-heel streets, the milling crowds. Sickert had parked up on the curb.

  “Where are we?” said Clune.

  “Harlem,” said Sickert. “My old stamping ground.”

  He led Clune toward an apartment block which looked if not derelict, then as if it was in serious need of structural repair. They went through the dingy lobby with its cracked linoleum floor and reached the elevator.

  It wasn’t working.

  “Just my goddamn luck,” muttered Sickert, and he headed for the stairs, Clune in tow. By the time they reached the third floor, the cop was wheezing so heavily Clune wondered if he was about to keel over with a heart attack.

  Sickert fished some keys from his trouser pocket and opened the door to one of the apartments. Inside, the rooms were sparsely furnished but clean.

  “Here we are,” said Sickert, spreading his arms as if he was a real estate agent showing off a top-range condo on the Malibu beachfront. “Home sweet home. For the time being, anyhow.”

  Clune gazed round. Well, he’d lived in worse digs than this before. Far worse. Places a cockroach would be horrified to go near.

  “There’s nobody else here?”

  “Just you and me, kid,” said Sickert. “Don’t worry. I ain’t gonna take advantage of you.”

  “It’s not that,” said Clune, shuddering inwardly at the image that came to mind. “It’s just... well...” He glanced at Sickert’s gross body, his sweaty face.

  Sickert laughed. “I get it. You don’t rate your chances of survival all that high with a fat slob like me as your bodyguard.” He reached inside his jacket. “Let me show you something, son.”

  Clune watched as Sickert withdrew the biggest handgun he’d ever seen. It kept on coming and coming as he pulled it from his jacket, a dull ugly beast which Clune, who knew next to nothing about firearms, nonetheless recognized as a revolver.

  “Beautiful, isn’t she?” said Sickert, with something like love in his tone. “Smith & Wesson Model 29. Chambered for .44 Magnum cartridges.” He lapsed into a grotesque Clint Eastwood parody, muttering through clenched teeth: “One of these will blow your head clean off.”

  Clune flinched. For the first time he wished he was back with Venn and Harmony. At least they were only scary. This bloke was a psycho.

  “Seriously, kid, it’s fascinating how this works,” said Sickert. “The temporary cavity produced by a bullet of this power is massively disruptive to the surrounding tissues. So if you take one of these in the chest or belly, even if by some miracle none of your major organs gets hit, you still get turned into a bag of soup. Neat, huh?”

  Sometimes, when Clune was a small boy, he used to hold his breath as long as he could, until he came close to passing out. It usually got his mum’s attention, and took attention away from his baby brother, which was the whole point. Now, Clune felt the same waves of giddiness ripple through his head, and he lurched toward the nearest threadbare recliner and dropped into it.

  Sickert watched him, then put the gun away inside its holster.

  “Uh... I guess you don’t need to hear all of that right now.”

  When Clune felt steadier, he said, “So what happens now?”

  “We wait,” said Sickert, lowering his bulk onto a protesting couch. “Till Lieutenant Venn says otherwise.” He leaned forward, peering at Clune with interest. “Anyways. You were saying earlier about Jack the Ripper. How my namesake might have been him. You from that part of London? Whitechapel?”

  “No,” said Clune. “I’m from Manchester.”

  “Ah. Pity. Whatever,” said Sickert. Then he brightened. “Manchester? Isn’t that where the serial killer doctor was? Harold Shipley or something?”

  “Harold Shipman,” said Clune.

  “That’s the one. He killed like two
hundred of his patients, didn’t he? Awesome.” Sickert shifted his chubby behind on the couch. “Tell me about him.”

  *

  Salazar believed in luck. He also believed that the more faith you had in God, the more good luck He would send your way.

  When the phone call came, Salazar closed his eyes in silent thanks, raised the crucifix that hung round his neck to his lips.

  Two of his men had been working the streets in Harlem when they’d noticed a small group of young African-American people in animated conversation on a street corner. Salazar’s men had wandered nearer. At the center of the group, a youth was holding a piece of paper.

  “It was him, man. I’m telling you.”

  Another guy said, “So what?”

  A third person, a girl, chimed in: “So, there’s maybe, like, a reward.”

  The second guy snorted. “Bullshit. Where do you see anything about a reward?”

  They peered at the paper again. Salazar’s guys sidled round the perimeter of the group so they could look over the shoulder of the guy holding it.

  It was one of the flyers the police had posted around the city, with the picture of the British kid, Clune.

  The guy with the flyer said, “Maybe. Maybe the cops’ll pay us. And even if they don’t... well, this dude’s missing. We oughta report it, irregardless.”

  “Why?” said somebody else. “You said the guy was walking along of his own free will. He wasn’t hurt, wasn’t a prisoner. Maybe he doesn’t want to be found. In which case, leave him be.”

  “Yeah,” piped up another boy. “We don’t owe the cops nothin’. I say forget about it.”

  Salazar’s men looked at one another. One of them gave a small cough.

  The youths looked round. “Help you gentlemen?” one of them said, hostility in his tone.

  Salazar’s man beckoned to the kid with the flyer. “You. We want to talk to you.” Like a conjuror, he flashed a roll of greenbacks, then made them disappear.