[2017] It Happened at Two in the Morning

by Alan Hruska

  “It’s the goddamn Arabs at the bottom of this.”

  “I don’t think so. Looks like somehow they got pulled in, but they didn’t start it. Way too risky for them.”

  “I’m gonna pull Rashid in right now,” Mike says. “Of all the suspects—can’t think of anyone more likely to know where Elena is.”

  “I can.” Tom slaps his hands together. “Fucking obvious!”

  He has their attention.

  “Teddy Stamos,” Tom says. “He’s all over this GT&M thing. He’s working for everyone, but probably mostly for himself. Look, a man like Rashid al-Calif doesn’t deal directly with contract killers. Neither would someone like Jockery. They’d have an intermediary. Gotta be Stamos. And it’s likely to have been Stamos who bought Khalil. And then either paid him to leave or scared him enough to do it.”

  Mike regards him with new appreciation. “That’s pretty fucking inspired. Now what, if anything, does that tell us about where they took Elena?”

  “Khalil’s house?”

  “Where’d that come from?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “So is the boat basin.”

  “I know,” Tom says, with a shudder. “I’ve thought of that too.”

  “But these brain waves of yours tell you that it’s the chauffeur’s house?”

  “I wouldn’t call them brain waves.”

  “You just feel it? Instinct? Or grasping at straws?”

  “I’m going there!”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve got to go somewhere. I’m going a bit crazy.”

  “It’s something more!” Mike insists. “What is it?”

  “We were just there—it’s an empty house. They’re likely to know it’s empty. They won’t want to take her to that same farm place they dumped us in last time. I dunno, I’m just going.”

  “I’ll send some squad cars.”

  “Great,” Tom says. “I’ll meet them there. Subway’s faster.”

  “Still, the boat basin—”

  “If they went there, Mike, they’re now out to sea.”

  “Right,” Skillan says. “I’ll send the Coast Guard.”

  “So you’re Jacob,” says Teddy, as the large man enters the car. It’s a black Lexus, but not conspicuously luxurious. They’re parked on a side street on the Upper West Side.

  “Where’s Birdie? What’s going on?”

  “Right to the point,” Teddy says. “That’s good. Birdie has retired. And departed. She’s left the business to you. Says you’re qualified … and hungry. Is that true?”

  “You her source? The feeder?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So I deal with you now? Directly?”

  Teddy turns down the air conditioning. “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “I’m happy to do the work,” Jacob says. “But not for the cut I was getting.”

  “If you’re good—and we can test that on this job—I’ll pay you what I was paying her, which, I imagine, is several steps above your present pay grade.”

  “You have money for me now?”

  “Some of it.”

  “And you want me to trust you for the rest?”

  “This is how it’s done, Jacob. We earn each other’s trust. Bit by bit. You should know that by now.” Teddy hands him a large envelope filled with hundred-dollar bills.

  Jacob counts the money. “Yes, okay. And the rest?”

  “Double that. For success.”

  “Who are you? How do I reach you?”

  “I’ll reach you.”

  “More trust?”

  “Correct.”

  “You want her killed, right? And disposed of. I could have done that last night. It’s better at night.”

  “Well, I didn’t have clearance last night. From my client. And it will be night again soon. She’s secure?”

  Jacob laughs. It’s an evil sound. “Oh, yes.”

  Elena is handcuffed to a steam pipe on a bare wooden floor in a windowless room. She can’t be sure whether it’s basement or attic—she was barely conscious when carried there.

  It started with a woman and a large, ugly man. The handcuffs came on right away, as did a hood, while Tom was fighting with another one. They threw her into the trunk of a car and drove for a little less than an hour. The man dragged her out, carried her into some building, and cuffed her to the pipe. Later, the woman left, the hood came off, and the man left. Bad signs. The man would not have let her see him if he meant to keep her alive. And she can’t quite imagine what he wants her to see, but some disturbing possibilities do occur to her. She wears her nightgown and nothing else. The room of unplastered wood-framed walls is bare of furniture except for one ladder-backed chair. Numb with terror, she expects two things to happen: the man will come back, and this place will become her torture chamber.

  The first prophesy is almost immediately fulfilled. She hears him approach—climbing or descending, she can’t be certain, it’s too far away—and then enter through a small door in the far wall. She’s guessing it’s a separate room in the attic. The chair creaks as he sits on it. He’s gnawing at a chicken bone, which he then tosses into a KFC bag.

  “You want something to eat?” he says.

  “No, thank you.” Might as well be polite. Keep it civil.

  “Okay,” he says. “Then let’s start. With your free hand, I want you to lift your nightgown up to your neck.”

  “I’m sorry, I won’t do that.”

  “I think you will. Because the alternative is that I will kill you.”

  “I think you’re planning to kill me anyway,” she says.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Why did you kidnap me?”

  “For the money, of course.”

  “And if you get some money, you’ll let me go?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Then I’ll give you money,” she says. “Much more than they’re paying you.”

  He laughs and rises from the chair.

  Elena says, “I think you killed my father.”

  “Really? What makes you say that?”

  “I was there, but I won’t tell anyone.”

  “I know that.”

  “So that’s like saying you’re going to kill me.”

  Jacob moves toward her. “You’re right. But there are many ways to be killed. Some are very painful.”

  “You let me go,” she says, “and I’ll make you a rich man. Many multiples of whatever they’re paying you. I’m sure you know I can afford it.”

  “I can’t let you go. Then they kill me. Painfully.”

  “I could offer you protection. A new identity. A life like a king’s in another country.”

  He laughs again. “You know I can’t trust you.”

  “But you can. I really mean it. Listen to me.”

  “No, you listen to me,” he says. “Lift up the nightgown, because I like it sweet. If it has to be bitter, you will not like the pain.”

  Tom bursts out of the subway and his cell phone rings. “Who’s this?” he says running.

  “Mike. Slow down. Cops in Brooklyn have already been to the house. No one there. Totally empty. Sorry.”

  Tom stops. “What do you mean? When?”

  “They just left.”

  “You said you were sending cops from Manhattan.”

  “Guys in Brooklyn were closer and available.”

  “And now gone.”

  “The house is empty, Tom. Come back.”

  “You find Stamos?”

  “Not answering his phone, not in his office.”

  “Rashid?”

  “Same thing.”

  Tom starts running again. “Bye, Mike. I’ll let you know what I find.”

  The front door is locked, but it’s glass, so Tom breaks it. Not so simple. He almost severs his foot. But once smashed open, the door is easy enough to unlock.

  The house certainly feels empty. No lights, no sounds. He takes the stairs two at a time. Bedrooms
still furnished but devoid of people, photos or clothes. As are all the closets. No towels in the bathroom, or pharmaceutical products, though cardboard boxes and plastic containers are littered about. Khalil and his household have definitely fled.

  He inspects the ceiling of every room, and of the upstairs hallway. In the ceiling of the master bedroom closet, there’s a square perforation implying an attic door.

  He finds a straight-back chair that will support his weight and fit in the closet. In moments he has the ceiling door open and has hoisted himself through. Dark, dusty, open, empty. He’s sweating profusely and in near panic.

  Tom rattles back down the stairs. There are radiators in this house, it’s got to have a basement. Where’s the damn door? Living room, dining room, kitchen—no cellar door. None in the front hallway. There was nothing in the front of the house, he remembers, so he goes out the back. A small garden. No door there either. Or cellar windows.

  What am I missing?

  He goes back inside, stands in the hallway, and tries calmly to think. “Christ!”

  Back in the living room. The rug isn’t straight. He pulls it aside with some effort. There’s the door. In the floor. The bottom of the rug is Velcroed to it. The door has a pull latch. And stairs leading down. And light coming from around a door to a room past the furnace at the far end of the basement.

  Tom opens that door to an awful sight: a gun aimed squarely at his head by a large ugly man also holding a nightgown, and Elena crouching naked in a corner, covering herself with her knees and arms.

  Tom, flashing his badge, summons from somewhere miraculous wellsprings of cool. “Evening, Jacob. Jacob Wozniacki, to use your full name.”

  Which causes Jacob to blink.

  “So here’s the situation,” Tom continues. “In about two, three minutes tops, half the police force of New York City will be in and around this building. They’re after you. And they will have the area surrounded. They do that—surround places—so if the culprit, meaning you, takes a hostage, they can shoot him in the back.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “Well, we have your name, and Piet’s name—he’s doing a lot of the talking. I know, for example, you both took orders from Birdie O’Shane. But let’s focus on your options. Taking hostages, you’re a dead man, as I said. Besides, it would slow you down. You have a better chance just running. If you take off immediately, it’s conceivable you’ll slip through, though frankly that’s not what I’d do in your circumstances. See, we’ve been told it was your shot that killed Robbie Riles. Piet and Birdie both—”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “Ah, really? So you deny their story. Well, you run, the cops spot you, you don’t get to tell your side, they’ll probably just shoot you on sight. The third option is to stay right here. Turn yourself in when the cops arrive—and I’ll make sure they don’t shoot you. We’ll also cover up Elena and pretend this ugly sexual abuse didn’t happen.”

  “What abuse? I never touched her!”

  “Good. Then you’ll get to tell your story, with a lawyer representing you, as someone who gave himself up, rather than as a fugitive caught in flight. Much stronger position. And the fact is, they’re not really interested in you. They’re interested in Teddy Stamos. The mastermind of this whole thing. You, I know, were just taking orders from Birdie who took them from Stamos.”

  “How … do you know all this?”

  “I’ve known about Stamos for a while. What I need is some direct proof.”

  “Oh yeah. That’s worth a lot, right?”

  “It is,” Tom says calmly. “To you.”

  “So what do I get?”

  “I just said.”

  “Not enough.”

  “I’m an assistant DA, not the DA. I can’t guarantee a result. But you need someone inside. And I will argue forcefully against the death penalty. You give me what I need, and you have my word.”

  “How do I know you’re even in the DA’s office?”

  “You saw my badge.”

  Jacob laughs. “I could buy one.”

  “How else would I know your name? Come on, Jacob! You’re running out of time.”

  The man gives a tortured expression of uncertainty.

  “You’ve met him?” Tom prods. “Stamos?”

  “Today,” Jacob says. “He gave me money to do this.”

  “Well. Okay. That’s great. I think we can deal. And I think you understand. Dealing is by far your best option right now. Just toss that nightgown over to Elena, uncuff her, and drop the gun.”

  They hear sirens.

  Tom says, hiding his great relief, “You see? It’s coming to pass, Jacob. Follow my instructions and all will end for you far better than it otherwise might.”

  Jacob does as he is told. As he hands Elena back her nightgown, she smacks him right in the face.

  FORTY-NINE

  In the squad car taking them home, Elena says nothing. Upstairs in their tiny Red Hook apartment, she goes to the bathroom, gets dressed in more than a nightgown and a borrowed sweater, gets out her suitcase, and starts packing.

  “I’ve somehow disappointed you?” he asks.

  “You saw what that guy did to me?” she says.

  “And what he was about to do, yes.”

  “And you made a deal with him! For evidence! You totally let him get away with humiliating me and killing my father.”

  “I think maybe you don’t understand the deal. He was about to kill both of us with that gun. Or to take us hostage, which very likely would have gotten us killed. The point was to get him to put the gun down. Everything else was meaningless piffle.”

  “You gave him your word!” she says, grabbing blouses and jeans from the dresser. “That was meaningless?”

  “Absolutely. There is no death penalty in the state of New York. But he will go up for life for felony murder. In which case, what’s the point of adding twenty years to his sentence?”

  “There’s a point to me!” she says.

  “Okay. I see that. You want to prosecute him? Go ahead. You didn’t give your word.”

  “He took my nightgown off.”

  “I saw.”

  “And touched me when he did it,” she says.

  On each of their faces a suppression of tears.

  He says roughly, “Of course I want to kill him. But there was never a chance of that, El.”

  She slings the clothes into her suitcase. He goes to hold her. “I know you’re angry, El.”

  “It’s no consolation that you saved my life.”

  “I know that too.”

  “You’re too fucking rational for me, Tom.”

  “Too rational?”

  She pulls away. “And now you’re patronizing me.”

  “I do realize nothing I can say at the moment can be right.”

  “Right,” she says and snaps the suitcase shut. “So I’m leaving.”

  “You’ve had a trauma. We should deal with it, go to the hospital.”

  “I don’t need a hospital,” she says, turning. “I need to get away from you.”

  “Wait!” he says.

  Her tight lips imply he has seconds.

  “We could go for some pie,” he says. “Y’know, Key lime, the place I mentioned.”

  “Not funny, Tom! Not fucking funny!”

  She’s gone, and there’s no humor to that either.

  Tom wakes up alone, doesn’t much like it. He understands the psychology of Elena’s departure, but dislikes that too. Comforting each other would have been a better alternative. Of course, he would never have admitted such a need, which is maybe why he’s not entirely blameless. Musing about that, he showers and dresses, then grabs some breakfast at the coffee shop on Van Brunt Street, before taking a subway to work. He keeps thinking, I will fix this. But he’s not sure how.

  He goes directly to Mike’s office. The boss is there but reading and doesn’t look up. “Jacob is talking,” Mike says. “Interesting story. Dovetails exactly
with Piet’s. Little more detailed, because he says he knows more than Piet does, but there’s no inconsistency. For example, Jacob says you came to him; he then recruited Piet.”

  Tom takes a chair. Shakes his head. Laughs out loud. “Last night he was handing me Stamos.”

  “You have it recorded?”

  “I had a gun on me. But I have a witness.”

  “Elena?” Mike says, looking up. “Not exactly disinterested, but okay, bring her in.”

  “She’s probably more disinterested than you think. I have to find her.”

  Mike studies him. “She split? After you saved her life?”

  “Probably because of it. Look,” Tom says, then stops, thinks, gets up excitedly. “Jacob’s telling the same story? The same story Piet told? That’s it!”

  Mike doesn’t get it.

  Tom says, “Someone got to him! Because he didn’t know it, when I arrived in that basement. What’s the trail afterward?”

  “He was brought right here. Then the lockup. Probably being arraigned right now. From there, of course, he’ll go to Rikers.”

  “Who questioned him here?”

  “Sammy.”

  “Okay,” Tom says, leaning over Mike’s desk.

  “You’re suggesting what? Sammy turned Jacob?”

  “I doubt it. But that first assignment you gave me? The day I arrived here? Given what you just told me, I might have the answer by the end of today.” He goes to the door, hesitates, and turns. “You’re not arresting me, I see.”

  Mike smiles faintly. “You have the day,” he says. Then, “Oh. Pressroom is packed. So you also have a choice. You can be the hero for last night, or you can pass and give it to the force.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  “Wise choice,” Mike says.

  Tom finds Sammy in his office. It’s what he expects: a small cavern of loose stacked files whose organization would confound anyone but Sammy. “Who spoke to Jacob last night in addition to you? Maybe before you?”

  “Am I supposed to talk to you?” Sammy says.

  “Your call. But talk to Mike first, if you like. He just sent me down here.”

  Sammy thinks about this only briefly before picking up his phone. Mike must have been waiting for the call, since he takes it immediately. Tom hears Mike’s voice boom, “Tell him what he wants to know.” Sammy hangs up and says, as if nothing of significance had transpired, “The cops who brought him, obviously. My boss, for a couple of minutes, maybe. The usual.”