by Ben Sanders
She moved to the rear passenger door and did the same move, held the door handle and stood back to make her appraisal. She said, “This is a young guy’s car. Keller wouldn’t drive around in a pigsty.”
Bobby opened the back door, dug through one of the boxes in the load space, but it was burner phones all the way down.
Nina said, “You always been a hat wearer, or did you only take it up when you started watching Breaking Bad?”
Bobby said, “I’ve always been a hat guy, I guess.”
He closed the door and stepped around the back of the truck again, saw Nina standing in the same position, bag in one hand, but with a piece of cardboard in the other. She must have just conjured it—he hadn’t seen her move.
She said, “Someone’s got mail.” She looked at him. “DeSean Copeland. He ring a bell?”
She held up the box—hardback-book-size, maybe an inch deep—so he could see the address label. DeSean Copeland, down in Sheepshead Bay. The sender was ARC Gaming, up in Queens.
Bobby said, “Maybe he’s worth a visit.”
Nina consulted the label again. She said, “Sheepshead Bay. It sounds like the kind of place where things could go wrong.”
Bobby said, “Yeah, hopefully. Maybe Keller calls himself DeSean Copeland when he buys his video games, keep himself off the radar.”
Nina tossed the box on the seat. “I’ve got a picture forming now. Keller playing video games, driving around in a Gran Torino.”
Bobby said, “Probably drives a rust bucket, pretends it’s just as good as the one on his PlayStation.”
Nina said, “Or maybe he plays those shooting games, and it’s the other way around: pretends his PlayStation skills are just as good as his real skills.”
He saw the hotel lobby again, Keller’s smooth moves as he took down those two guys. Seeing it in his head, seeing Keller and his speed, he couldn’t ignore the fact that getting rid of the guy might actually be a lot of work.
He moved around to where Nina was standing, and said, “Let’s make a house call.”
She said, “All in good time.” She was fanning the driver’s door gently but looking somewhere else, off where her thoughts were. She looked at him and said, “Right now, it’s only number three on the list.”
Bobby said, “So what’s one?”
“I’ve got people coming by the apartment with my commission fee. And we don’t want them leaving it at the door.”
We.
So they were in it together. His stomach did something funny—a dip and a swoop.
He said, “And what’s two?”
The Ferrari went past, squealed its tires through a turn. Nina waited for quiet and said, “I’m not sure. I’m leaving room for something good to come up.”
TWENTY-FOUR
NEW YORK, NY
Miles Keller
They were keeping witnesses in separate hotel rooms, waiting for the detectives to come through, but Miles got special treatment: a patrol supervisor bagged his gun, and then two investigators from the PD’s Force Investigation Division drove him over to the First Precinct building at Varick and Ericsson.
Being in the moment, as they say, when he’d actually shot those two guys, he’d seen it all as morally pristine. But the black-letter-law part of him knew the DA’s office would never see it in the same terms. Even if they didn’t put the shooting to a grand jury there’d still be grief about the Glock—why he even had a weapon, given he’d turned in his badge for the time being. Then it’d be suit-and-tie in front of the FDAB—the Firearms Discharge Advisory Board—trying to make his actions marry up with Department Procedure, tell them all about why it had been a good idea to shoot into a crowd.
He’d thought as well that they might send him the same people—the guys who’d covered the Jack Deen fiasco. But these two FID detectives were new to him: a female captain of about forty-five called Medina, and a guy of about fifty named McKenzie. They looked like they’d been paired by someone with a yen for contrasts. McKenzie was six-four and fat, and Medina was about five-five and had a sharp, sinewy look, like she did that boiling-hot kind of yoga every day.
The precinct house on Ericsson was an old three-story building in white stone that was going gray with age. Miles was normally out in Brooklyn, but he’d been here a few times. Medina parked in one of the reserved slots on Varick, and McKenzie got out and opened Miles’s door. He kept wondering what had happened up at Rockefeller Center—if people were still hanging around, waiting for the man in the tracksuit to show up, or if word had got out that their guy was in an ICU somewhere, hopefully still alive.
He followed Medina over to a blue steel door, McKenzie bringing up the rear, and they stood waiting while Medina found her key. Two kids on bikes rode past and called out:
“Busted.”
* * *
Funny how the feeling of trouble seemed to come down harder and harder. Right after the shooting he was just pleased to be out the other side with his life. Then in the car, obviously, there was no ignoring the fact he was going to face some hard questions. Then in the precinct building, Medina leading him through the detective squad room, people looking at him, knowing he was a cop with a shooting history, a loud voice told him he’d better get this right.
He saw McKenzie go over to a glass cubicle at the end of the detective bureau and talk to the squad supervisor, and then Medina led him down a corridor to an interview room. There were only two chairs, one each side of the table.
Miles sat down on the far side. He said, “You going to get another chair, or does someone sit on the desk and stare at me so I get nervous?”
Medina ignored it. She left him alone for a minute and then came back with a copy of the PD’s Firearms Discharge Investigation Manual, and a handheld Breathalyzer.
Miles blew zero-zero-zero.
She noted it in the report template and said, “You need anything? Coffee, water?”
“Coffee would be good. And a phone.”
Her own phone was ringing, and she stepped out to take the call. She was back five minutes later with a pitch-black brew in a polystyrene cup, set it on the table in front of him. She said, “There’s a spare phone in the squad room you can use if you like.”
He was mid-sip, so nodded his thanks.
She folded her arms and leaned in the doorway. She said, “You know how to shoot. On-scene guys called me about the lobby footage, said it was three shots in three seconds.”
Why would she tell him that? Other than to catch him off-guard, make him say something clumsy or incriminating—like he’d enjoyed it. But he just nodded and said, “That sounds about right.”
The coffee was unimpressive, but he took his time with it, thinking about where to go next. He said, “My parents used to rob banks. Does it say that in my file?”
No need to bring it up, but he wanted to see how she handled it, how hard they were looking at him. She raised her eyebrows and shook her head, kept her gaze on him.
Miles said, “My dad didn’t really have the fortitude for it, always used to throw up afterwards, apparently. Stress used to get to him.”
“What a hero.”
“Yeah. But I think because he was antsy, he used to do a lot of prep. Had me doing shooting drills when I was about seven, eight years old.”
“Thought you were going to follow in his footsteps.”
“Yeah, maybe. They used to do road trips now and then, hit a few banks in Texas.”
She glanced out at the corridor again, looking for McKenzie, and then said, “Imagine that’d get the adrenaline going.”
“Mmm, I think it probably would.”
“But the prep paid off for you, right? Just like robbing a bank.”
She was looking at him closely, wanting a slipup, trying to read him on a level that he wasn’t conscious of. Miles didn’t answer. He drank coffee and heard feet in the corridor: a long, heavy stride, and then McKenzie was in the room, and Medina looked away, and the moment was gone.
&
nbsp; McKenzie said, “Still waiting to hear from the ADA whether they want an interview, so we’ll get you started on the eff-dar in the meantime.”
The eff-dar: firearms discharge/assault report. Miles was getting good at them.
He could keep his story narrow, but if they wanted to talk, there’d be a lot of ground to cover. Nina and the hotel, and the guy in the hat who was with her. He’d probably have to tell them all about his trip up to Kings Point too, what he’d been doing at the Covey crime scene. So many story points to address, tick off to their satisfaction. Maybe they’d relitigate all the Jack Deen stuff too, make him explain how an L.A. gangster ended up dead on Lucy’s floor that night.
He looked at Medina and said, “I think I better use that phone first.”
The two FID cops shared a look, and McKenzie shrugged, and Medina stepped out and gestured for Miles to follow. He brought his coffee with him and trailed her out to the squad room. She led him to an unused desk and gestured at the phone. “All yours.”
“Thanks.”
He saw detectives at other desks checking him out, taking their sweet time before looking away.
He put the cup on the desk and stayed on his feet so he could see the room. He picked up the phone and dialed Wynn Stanton. Kenny answered.
Miles said, “It’s me.”
“Ah, it’s you.”
“Is he there?”
Kenny put Stanton on the line. Stanton said, “Man, what a day.”
“Has Lucy called?”
“Yeah, she did. Whyn’t you tell me you’ve got her as a houseguest?”
“Is she with you?”
“Yeah, I got her. Picked her up at Sixty-eighth and Lexington. Shit, that was a sight: show up, there she is by the subway entrance in a gas mask, carrying four hundred grand of your money. Had to kind of look twice, you know?”
“Because you can’t believe she didn’t just run off with the loot.”
“Yeah, I did sort of wonder. Where you calling from?”
“First Precinct. Force Investigation brought me over.”
“They talked to you yet?”
“No.”
“You want me to come down?”
“No, it’s fine. They’re talking to the DA, but they’ll probably just want the report.”
“What happened?”
“Ask Lucy.”
“She seemed to be in the dark on a lot of it, so let’s hear your version.”
He wondered how much Lucy had told him, whether Stanton knew about his trip up to Kings Point, and his trip back with a hostage.
He said, “I went into the hotel and a shoot-out started, so I finished it.”
Stanton said, “I guess because you’re in a police precinct, you’re kind of erring on the side of parsimony?”
“Yeah.”
The biggest unknown was Nina. What was she into, and what had he got her out of? But he couldn’t chew on that aloud on the phone.
Across the squad room he saw a door open, and two more detectives enter: quiet middle-aged guys in well-worn suits, jackets open to show gun and badge nestled under paunch.
Miles said, “You know how you see some cops, they’ve just got the look absolutely spot-on.”
“You got some now, do you?”
“Yeah, these two guys, you’d love them.”
Stanton said, “How long you going to be?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
He saw the two new detectives go over to the squad supervisor’s cubicle, trade handshakes, and then start talking grimly. It must have been hard information they were dealing with. They all had a good, wide stance, hands on hips, lots of frowning at the floor.
Stanton said, “And I’m supposed to babysit in the meantime?”
“She doesn’t need babysitting, that’s for sure.”
“And what’s going to happen when you’re done playing with the cops?”
Assuming they let him go, but he wasn’t going to say that aloud, give fate bad ideas.
Miles said, “Me and Lucy are getting out of town.”
Stanton said, “You haven’t thought this through, have you? Or are those air tanks real easy to get hold of?”
“I’ve got to go.”
He saw the supervisor pick up his desk phone and speak briefly. Then the office blinds went down.
Stanton said, “I’m going to come in.”
Miles said, “No, don’t. I’ll be fine.”
He dabbed the cradle to disconnect the call, but kept the handset to his ear, saw Medina go into the supervisor’s office and close the door.
Miles stood watching, saying “Mm” every so often, saw the clock above the office window notch two, three, four minutes.
The office door opened.
Medina stepped out and headed over to him, arms folded. Miles said, “I’ll call you later,” to the dead phone, and put the handset down.
Medina said, “DA’s office has okayed an interview, so we can get things started if you like.”
He smiled. It sounded like bullshit. They could undermine the grand jury process, interviewing cops on a fatal OIS. The DA’s office almost never recommended it.
So something else was happening.
He looked at the supervisor’s office as the blinds went up again, and the two new detectives stepped out the door.
He thought, What do you want, fellers?
But he looked at Medina and said, “Yeah. All right.”
She led him back down the hallway, and the two new guys fell in behind. McKenzie stood looking at him as Miles came into the room. There was a camera and a tripod already set up.
Miles walked around the table and took his seat again, sat with his forearms resting parallel and his gaze on the square of table between them, as if contemplating a meal that had been laid before him. He looked up at the sound of the door closing, and saw that he was the focal point of undivided attention. McKenzie, Medina, the new boys, and no one looking pleased. He leaned back slowly so he was sitting straight and said, “Okay then.”
TWENTY-FIVE
NEW YORK, NY
Bobby Deen
They took the Lincoln back downtown to the apartment overlooking the rail yard. He liked watching her drive. Or maybe he just liked watching her do everything. She parked in the basement and they rode an elevator up, FM radio playing something poppy, Nina humming along as she watched the floor numbers ticking over. He wondered if she was like that at home, but couldn’t quite see it—Charles fuming and hitting whiskey all day, Nina breezing through the house with Kanye on the stereo.
She let them in with her swipe key and walked straight across the living room to the window. “Not a bad view, right?”
It was better keeping back slightly, putting Nina in the picture, too. He could still see sparks down among the trains. He found himself wanting to tell her things—how the sparks reminded him of his father, all his weird projects. Garage-based ventures that never went anywhere. But it was hard going back there. Revisit those times and there were other things to face as well. Look at me, boy. He could still hear it, clear as a voice in his ear.
She turned around and clicked him out of it, saw him looking but seemed to play up to the attention, putting more swing in her hips as she walked to the kitchen. She laid her bag on the counter and brought out an Apple laptop, lifted the screen and typed something while Bobby stood looking at the view. He could see her reflection in profile at the kitchen counter, Nina’s image hanging palely over the river, her weight on one leg and the other on its toe as she read something on the computer.
She said, “Well, we’re not famous yet. Unless we’re still being uploaded to Twitter.”
He heard tinny speaker noise, hysterical interviews by the sound of it, maybe a news clip she’d found online. The noise died and then a calmer tone started, probably studio commentary, analysis from behind the desk.
She said, “They’ve got a terrorism guy on, wondering if it’s ISIS.”
She read some more
and said, “No mention of the man in the hat, or the dazzling woman he was with.”
She made herself smile saying that, looked up as she closed the laptop’s screen and ran a hand through her hair. He kept seeing her on that boat, little moments now that were a perfect match to what he’d seen already, as if time could fold back on itself. There she is in the kitchen, hand in her hair. And there she is on the launch, hand in her hair. He wondered what else he could summon. Maybe he could relive his whole life and makes things perfect.
She picked up a cordless phone from a charger on the counter and came and joined him at the window, the mirror-Nina walking through air to stand just on the other side of the glass.
She dialed, and Bobby heard the ringtone. He turned and faced her, a shoulder on the window. She looked him up and down and he thought she’d touch his tie again. He willed it to happen, knowing every action is a door to something else. What he’d do, he’d take the hand gently and run his thumb over the back of it, feel the tendons one at a time, leave the other arm free to pull her close …
The ringtone finished, and Nina stepped away and said, “Yeah, it’s me.”
She listened for a moment, pacing slowly as she looked out toward New Jersey, and said, “He wasn’t part of the plan. He just happened to be there.”
Meaning Keller presumably, and his save-the-day spectacle.
Nina said, “No, I think the less shooting the better. I thought you’d come in and take them off with bags on their heads or something. Gunfights work but they’re a mess, aren’t they?” She’d seemed happy enough at lunch, but maybe displeasure was a stronger look. Everyone would want to impress her.
He tried to fill in blanks: maybe Marko and Luka were meant to be kidnapped at gunpoint, and someone upped the ante. Maybe they thought a shoot-out would be easiest.
Nina was still pacing, turned neatly on her heel as she said, “Cash is fine.”
She listened again and said, “I’m at the apartment,” and then clicked off.