The Alamo - John Milton #11 (John Milton Thrillers)

by Mark Dawson

  Carter had been partnered up with Landon Shepard until last week. Shep had decided to retire. He was older than Carter and had been struggling with arthritic hips that his doctor was prepared to say were caused by the strain and stress of being a cop. Carter had chided him, trying to argue that it was a minor ailment that wouldn’t have prevented him from holding down a job in construction, the line of work that Shep’s father had gone into. Shep had dismissed the suggestion; there were plenty of cops in the precinct who would have loved to pick up a minor injury that meant that they could retire, too. Disability was no bad thing if it meant that an officer couldn’t run for more than a hundred yards or hold out his gun; small ailments like that would always be enough for the city to agree to a retirement, especially after notice had been drawn to them. If that officer got into a scrape and a member of the public was put at risk because he or she wasn’t one hundred per cent fit, the financial fallout from a legal case would always beat how much it might cost to pension off the cop and train a replacement.

  So Shep had applied for retirement. He had gone before the medical review board. They’d taken a look at the notes that his doctor had provided, done their own examinations and then recommended that the application be approved. His wife, Alice, had a career as a dental hygienist and they had already paid off the mortgage on their house. Carter had been upset when Shep told him that he was going to call it a day, and had spent the better part of a week’s worth of patrols trying to persuade Shep that it was a dumb idea. He hadn’t had any luck, though, and, in the end, he had been forced to admit defeat. The retirement had been made official and Shep had started to draw his pension.

  “I need a drink,” Carter said. They were on Belmont. He pulled over and parked outside Whitey’s bodega. “You want anything?”

  “I’ll get a Coke,” Rhodes said, reaching into his pocket for the money.

  “Put it away,” Carter said. “I got it. You want anything else? A sandwich? A pack of smokes?”

  Rhodes opened the bag that he had brought with him to the car and took out a Ziploc bag with a sandwich inside it. “I’m good,” he said, holding it up.

  “You made your own sandwich?”

  “I didn’t know how it would work,” Rhodes said, a little sheepishly.

  “You don’t need to do that,” Carter said with an amused shake of his head. “Don’t bother with that tomorrow. I’ll show you how it gets done, okay?”

  Carter’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and looked at the screen. His wife had texted him.

  “You okay?” Rhodes asked.

  “It’s my wife,” he said. “She’s just reminding me that I agreed to go up to Kmart after I finished tonight to pick up a crib.”

  “You’ve got a baby?”

  “Not yet. Got one on the way.”

  “Congratulations,” Rhodes said with a bright smile. It was the most natural reaction that Carter had seen from him all day.

  “Thanks,” Carter said. “You got kids?”

  “No,” he said. “It’s just me.”

  “No woman?”

  “Not right now. When’s the baby due?”

  “Two weeks. A little boy. She’s as big as a house now and she ain’t too keen on going outside, so I promised I’d go and get the crib. It’s the last thing we need before the nursery’s done. Wasn’t like I was going to forget.” He put the phone back in his pocket and unclipped his seat belt. “I’m gonna get a beer, too. You want one?”

  “What? Come on,” Rhodes said. “We’re on duty.”

  “You’re not gonna bust my balls about that, are you? I’m thirsty. You must be the same. Wait here.”

  He got out of the car. It was cold outside of the warmth of the cabin, and he zipped his navy-blue jacket all the way up to the top as he glanced up into the dark skies. The kid looked like he was going to be okay. He’d have to bring him along carefully, get him started with small indiscretions and then see how far he could push him before he got too uncomfortable. Carter had been brought along the same way when he had started. It had been Shepard who had broken him in, and Carter had returned the favour with a few of the rookies that had followed after him. It took a while, sometimes, to realise what was possible as an officer working the street. Carter had picked it up quickly, and it hadn’t taken long before he had been bringing opportunities to Shepard and pushing him beyond where he had previously decided he was comfortable. It was Carter who had found the hook-up with Acosta, and that had proved prosperous ever since

  He looked back at the car. Carter would give Rhodes his real education, show him a little at a time, demonstrate the benefits that would help put a little extra weight in his pay packet, make his shifts more comfortable and more interesting. Getting him to take a drink on the job was where he would get things started.

  17

  The drama of the game meant that Freddy was almost able to forget the fact that his father had let him down. The Cowboys were up by six as the game moved into the fourth. Dak Prescott was having an efficient game, and Dez Bryant was feasting on the secondary no matter how many defensive backs were assigned to cover him. The crowd was still in the game, but every Giants’ three and out and every punt was greeted with a dip in the intensity of the noise and the growing acceptance that the Cowboys were going to hold on.

  The seat to Freddy’s right was empty, a reminder that his father should have been there with him and was not. There was a big guy on Freddy’s left. He was with his wife and, Freddy gathered from overhearing their conversation during half-time, he was a firefighter based at one of the firehouses in Lower Manhattan. He was huge: well over six feet tall, solid muscle, and with tattoos visible on his throat and on the top part of his chest that was visible because he wore his jacket half unzipped, despite the bitter cold.

  He must have noticed that Freddy was looking at him; he glanced down at him, shook his head, and said, “Ain’t looking good, is it?”

  Freddy said that it wasn’t.

  “What would you do now, kid?”

  “Get the ball to Odell.”

  “They got Carr and Scandrick on him most snaps,” the man said. “Can’t get him the ball if he ain’t open. He’s good, but he ain’t that good.”

  “Sure he is,” Freddy said. “They just gotta throw it up to him and let him do the rest.”

  The big man laughed. “If you say so, kid.”

  Freddy felt defensive on behalf of his favourite player, who was, he was sure, more than good enough to beat a couple of halfway decent corners even if they doubled him. He turned back to the field, self-consciously awkward about talking to someone he didn’t know, and was saved from having to make any further excuse by the ringing of his phone. He took it out of his pocket and checked the display. It was his father. He pressed “accept” and jammed the phone against his ear.

  “Dad?”

  “Where are you?”

  His father’s words were slurred, one tripping over the other, each emerging with effort. Freddy could picture his face: his eyes would be heavy-lidded, every blink slow and ponderous; he would be licking his lips, as if they were dry; his cheeks would be flushed. He knew what his old man looked like when he was drunk, and he was definitely drunk right now.

  “Freddy?” he said again. “Where are you?”

  “At the game.”

  “Oh shit. It’s tonight?”

  “Of course it’s tonight!”

  “I forgot,” he mumbled. “Goddamn it.” He coughed. “You went anyway?”

  “I wasn’t gonna waste both tickets,” he said. “I been looking forward to this for weeks, Dad. I waited until six thirty. What did you think I was gonna do?”

  There was no reply. Freddy could hear the sound of voices, a raucous background of shouted conversations and laughter, with music playing across everything.

  “What happened to you?” Freddy said, keeping his voice down so as not to be easily overheard by the firefighter or the other fans around him.

 
“I forgot,” Manny repeated.

  “What do you mean you forgot?” he said, unable to keep the heat from his voice. “We spoke about it this morning. We were gonna leave at six.”

  “I’m sorry, son. I’m…”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m… I’m…”

  He didn’t finish the sentence. Freddy heard the hum of the background noise and the staccato interruption of a woman’s high-pitched holler, and he knew. He knew exactly where his father was and what had happened to him: Manny had gone to Mike’s Pub, got drunk and forgotten him. It used to happen all the time—it was the reason that his mother had left them—but he had been making an effort lately, and Freddy had started to wonder and hope that he might have got it under control. It made the disappointment of hearing him like this so much worse.

  “Did you…” Manny started to say. He cleared his throat and started again. “I’m sorry, Freddy. I’ll make it up to you.”

  “Bye, Dad,” Freddy said.

  He ended the call and put the phone away.

  He swallowed. He felt a tightness in his chest and had to blink to keep back the tears that were welling in his eyes.

  Freddy had been distracted from the game by the call and, as he wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and looked out at the gleaming green field, he noticed a streak of motion arcing up from the line of scrimmage. There was a collective groan as Manning was crushed by a defensive end but then an intake of breath as the crowd saw that he had been able to toss the ball up. It curved up through thirty yards and then started back down to earth, racing from its apogee, picking up pace and converging with the flanker who had won separation from the cornerback who had failed to cover him. There came a deafening explosion of noise as the receiver hauled the ball in and high-stepped into the end zone.

  Freddy was caught up in the roar of noise and the sheer, untempered joy of the moment, the fans around him surging out of their seats and pressing up against the railing, their hands and voices raised in communal celebration. The receiver was Odell Beckham; Freddy could see the flash of his blond highlights as he tore off his helmet and tossed it high above him. He trotted into the centre of the end zone and launched the ball at the crowd. For the second time, Freddy watched it laser through the air, losing momentum and falling down toward him. He knew that he was going to catch it even before its momentum declined and it started to fall. It was as if Beckham had thrown it to him out of all the thousands of others who had just witnessed his excellence. Freddy reached out his hands, his fingers splayed out and pointing up, and felt the ball slap against his palms. He tightened his fingers around it, feeling the rough texture of the pigskin and, as he drew it down to his chest, he caught the smell of the leather.

  He felt hands on his shoulders, a whoop of joy, the firefighter clapping him firmly on the back. He clutched the ball tightly, suddenly worried that someone would try to take it from him, but, as he saw a man in his early twenties turn around and reach up for him, the firefighter reached out a warning paw. The younger man grinned, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and turned back to watch the teams as they set up for the extra point.

  “Keep it close to you,” the man said. “You got guys here who’ll grab it off you and stick it on eBay.”

  “Thanks,” Freddy said.

  “‘Get the ball to Beckham,’” the man said, repeating what Freddy had suggested. “What do I know?”

  Freddy grinned.

  “And good catch, kid,” he added with a broad smile. “Those are nice hands.”

  18

  It was nine and Detective Aleksander Polanski was still working. He had been investigating a sergeant down in the Seven Seven who had demanded that a patrol cop have a threesome with him and his wife and had then accused her of falsifying her time sheets when she refused. The patrol cop had resigned from the NYPD and was bringing a ten-million-dollar lawsuit against the city. Polanski had been given the case and told to see whether there was anything in it. He had discovered, very quickly, that the sergeant was a sleazebag with a previous history that made the allegations look very credible indeed. Polanski had just finished interviewing other cops from the precinct and had compiled a list of behaviour that made for depressing reading: crude sexual remarks during roll call and propositions to other female cops, who had switched to the graveyard shift to get away from him. Polanski had enough dirt on the man to bring his investigation to a close and recommend suspension and formal charges.

  He was taking a break from the paperwork when his phone rang. He took it out of his pocket and saw a number that he didn’t recognise.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me.”

  It was González.

  “What’s up?”

  “I gotta get out, man. Tonight. Right fucking now.”

  “Hold on.” He pushed away from his desk and went out to the stairwell.

  Polanski climbed halfway down the stairs so he could be sure that there was no one on the landing below him.

  “I’m here,” he said.

  “Didn’t you hear me? I gotta get out, man.”

  He was frightened.

  “Calm down, José. Take a breath. What’s the matter?”

  “It’s too hot. He knows. I’m telling you, I gotta get out.”

  “All right,” Polanski said. “Tell me. What do you mean he knows?”

  “I can tell. The way he’s been looking at me, the things he’s been saying—it’s like he can see right through me.”

  “You’ve seen him tonight?”

  “He came by the shop and he never comes by the shop. He’s gonna kill me, man, I swear.”

  “Okay,” Polanski said, reaching for a pen and paper. “Where are you now?”

  “The payphone on Pitkin near Van Siclen. You gotta bring me in. You promised. You said if I did what you said, you’d get me the fuck out of Brooklyn.”

  “I did. And I will. You’ll give evidence?”

  “You make sure I don’t get capped, I’ll give you chapter and fucking verse, man. Everything.”

  “What about the cops?”

  “They came in last week—well, one of them did. Took his pay-off, just like always.”

  “You feel like giving me some names?”

  “No,” González said quickly. “Not until I know you can get me out of here. You do that tonight and I’ll give you everything.”

  That was the deal. Polanski had no interest in pushing González for more right now, especially when he was close to getting what he needed. “You taped him?” he asked.

  “Sure I did. Just like you said.”

  “Got the recorder with you?”

  “It’s safe. It’s in the shop.”

  Polanski felt his stomach churn with a mixture of anticipation and nervousness. The sexual harassment case was nothing compared to the investigation he had been running in the Seven Five. This was big: corrupt cops on the payroll of a serious player in the local drug market. It was the closeness of it, the culmination of months of careful, diligent police work. He was almost there. Almost. He just had to stick the landing.

  He made sure that he had a little assurance in his voice. “Okay. Well done, José. Let’s meet.”

  González was right on the edge. “Not in Brooklyn. I don’t want it to be anywhere near here.”

  “I wasn’t going to suggest Brooklyn,” Polanski said, as measured as he could manage. “We’ve got a safe house in New Brunswick. An apartment. It’s miles away and no one knows about it. I’ll give you the address—you ready?”

  Polanski recited the address and checked that González had noted it down correctly.

  “You gonna be there?” González asked.

  “I’m on my way. Are you leaving now?”

  “You want the tape or not?”

  “Yes,” Polanski said.

  “So I gotta go back. It won’t take long.”

  “Be careful,” Polanski said. “In and out, that’s it.”

  “I just wa
nt this to be over,” González said.

  “It’s almost done, José. Get moving. Get the tape and then get over to the safe house. I’ll see you there.”

  Polanski put his phone away and climbed the stairs again to the second floor. He grabbed his jacket and headed for the open door to Sergeant Haynes’s office.

  “Sarge,” he said, “you got a moment?”

  Richard Haynes was Polanski’s supervising officer and had been responsible for his transfer to the bureau. He had been partners with Polanski’s father and had been a friend of the family for almost as long as Polanski could remember. He had visited the family home in Irvington for Sunday lunch every week after his first marriage had blown up.

  Haynes had served thirty years on the force, and—at least the way he told it—had been drafted into Internal Affairs against his own will by a district commander who hadn’t taken kindly to a prank that went wrong. Despite an initial reluctance, he had thrived in the bureau. He had quickly risen to a position of seniority, stressing that his officers must be unimpeachable and encouraging their integrity with incentives that made them less vulnerable to the temptation of what could be had on the street. When Polanski had run into the trouble that had isolated him within his precinct, Haynes had stepped in and offered him a transfer and the chance to do what he called ‘good work’.

  Haynes looked up. “Sure,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “I need the safe house in New Brunswick.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight. I’m bringing in a CI.”

  “Which investigation are we talking about?”

  “The Seven Five.”

  Haynes raised an eyebrow. “You better shut the door.”

  Polanski did as he was told.