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

by Mark Dawson

  His wife came down the stairs. “Can I have a word with you?” she said.

  He got up and walked across the room. Laura had gone to the window and was looking out into the street. Her lips were pursed and she was frowning with concern.

  “What is it?” he said.

  She gestured out of the window. “You see that car over there?”

  Polanski looked. The parking bays outside the house were emptying out now as their neighbours—several of them cops, like Polanski—set off for the drive south to the city. There was one car, a red Acura, that was parked in the bay that usually housed the Porsche Cayenne that was the pride and joy of the Grahams. Buddy Graham was a cop in Manhattan and left before Polanski every morning.

  “You mean the Acura?” he asked.

  She nodded. “It was there yesterday, too.”

  “You sure?”

  “Definitely. The same two guys in it, too. They just sat there for an hour, looking at the house.”

  Polanski stared out at the car. There were two men in the front. He was too far away to make them out or to read the plate.

  He went into his study and opened the gun safe. He didn’t like carrying his service Glock when he was off duty, so he typically swapped it for his sub-compact Colt Mustang XSP. He took the pistol, checked that it was ready to fire and, satisfied, put it into the pocket of his jacket.

  “What are you doing?” Laura asked him as he came back into the living room.

  “I’m gonna check them out,” he said. “I won’t be a minute.”

  Laura bit her lip anxiously, but Polanski walked by her and made his way to the hall before she could object. He opened the door and set off across the snow-covered lawn to the parking lot. He looked at the two men in the car. The driver was white, with dark glasses obscuring his eyes. The man in the passenger seat looked bigger, with a shaven head and tattoos visible on his neck and down one arm.

  Polanski walked straight at them. He put his left hand into his jacket pocket and took out his badge.

  The car pulled out of the parking space and turned hard left, heading to the access road that led to Cartwheel Close. The passenger stared out of the window at him as they drove past. He put his index and middle fingers together like the barrel of a gun, pointed them at Polanski and then cocked his thumb in the manner of a hammer. He brought his thumb down two times.

  Polanski reached for his weapon, his fingertips tracing the shape of the butt as the car swung sharply onto the main road and accelerated away in the direction of the stores on Brotherhood Plaza. He waited until it was out of sight. He was breathing quickly and he had a kernel of fear in the pit of his stomach. It was not a subtle threat; whoever the two men were, they worked for Carlos Acosta and they were warning him to back off.

  He took another moment to compose himself and then went back to the house.

  “Who were they?” Laura asked.

  “It’s nothing.”

  She turned away so that the children couldn’t see her face. “Don’t bullshit me,” she said in a tense, low whisper. “What were they outside for?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I think it might be to do with a case I’m working. I need to run the plate.”

  He knew how pointless that would be as soon as he said it; the car was probably stolen, and there would be nothing to trace it back to Acosta.

  “Are we in danger?”

  “Can you speak to your mother? Maybe take the kids up there for a day or two.”

  “What about school?”

  “They cancelled it again today. Just as well.”

  “Jesus, Aleks. What’s going on?”

  “I need to figure it out, baby. Speak to your mother. She’ll be pleased to see you and the kids.”

  “How long?”

  “Not long. A couple days. Three, max.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” she mouthed before she took a breath, composed herself, and turned to the children with a smile on her face. “Who’d like to go and surprise Grandma?”

  Polanski went back to the front door and looked outside. He looked at the tracks that the Acura had left in the snow; save those, there was no sign that it had ever been there.

  He felt sick as he made his way out to his car.

  79

  Laura’s mother lived in Bloomingburg. It was twenty-five miles to the north-west, and Polanski followed his wife as she took Sarah Wells Trail to Hamptonburgh and then the interchange with Route 17.

  Polanski had been watching carefully, and he was as convinced as he could be that they had not been followed. They reached Exit 121. Polanski sounded the horn and flashed the lights, indicating that he was going to turn off, and took the exit for Scranton. He watched the car with his wife and kids until the turn took it out of sight. He felt conflicting emotions: he was happy that they would be safe, but he couldn’t ignore the fear that accompanied the fact that it had been necessary for them to leave home.

  Montclair was fifty-five miles away. Polanski switched on the radio and listened to the news as he started the drive to the south.

  Richard Haynes lived on the outskirts of Montclair. Polanski had called ahead from the interstate and the older man was waiting for him as he pulled up outside the house.

  “What’s up?” he said as he welcomed Polanski inside.

  “We got a big problem.”

  “About?”

  “The investigation into the Seven Five.”

  “Nothing we can’t fix. Go and sit down in the conservatory. Let me fix a couple coffees.”

  Haynes and his wife had built a conservatory on the side of their house and it was obvious that Haynes had been in there this morning when Polanski had called. He had asked whether it would be possible to speak away from the office. Haynes had said that he had a day off to go visit a couple of old bureau buddies, but that wasn’t until later and that he should come and visit. Polanski sat down and looked around the pleasant room. It was warm, with newspapers spread out on a low table and pictures of Haynes and his family hung on the wall. There was a desk in the corner that Haynes used to take care of domestic paperwork. The conservatory looked out onto the garden, and Polanski could see a snowman in the centre of the space. Haynes had two grandchildren, and he knew that they often came to visit. The snowman, and the riot of scuffed prints in the snow, was evidence that they had been here recently.

  “Here,” Haynes said, bringing over two mugs of coffee. He handed one to Polanski.

  “Thanks.”

  The older man lowered himself into his chair and sipped his drink. “So,” he said. “What’s the problem?”

  Polanski explained. He started with what had happened to González, going over the ground that they had already covered in the aftermath of the murder. He continued, explaining that Freddy Blanco had changed his story; now he said that he could identify one of the shooters, and that his father was insisting that they be rehoused before he went on the record. He described what had happened when Smith had visited the Blancos yesterday afternoon and then what had taken place outside his own house that morning.

  Haynes listened intently, encouraging him to fill in the parts that he would otherwise have skimmed over.

  “The kid hasn’t said who it is he recognised?”

  “No,” Polanski said. “They want to get out of Brooklyn first.”

  “Can’t blame them for that.”

  “Smith said that he was followed after we spoke. He’s sure he wasn’t followed before the meeting, so the only thing that makes sense is that they’ve been watching me.”

  “And you think it’s Acosta?” he said when Polanski was done.

  “Who else?”

  Haynes nodded. “I agree,” he said. “No one else makes sense.”

  “I met him in the coffee shop outside the office. What if they had someone in there with us? They could’ve heard what we were talking about. Smith had just told me that the kid was ready to testify. An hour later and they try to break into his house. It feels li
ke it’s my fault.”

  “Why didn’t you bring Smith into the office?”

  “Because I’m concerned Acosta’s getting help from the bureau. I just keep going back to Sunday. Someone knew that González was coming in.”

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Haynes said. “Maybe he told someone.”

  Polanski shrugged. “Maybe. But that would have been a dumb move, and González was smart. I don’t see it.”

  “Then who did you tell?”

  “You.”

  Haynes smiled. “I promise it wasn’t me.”

  “I know that. But I keep wondering about my cell. Or maybe the office is bugged. I know that sounds hysterical.”

  Haynes stood. “No, it doesn’t. I told you—I’ve seen it before.”

  “So what do I do?”

  Haynes went over to an old-fashioned Rolodex on the desk. He opened it and flipped through the cards inside. He took one out and held it up. “I have an idea.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “The special prosecutor,” he said. “Maybe it’s time to call for reinforcements.”

  80

  Haynes made the call and then said that he would cancel his visit so that he could come to the meeting, too. Polanski protested, but, secretly, he was pleased. He had started to feel as if he was out of his depth, and Haynes had years of experience and a contacts list to die for. He was also calm and measured, and, as Polanski drove them both into Manhattan, he started to relax.

  They took the Holland Tunnel beneath the Hudson and then headed south to Rector Street. He parked his car and they walked to the vertiginous office at number two. The building’s purpose was not obvious from the outside; Haynes had called on the way into the city and explained that they would need to take the elevator to the twenty-third floor. Polanski waited nervously next to Haynes as the car ascended. This was a big moment and he couldn’t be sure that they were doing the right thing.

  The doors opened and they stepped out into the small lobby. There was an empty desk and, behind it, a sign on the wall reported that they were in the right place: Office of the New York State Special Prosecutor for Corruption.

  There was a door to the right of the lobby. It had frosted-glass panels that he couldn’t see through and, when Polanski pushed it, he found that it was locked.

  He knocked on the glass.

  Nothing.

  “They’ll be here in a minute,” Haynes said.

  There was a row of seats against the wall. Both men sat down. Polanski folded his hands in his lap and stared down at them. Haynes had laid it all out as they had driven south. The special prosecutor was the best option available. The prosecutor had state-wide jurisdiction and was responsible for felony narcotics investigations and prosecutions in the five boroughs. The office was granted wide powers to deal with narcotics-trafficking organisations and had the ability to track offenders across jurisdictional boundaries that might otherwise prove difficult. More important than that, it was independent and had no overt ties to either IAB or any of the Brooklyn precincts that Acosta might have corrupted.

  He heard the click as the lock was turned. He looked up to see a shadow in the frosted glass. The door opened and a woman smiled at him.

  “I’m Beth Winters,” she said. “Sergeant Haynes? Detective Polanski?”

  Haynes stood. “Hello.”

  “Thanks for coming in. Mrs. Harris will see you now.”

  81

  Haynes went first and Polanski followed. Winters—a lawyer, Polanski guessed—led them through an open area where a dozen men and women worked at a series of open desks. They were all dressed similarly, a little shinier and more impressive than the staff who filed in and out of the IAB building in Brooklyn every day. Polanski felt a twist of unease in his gut. He knew what it was, even as he also knew it was ridiculous: being in here made him feel like a rat. Cops who worked with Internal Affairs must have felt the exact same feeling as he did right now. He was stepping outside of his own office. Just being here was an admission that he felt that he couldn’t trust the men and women with whom he worked. It made him feel uncomfortable, almost traitorous. He knew that he was doing the right thing, that this was a necessary and unavoidable measure that he had to take, but that didn’t make him feel any better about it. That they were here at Haynes’s suggestion made it more tolerable, but he would still rather have been almost anywhere else.

  Winters led them to a line of three conference rooms at the other end of the floor. They had glass walls, and they were all occupied. She went to the room on the left, nodded to the woman waiting inside and opened the door so that Haynes and Polanski could go through.

  The woman stood. Polanski recognised her from the TV.

  “Richard,” she said warmly to Haynes, moving in closer so that he could lean down and place a kiss on her cheek. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

  “It’s good to see you,” Haynes replied. “I’d rather it was under better circumstances, though.”

  “Detective Polanski?” she said, turning to him.

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks for coming in. You want some coffee?”

  “That’d be great,” he said.

  Haynes had given him the low-down on the drive down from Montclair. Barbara Harris had been a prosecutor for twenty years. She had cut her teeth in the DA’s office as assistant district attorney, taking care of misdemeanour and felony prosecutions. That, he had explained, was where he had come across her for the first time. She had been appointed to be the special prosecutor by the city’s five district attorneys, and Haynes had suggested that her tenacity and drive was because she was the first woman in the role. There had been resistance from the rank and file, but that resistance had been destroyed as she brought in a string of high-profile busts, men and women who had previously been impervious to prosecution. Haynes said that she had shrewd judgement and a willingness to throw the full authority of her office behind cases regardless of the risks involved. He had warned him that she was also known for a waspish temper and a sharp tongue. Polanski felt the perspiration running down his back as he took the seat opposite her.

  Harris smiled at Winters and nodded down to the tray that had been left on the table. It bore a coffee pot and four cups. Winters poured and passed cups across the table to Haynes and Polanski. Polanski reached for a bowl laden with sachets of creamer and packets of sugar and attended to his drink, glad to have something to occupy his hands.

  “Thanks,” Harris said to Winters. “I’ll call you if I need you.”

  “Nice to meet you, gentlemen,” Winters said as she left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Harris smiled at Haynes. “An unexpected call,” she said. “You said you needed my help.”

  “It’s a case that Aleksander’s been running,” Haynes explained. “We’ve come up against a serious problem. We wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

  She turned to Polanski. “So—how can I help you, Detective?”

  He had been working on how he would get started for the entirety of the drive into Manhattan, but, now that he was here, sitting at this shiny conference table with the skyline of the city out of the window, he forgot all of his prepared lines.

  “I know this is probably difficult,” she said. “But whatever you say stays here—you have my word on that. You can speak freely.”

  His throat was dry, but he began. “I’ve been running an investigation into corruption in the Seventy-Fifth Precinct.”

  “Corrupt cops?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I thought the Seven Five was cleared up?”

  Haynes shook his head. “There’s a group of cops who’ve been working both sides for years. Aleks has been looking into it. He’s been close to a bust for a couple of weeks.”

  “So why have you brought it to me?”

  “I’d been cultivating a CI,” Polanski explained. “José Luis González. He was working as the bridge between the cops and the Dominican gang they�
��ve been representing. I leaned on González a little, offered him immunity if he’d wear a wire and go on the stand when we brought the case. It took a lot of leaning, but he went for it. He called me on Sunday and told me that he wanted to come in. He was sure that the Dominicans were onto him. I said fine—provided he brought me the evidence he had, I’d take him off the street. We agreed to meet at a safe house, but before he could get there, he was murdered in a bathroom at Euclid subway station.”

  “I read about that,” she said.

  Polanski nodded and took a sip of his coffee. “I couldn’t figure out what had happened. It wouldn’t’ve made any sense for González to have told anyone at his end that he was coming in.”

  “Wife?”

  “Wasn’t married. No girlfriend, either. And he was smart. The gang he was working with don’t mess around.”

  “Which gang?”

  “The Acosta crew.”

  She nodded. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “No way González would’ve taken the risk of talking about it.”

  “Go on,” she said. “What then?”

  “Homicide got involved. They had a witness. A thirteen-year-old kid who said he saw two guys outside the restroom right around when González was killed. I went down with homicide and spoke to him. Turns out that the kid thinks he recognised one of the men he saw.”

  “Who?”

  “Kid won’t say until Aleks has got them into a safe house outside Brooklyn,” Haynes said.

  “He’s scared,” Polanski added.

  “I don’t blame him,” Harris said.

  Polanski took another sip of his coffee. Harris waited patiently for him to continue.

  “Last night,” he said, “someone tried to break into the kid’s house.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “Yes, but it could’ve been different. And now it looks like I’ve been kept under surveillance, too. There was a car outside my house yesterday and then first thing this morning. It’s Acosta. He’s trying to close me down.”