by Mark Dawson
“You did good,” he said.
Acosta reached forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. The man reached into the glovebox and handed back a thick wad of bills.
Rhodes took the money. He had been promised a twenty-thousand-dollar bonus: ten grand for Carter and ten for Shepard. The wad was thick and heavy, and he had no reason to count it. Acosta had never stiffed him before, and to suggest that he thought it was even a possibility would have been a dumb move.
“You tell ’em the reason it was going down like that?”
“I said you were disappointed. Said they’d been sloppy and you couldn’t trust them no more.”
Acosta shrugged. “And that’s the truth. I don’t take no pleasure in it. It’s just business.”
Rhodes knew that was a lie. Carlos Acosta was a killer, and every chance he had to kill was a reminder to himself and to everyone else of what he was capable of doing. It was a reminder of the things that he had done to haul himself out of the gutter, and the lengths that he would go to, to keep from going back there.
Rhodes and Acosta had that in common. Rhodes knew that Acosta had seen his own story in him.
Scrappiness. Determination. Ruthlessness when that was needed.
And Rhodes knew, too, that Acosta took pride in a job well done. He had anticipated the consternation and confusion that would infect the Seven Five now that one of their serving officers and another man who had only recently retired had just disappeared off the face of the earth. They would know, of course, that the two had been murdered. Internal Affairs would suspect that Acosta was behind it. But they would never find the bodies. And no one would be able to make Acosta for the crime. He was above it all, omnipotent, able to erase people and problems with the impunity of a god. That would frighten them, and fear was good for business.
“What about the clean-up?” Rhodes asked.
“Don’t worry about it. They’re probably in the furnace now.”
“What happened to the kid?”
Acosta’s mood shifted.
“That’s the other thing I want to talk to you about,” he said grimly. “We got another problem. You know I sent Savio and the others to keep an eye on Polanski?”
“Sure. You said.”
“The English guy, Smith, he went to see him on Wednesday. One of Savio’s guys was in the coffee shop where they spoke. He said the kid could ID one of the guys who took out José. That’s why they had to go. I told them I wanted the kid and the English dude dead. I ain’t taking no risks on this one. They gotta go. So Savio told Alejandro to follow Smith while he took Diego and Matías to go and take care of the kid. They get to the house. Savio goes inside and he has boiling water thrown onto his face. Matías goes in through a back door and gets shot in the shoulder.”
“Who did it? The father?”
“He’s on one fucking leg,” Acosta said, waving his hand disdainfully. “No, it ain’t him. They said it was Smith.”
“What about Alejandro?”
“We didn’t hear nothing from him. All day Wednesday—nada. And then, yesterday morning, we hear that a body’s been found in a dumpster in the cemetery up near Cypress Hills station. Police are saying that it’s Alejandro. Choked to death.”
Rhodes stayed silent. He didn’t want to speak until Acosta had finished.
“It’s obvious, man. Smith kills Alejandro, figures out what’s going down and books to the kid’s house before Savio gets there. He’s waiting for them. Takes them out when they get there. And that boiling water he used? He put sugar in it, too. You know what sugar does in hot water? Turns it into motherfucking napalm, man. That’s my baby brother. He blinded him.”
Rhodes was disquieted. This should have been simple, and now it wasn’t. “And the kid?”
“He ain’t there no more. His old man, too. They gone.” He clicked his fingers. “Whoosh. They in the wind. Smith must’ve moved them.”
“But all the kid can do is say that he saw Shepard or Carter or both of them. With them dead—”
“I know that,” Acosta interrupted acidly. “He can’t do much. But I don’t do loose ends. He needs to go, too. Him and his old man.”
“And Smith?”
Acosta smirked, the gold cap on his teeth glittering. “I especially want him gone. You get me him and I’m gonna make it worth your while. Fifty.”
Rhodes let that sink in. “All right,” he said. “What about Polanski?”
“Taken the case to the special prosecutor. But there’s no case without Carter and Shepard. Where does he look next? You?”
“I’m clean.”
“I know you are. So if he’s sensible, he sees he’s struck out, finds something else to occupy himself, moves on.”
“And if he isn’t?”
Acosta grinned again. “You know.”
Rhodes did know. Carlos had already ordered the murder of a cop and an ex-cop tonight. A cheese-eater from the Rat Squad would be no different.
“You need anything else now? Else I better get back. I gotta be sharp tomorrow. They’re gonna start asking questions when they can’t get hold of Carter. His truck’s still parked up outside the precinct.”
“Nah,” Acosta said. “It’s all good.”
He held up his fist and Rhodes bumped it.
“Find Smith and the kid,” Acosta said. “Bring them to me.”
Rhodes opened the door and stepped back outside into the cold.
93
Seven in the morning.
Port Washington was on the peninsula along Nassau County’s North Shore. It was a beautiful waterfront town just seventeen miles from New York City. It was redolent with money, with locals drawn in by the views of Manhasset Bay, the Manhattan skyline and the Long Island Sound. It was also within easy commuting distance of the city. Polanski had driven along Main Street as he had arrived at six that morning and found antique shops, spas, boutiques, galleries and book stores.
Polanski looked at Landon Shepard’s house and wondered how a recently retired NYPD patrol officer could afford a property like that in a place like this. It was a large Dutch colonial on Summit Road, in the heart of prosperous Beacon Hill. Polanski had called up the details of the purchase and found that it had been bought by the present owner a year ago and had been listed for a shade under one and a half million dollars.
Looking at the house made Polanski angry. That Shepard should have a place like this was a slap in the face. It said that he didn’t care, that he had no fear of being convicted for the crimes he must have committed to find the money for the purchase; that he had nothing but contempt for the ability of Internal Affairs to bring him in.
Polanski’s mood wasn’t helped by the fact that he was tired. He had been up all night. He had been sustained by adrenaline and the prospect that they were close to taking a decisive step to close down an investigation that had obsessed him for so long, but the thrill of the chase had dissipated as hour after hour went by and there was still no sign of Shepard. Two in the morning became three and the house was still empty. Three became four and they all knew that they had a major problem. Mantegna had stayed late to offer support and had suggested that he prepare the paperwork for a search warrant. He had drawn up the affidavits and made the application on an emergency basis overnight. Polanski had the warrant in his hand as he opened the door and stepped out of the car.
Walker, Moore and two uniformed cops from the City of Beacon police followed him along the path to the front door of the house. The curtains were drawn across the windows, but there was no light showing around the edges. There was a pane of glass to the side of the door and that, too, was dark.
Polanski knocked on the door. There was no reply.
“Police,” he called. “Open the door.”
No reply.
He knocked again. Still nothing.
He turned to one of the uniforms. “Do it.”
The officer had a compact ramming device. It was a brute-force tool that was engineered for fast and accu
rate forced entry. The officer grabbed the two non-slip grips, drew the twenty-pound tool back and then crashed the convex head into the door at the spot where the lock would fit into the striking plate. The lock shattered, the door flew back and they hurried inside with their weapons drawn.
Moore and the two uniforms searched downstairs, leaving Polanski and Walker to check the rest of the house. They found three bedrooms: two were neat and tidy and obviously unused for some time; the third, with an en suite bathroom, looked to be the one that Shepard used. The bed was unmade, an ashtray was overflowing with ash, there was a half-empty bottle of vodka on the bedside table and there were clothes strewn across the floor.
They would take their time to search the property, but, for now, one thing was clear: Landon Shepard was not here.
94
Manny stared at the frozen landscape outside the window of the apartment. It was depressing: the vast open sky, vaulted in grey; the ocean, just visible between the buildings that stood between them and the beach; and the eerie skeletons of the famous Cyclones roller coaster and the Parachute Jump. It was eight in the morning, but it might as well have been the evening for the gloom. He watched down below as a lone pedestrian stopped at a shop selling knishes, emerging with the treat and immediately glancing up as a huge gull summoned others with a hungry cry. The gulls swooped low, sending the man scurrying into cover.
Manny hadn’t been down here for years. His father had brought him when he was a child, and then there had been visits with his friends when they would buy beer with fake IDs and drink it on the sand while they watched the girls going by. That seemed like a lifetime away now. He had fought for his country and lost his leg in the process, then been dumped back in Brooklyn with no wife and no friends and no support, forgotten and forlorn. The memories of those happy afternoons might as well have been a million years ago for all the relevance that they held for him today.
The Russian who owned the place had been decent enough to them, although it was clear that he was doing them a favour because of a debt he owed to Smith and not through any sense of altruism. The apartment was small, with one bed that they had to share and just a thin door separating the main room from the toilet, but it was warm and, more important than that, it was safe. Smith had explained that the Russian could be trusted and that there was no reason to think that anyone else knew where they were.
The reassurances were fine, but that didn’t make their time any less boring. Freddy had turned on the TV and switched across to Days of Our Lives on NBC. He was just staring at the screen without paying attention to it.
“Turn that off if you’re not watching it,” Manny said.
Freddy hit the remote and aimlessly skipped through the channels, from The Young and the Restless to The Chew and finally sticking to Sesame Street on PBS.
“What’s gonna happen?” Freddy asked.
“We’re getting out of here,” Manny said. “We just have to be patient.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Out of Brooklyn. John said that the police are gonna get us a new place.”
“And then?”
“We make a fresh start.”
“No,” Freddy said. “That’s not what I meant. They give us a new place and then I tell them what I saw?”
Manny nodded. “They’ll show you some pictures,” he said. “You just have to pick out the man you saw leaving the bathroom. That’s it.”
Freddy was quiet, mulling something over in his mind.
“What is it?” Manny asked.
“What about our stuff?”
“I guess they’ll bring it for us,” Manny said. He hadn’t given much thought to the practicalities.
“You guess they will?”
“I’ve never had to do this before, Freddy.”
“And my football?”
“What football?”
“The one that I caught from OBJ. I can’t leave it there. Someone might take it.”
“It’s just a football,” Manny said. “No one’s gonna take it.”
“But what if they do?”
“They won’t.”
“Will we be able to go back before we go?”
“If the police think it’s safe…”
Freddy got up and started to pace. “We gotta go and get it.”
“He told us to stay here. We wait until he calls and then we go.”
“He didn’t say we couldn’t go home though, did he? And it wouldn’t take long. We could be in and out in thirty seconds. I know where it is—it’s in my bedroom, underneath my bed.”
Manny looked at his son. He knew they should stay where they were safe, but he couldn’t get it out of his head that he had already been responsible for so many disappointments in the boy’s life. His ex-wife had plenty to do with the fact that he didn’t really have a mother, but if he hadn’t been such a shitty drunk, then maybe there would have been a better chance that they would have stayed together. And then, beyond that, there were the small ways in which he had failed him. Missing the game because he was drinking. Not looking out for him when the gangbanger had stolen his shoes. Not having the balls to call the police or threaten the junkies so that they abandoned the den. Failing Freddy, again and again, over and over. Relying on a stranger to do his dirty work for him.
“Come on, Dad. Catching that ball was the only thing I want to remember about what happened on Sunday. I can’t just leave it.”
Manny hesitated. All Freddy wanted was to go and get his football. They could be quick. In and out, like he said. How much harm was there in that?
“Dad?”
“Let me call him,” he said.
Manny took out his phone and dialled Smith’s number. It rang and rang, but Smith did not pick up before it went through to voicemail.
“It’s me,” he said. “Freddy wants to get the football he got at the Giants game. We’re gonna go back and pick it up. We’ll be quick—in and out—and then we’ll head back to the apartment. I’ll have my phone with me. Call if you need to.”
He ended the call and shoved the phone in his pocket.
“We going?” Freddy asked.
“Yeah,” Manny said. “Get your sneakers and coat. If we get the subway, we can be back in a couple hours.”
95
Milton was up early. He took the subway to Central Avenue and walked back to Himrod Street. The parking lot was open, and, after showing the attendant his ticket, he paid the fee for the extra day and picked up his bike.
His phone rang. He put the bike onto its stand and took it out of his pocket.
“Hello.”
“It’s Polanski.”
“Morning,” Milton said.
“I’m calling about the Blancos.”
“Have you made progress?”
“Yes. We’ve got a place ready for them. It’s up in New Haven. Miles away from Brooklyn. They’ll be safe there.”
“Thank you.”
“Will you tell them?”
“Yes,” Milton said. “I’ll call them after we’re done. Have you found anything?”
There was a pause; Milton heard the sound of footsteps and then, when Polanski spoke again, his voice was a little lower. “No,” he said. “We’ve struck out.”
“What do you mean?”
“We can’t find either of them. We’ve been inside Shepard’s house, but he’s not been back here since around eight yesterday evening.”
“And Carter?”
“I just called his wife. He didn’t come home last night. He told his partner that she’d called him to say that she’d gone into labour, but she said she didn’t.”
“So they’re missing?”
“Well, we certainly don’t know where they are. I want to press on with the statement from the kid.”
“I’ll speak to them,” Milton said. “I’ll call you.”
He ended the call and, as he looked at the display, he saw that he had voicemail; it must have come through while he was speaking to Polan
ski.
He put the phone to his ear again and listened to the message. It was Manny. Milton swallowed and then found that he was holding his breath.
“It’s me. Freddy wants to get the football he got at the Giants game. We’re gonna go back and pick it up. We’ll be quick—in and out—and then we’ll head back to the apartment. I’ll have my phone with me. Call if you need to.”
Milton called Manny back at once.
The phone rang through to voicemail.
“It’s Smith,” he said. “Do not go to the house. Turn around and go back to the apartment. It’s not safe. Call when you get this.”
Milton shoved the phone into his jacket pocket, straddled the bike and set off.
Manny and Freddy took the subway to Cypress Hills and then walked down Hemlock Street to their old road. Manny felt a buzz of nervousness in his gut as they turned right, and reached down to clutch his son by the hand. His anxiety must have transmitted itself to Freddy, because he had stopped talking about the Giants’ big game with Green Bay at the weekend and settled into a pensive silence that was unlike him.
The street was quiet. The cars parked on either side were covered in snow, and piles of it had been dumped on the sidewalk from where the residents had cleared the steps that led up to their front doors. The street was not important enough to be treated, so the snow had been compacted down by the tyres of the cars that had struggled between Hemlock and Crescent.
Manny tightened his grip on his son’s hand as they headed toward the elevated track that marked the end of the road. He was struck by a sense of sadness as he saw the consequences of Wednesday's attack: the shattered windows beneath the bars and the listless twitch of the curtains in the breeze.
“In and out,” Manny said.
Freddy nodded that he understood.
Manny took his key out of his pocket, opened the gate and climbed the single step. He put the key into the lock, turned it, and went inside. Freddy followed. Manny shut the door.
Milton pushed the bike as hard as he dared. The snow and ice were treacherous, but he knew that he could not take too long. He followed Cypress Avenue through the wide-open spaces that made up the various cemeteries at Cypress Hills, accelerating all the way up to sixty as he broke onto the cleared Jackie Robinson Parkway. He was forced to stop as he hit the traffic that had backed up on either side of a fender bender at the intersection with Jamaica Avenue. A traffic cop was in the middle of the street.