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

by Mark Dawson

  He had spoken to Mackintosh before they released Smith and a compromise had been reached. She would accede to his request on the basis that they kept a close eye on him. Polanski had agreed; he might have taken the same steps even without her laying down the requirement. Assistant District Attorney Mantegna had filed an emergency request for a trace to be put on his phone; the request had been granted and the provider had complied within ten minutes of receiving the order.

  His phone buzzed on his desk.

  He picked it up.

  “Smith?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Manhattan. Where are you?”

  “Just leaving my apartment.”

  He looked at the computer; they should have been able to see whether there had been activity on the phone. “Has Acosta called you?”

  “No—Manny Blanco did.”

  Polanski found it. Smith had just received a call from a landline. The number was unfamiliar.

  “Where are they?” he asked.

  “They got away,” Smith said. “They’re on Atlantic Avenue. You need to go pick them up.”

  Polanski looked at his computer. The location of Smith’s phone had moved. It was to the north of the apartment, and, as he stared at the screen, it kept moving.

  “You need to go,” Smith insisted. “Not someone from the precinct.”

  Polanski heard the sound of an engine turning over. A motorcycle engine. He grabbed his coat and started across the floor. “I’m going now,” he said. “Where are they?”

  “Outside the Barclays Center. They said they were held in a room above a strip club not far from there. The HoneyPot.”

  “How did they get out?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  Polanski reached the lobby and jammed the button to call an elevator. “I’m on my way.”

  EPILOGUE

  1

  Milton had never been much of a fan of Christmas. His childhood memories were always coloured by the deaths of his parents. There had been eleven holidays before they had been taken from him, and, although he knew that there must have been happy times, he couldn’t remember many of the details. And, for those fragments that he could recall, he doubted the veracity of his recollections. It was as if the weight of his subsequent misery rendered the suggestion that he might have enjoyed them preposterous.

  Christmas was just another day to him now. He rose early, as usual, packed his belongings into a large bag and put it over his shoulder. He locked the door of the apartment and went down to the street.

  The snow had been stubborn. The weather had been frigid for a week, but there had been no fresh falls and, eventually, as Christmas approached, the temperature had started to climb. The covering on the roads and sidewalks had been churned up into dirty slush and the drifts had started to thaw.

  Milton put his earbuds into his ears and set off, walking his usual route to the south. There were more people out today than usual: families taking the air before the chaos of opening presents; elderly husbands and wives strolling along the boardwalk, hands clasped tightly together. He passed the tennis and basketball courts of Brighton Playground and the wide space of the parking lots, where patches of asphalt were beginning to show as the snow and ice melted away.

  He approached Café Valentin. He saw the familiar figure of Alexei Fedorov sitting on the bench outside the restaurant. He took the earbuds out of his ears and paused his music.

  “John,” Fedorov said. “Merry Christmas.”

  Three days had passed since the assault on Carlos Acosta’s hideout. The Crimean was not obviously different—although it wasn’t as if he had been pretending to be something else during their previous meetings. Milton had seen the hardness that lay beneath his generosity. His brothers had it, too, although they had less motivation to make Milton feel welcome in their company and had done little to soften their rougher edges. Milton had known that there was more to Fedorov’s business than his restaurant. There was crime down here, and plenty of it: racketeering and protection and all of the other delinquency and malfeasance that was drawn to closed communities. There would be wolves and sheep, and it was obvious that Fedorov and his brothers were not sheep.

  “Thank you for coming,” Fedorov said. “I would like to talk to you. I want to make sure there is no bitterness between us.”

  “What did you do to Acosta?”

  “I made sure that he will not spread his poison again.”

  “Dead?”

  “Of course,” Fedorov said. “It was justice. A justice that would not have been delivered if I had allowed you to take him to the police.”

  Milton didn’t answer.

  “Acosta owed me a debt,” Fedorov went on. “He owed me more than he owed you.”

  Milton was too tired to fight. And it was difficult to disagree with the Crimean: he did have more invested in seeing Acosta brought to justice. Their forms of retribution were not so dissimilar, either. Milton would have preferred to have ended Acosta, just as he had ended Rhodes. He had stayed his hand because Freddy had already seen enough death and because Polanski had deserved the chance to close his case.

  “John,” Fedorov pressed. “I need to know that there is no trouble between us.”

  Fedorov stared at him. Milton wondered if there was a threat hidden beneath the surface of that request.

  “I don’t blame you for what you did,” Milton said. “I would have done the same. But I can’t pretend it didn’t happen.”

  “I understand,” Fedorov said.

  Milton shrugged the bag onto his shoulder so that the weight was borne more evenly. He made to leave.

  Fedorov placed his hand on Milton’s arm. “You got what you wanted?” he continued. “Your friend and his boy are safe?”

  “Yes,” he said. “They are.”

  “I am sorry that I misled you. I would have preferred to be honest.”

  Milton removed Fedorov’s hand from his arm.

  “Are you leaving?” Fedorov asked, indicating the bag.

  “I am.”

  “If you ever find yourself in need of work, I am always looking for men like you.”

  Milton shook his head. “Thanks,” he said. “But I work best alone.”

  The Crimean shrugged. “If you change your mind, the offer remains open.”

  “Goodbye.”

  Fedorov stepped aside and Milton set off again. He reached for the in-line controls and pressed play, Kasabian’s ‘Stevie’ resuming. He walked on for a hundred yards and then glanced back. Fedorov was gone.

  Milton took the Q Train from Coney Island and headed into Manhattan. The car was quiet. Someone had left a copy of yesterday’s Post on the back of the seat and Milton took it, flipping through the pages as the train rumbled to the north. The story of the corruption in the Seventy-Fifth Precinct had filled the pages of the newspapers ever since it had broken three days earlier. It was being reported as a resurrection of an old problem that the NYPD had hoped had been put to bed. It had everything: an informer stabbed to death in a New York subway station; a crooked police officer and his ex-partner, both missing and presumed dead; a drug dealer who had also gone missing, presumably on the run after a gun found at his property was tied to the murder of a policeman in his Rosedale home; a sergeant in Internal Affairs suspected of being on the payroll of criminals after being found at a property where the dealer had conducted his affairs across East New York. The special prosecutor had been front and centre, leading the daily news conferences that shed more and more light on the corruption that had forced its tentacles deep into the precinct house on Sutter Avenue.

  The train rolled into Forty-Ninth Street station. Milton disembarked and made his way to the exit.

  2

  The uniformed officer looked back at Mackintosh. They were standing outside the door to John Smith’s apartment. The cop had a battering ram that looked as if it would make very short work of the flimsy wooden panel. There were three other officers between the cop with the ram a
nd Mackintosh. All three of them had their weapons drawn.

  Mackintosh was tense with anticipation. The email from the Victoria police department had arrived late yesterday evening. They had apologised for the delay, blaming an administrative snafu, but had requested that the NYPD hold John Smith. Mackintosh had contacted the officer who had sent the memo and had learned that the Texans were very keen to speak to Smith. The FBI agent who had taken him from their custody had not been from the FBI, after all. The agency had reported that there was no woman working for them with the name that she had given or fitting her description. As far as they were concerned, Smith was a wanted felon and the woman was wanted for impersonating a federal agent. She had spoken to Polanski and passed on the news. He had reported that he hadn’t spoken to the Englishman since his release.

  “Ready?” the officer asked.

  Mackintosh nodded. “Do it.”

  The man drew back the ram and then crashed it into the door, just below the handle. The wood splintered, the lock smashed and the door flew inwards.

  “Police!” the first of the three waiting officers yelled as he hurried by the first man and went into the apartment. The others followed, with Mackintosh bringing up the rear.

  The apartment was tiny. They cleared the bedroom, living room and bathroom within thirty seconds.

  There was no one there.

  There was nothing that indicated that anyone lived here. No clothes in the closet. No belongings in the living room. No food in the refrigerator.

  “Shit,” Mackintosh cursed.

  They were too late.

  “Shit!”

  Smith had gone.

  3

  There was a crowd of people around the rink at the foot of the Rockefeller Center. The huge tree, decorated with thousands of lights beneath a single star, cast out multicoloured patterns across the ice as skaters swooped around the rink. There was hot chocolate and warm shortbreads, and the atmosphere was festive and friendlier than Milton was used to in the city. People smiled and wished him happy holidays as he politely worked his way through the crowd to the spot next to the statue of Prometheus where they had agreed to meet.

  Manny and Freddy were waiting for him there.

  “Merry Christmas,” Manny said with a wide smile.

  “And to you. How are you doing?”

  “We’re good,” Manny said.

  “The new place?”

  “It’s nice. It’s bigger than before. I don’t know how long they’ll let us stay there, but, well… we’re good.”

  They both looked well. Freddy was standing in front of Manny, with both of his father’s hands resting on his shoulders. They looked relaxed; more so, Milton realised, than he had ever seen them. That was unsurprising. They had been through an ordeal and only now were they coming out the other side of it.

  “Detective Polanski even got us a tree,” Freddy said, beaming.

  “He did,” Manny said. “Brought it over last night.” He leaned down and spoke to his son. “You want to go on the ice?”

  Freddy said that he did, and Manny took out a ten-dollar bill and gave it to him. There was a short queue of people waiting to get tickets, and the boy went and joined it.

  “How’s he doing?” Milton asked.

  “He’s good. Really good. He started the new school this week and says he likes it. And he’s really taken to Polanski. They get on well.”

  Freddy paid, put on his skates and made his way onto the ice.

  “Has he skated before?” Milton asked.

  “No,” Manny said. “But he learns fast.”

  Freddy jerked a little, his arms windmilling as he fought to maintain his balance, but he quickly became steadier.

  “What happened to Acosta?” Manny asked. “I know that’s bugging Polanski. Me too. They still don’t know where he is. It does make me wonder—”

  “You don’t need to worry about him,” Milton said.

  “How can you say that?”

  “Because he’s not coming back.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “You don’t need to be concerned about him.”

  Manny nodded. Milton knew that he trusted him, and he didn’t ask for more.

  Freddy went by the barrier, his skates scraping against the ice. He waved and smiled, evidently proud that he could remain upright

  “What are you doing later?” Manny said. “Do you want to come and have lunch with us?”

  “I’m good,” Milton said. “But thanks for asking.”

  “You have plans?”

  “I’m seeing a friend,” Milton lied. “But it’s good of you for thinking of me.” He looked at the time. “Actually, I’ve got to go. I’m running late.”

  Manny looked as if he was about to protest, but he did not. Instead, he put out his hand. Milton took it and didn’t resist as Manny brought him in closer for an embrace.

  “Thank you,” Manny said, his voice catching.

  Milton gently disentangled himself and saw that Manny’s eyes were wet.

  Milton started to turn, then remembered. “I have a present for you.”

  Milton took out the smaller bag that he had brought with him. Manny took it and pulled back on the zipper. The money that Milton had taken from Acosta and Rhodes was inside. Milton had counted it: there was twenty-five thousand dollars there, made up of five hundred fifty-dollar bills.

  Manny’s expression became wary. “I can’t take that.”

  “You can,” Milton said. “Acosta nearly ruined your life. You’ve had to move. Freddy’s had to change schools. You deserve to be compensated for that.”

  “No.” He shook his head. He closed the zipper and held the bag out for Milton to take.

  “You’ll need it,” Milton insisted. “What about college? Does Freddy want to go?”

  “Sure.”

  “So put it somewhere safe until you need it. Spend a little at a time. Don’t be extravagant, and don’t try to put it in a bank. If you’re careful, you’ll be fine.”

  Manny let his arm, and the bag, fall down to his side. “Thank you.”

  “And there’s this.” Milton reached into his pocket and took out an envelope. He gave it to Manny. “It’s for both of you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Two tickets for the playoffs.”

  “I can’t accept—”

  “A friend of mine has a box,” Milton explained. “I told him what happened the last time Freddy went. He wanted to do something. It didn’t cost me a cent. You can have them on one condition—”

  “No drinking,” Manny cut in. “Don’t worry. I’m good. I’m not letting him down again.”

  Manny reached up and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He reached into his bag and took out a card of his own. “And for you,” he said, his voice breaking a little. “It’s just a card. But Freddy went and got it himself.”

  Milton thanked him and slid the card into his pocket.

  “Goodbye, Manny. Good luck.”

  He made his way into the crowd of onlookers. He glanced out onto the ice and watched, for a moment, as Freddy slid around the rink with growing confidence, seemingly carefree and happy. Milton felt a lump in his throat. He swallowed, his mouth dry, and made his way back to the street.

  4

  Polanski was waiting for him outside the Applebee’s on the corner of 50th and Broadway.

  “Merry Christmas,” Polanski said.

  “You too,” Milton replied. “You want to walk with me?”

  “Sure.”

  They set off, joining the scrum of pedestrians waiting to cross Broadway.

  “Thanks for the call,” Milton said. “I appreciate it.”

  Polanski nodded to the bag on Milton’s shoulder. “Going somewhere?”

  “I thought it might be best,” Milton said.

  “Mackintosh won’t stop. She’s convinced you killed the guy in the dumpster.”

  Milton didn’t respond.

  Polanski glanced over at him. “And I
’m convinced you were at the HoneyPot.”

  “Can you prove that?”

  “Probably.”

  “And?”

  Polanski shrugged.

  They crossed the road.

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” Polanski said. “I don’t know if I see the point. It seems like I’ve got all the answers I need. I got a gun from Acosta’s safe with his prints on it. The ballistics evidence says the gun’s a match for the one used to kill Rhodes. And I got Freddy’s evidence that Carter and Shepard killed González.”

  “So you’ve got everything you need.”

  “Looks that way, doesn’t it? And it was all tied up with a pretty little bow. It couldn’t have been more convenient.”

  Milton was relaxed. Why would Polanski want to unravel everything? Discovering the truth—that Milton had killed Rhodes, freed the Blancos, then framed Acosta—would not serve the narrative. Justice had been done, and that was enough. It made more sense to keep the truth of exactly how it had been done under wraps.

  They walked on in silence.

  Polanski spoke first. “You know I don’t work Brooklyn any more?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “I’ve been transferred to the special prosecutor’s office.”

  “I’m not surprised. You’re good. And you’re a straight shooter. You’re exactly what the NYPD needs right now.”

  “The Seven Five and Internal Affairs in Brooklyn are being fumigated. The commissioner’s putting together a task force to root out the bad guys. I’m on the team.”

  “What about your old boss?”

  “We found a ton of money in his attic that he can’t account for. He was bought and sold like the others. He’s looking at jail time.”

  Milton had wondered whether Polanski might be rewarded with Haynes’s old job, but he figured that maybe he had moved beyond that now. After a year or two of seasoning with the special prosecutor, he would be able to go anywhere he wanted.

  “Your family?” Milton asked.

  “We’re good. Moved back home again yesterday. Just in time for Christmas.”