by Barber, Tom
Returning to the first page, Archer looked down at the first photo.
It was a man. He looked tough and mean, a flattened nose and uncompromising dark eyes over a stubbled jaw-line and a mouth that showed not even a hint of a smile. He had a closely shaved head and a hard face that looked pissed off that he had to stand there and have his mug-shot taken. The black and white height-chart behind him said he was six-two. Archer shifted his gaze, looking at the name on the file printed in a box on the left.
Sean Farrell.
‘You want to talk me through them?’ he asked, looking down at the file.
Gerrard nodded.
‘That’s Sean Farrell, the leader of the bunch. Rough piece of work. He did eight years on Riker’s for murder. He was convicted a month before his eighteenth birthday, so he escaped the electric chair.’
‘Who did he kill?’
‘Another kid his age. Walked up behind him on a basketball court and blew his head off with a shotgun, point blank from behind. Sound familiar?’
Archer looked up at him sharply.
Now Gerry had his attention.
‘Motive?’
‘The guy slept with his ex-girlfriend. Farrell didn’t like it and decided to let the guy know how he felt.’
Archer dropped his gaze back to the sheet, looking at the man’s list of convictions. It was long.
‘He was an up and coming boxer once, hence the nose that looks like a pancake. He wasn’t good enough to turn pro, so he started cornering other fighters. He owns a gym over in Queens,’ Gerrard continued.
Archer scanned the other details on the page as Gerrard continued to talk. His D.O.B, place of residence, family, rap-sheet.
‘He did another six months last year for GBH, so he’s two strikes down,’ Gerrard said. ‘And let me tell you, it’s just a matter of time before he swings dry for a third. He is walking, talking trouble, that man. Trouble follows him everywhere he goes. He’s got a lot of enemies both Federal and police-wise, not to mention guys from his own neighbourhood that he’s managed to piss off over the years. He’s one of those guys that never backs down to anyone, no matter the situation, no matter the odds. Legacy of being a fighter. A good thing in the boxing ring, but not so good out on the street. That attitude’s already landed him almost ten years in prison.’
Archer nodded. He took another look at the guy’s photo, repeating his name in his head.
Sean Farrell.
Then he turned his file to one side, examining the next in the pile.
To his surprise, this one was a woman, but in her mug-shot she looked just as tough as Farrell. Maybe even meaner. Her dark hair was tightly drawn back in corn-rows lining her head, and she had a lean, hard face, rock-solid cheekbones and angry brown eyes. She looked Hispanic or Mexican, and tough as the nails that had been hammered into his father’s coffin.
‘That’s Farrell’s girlfriend. Carmen Ortiz.’
‘Latina?’
‘Dominican. As you can tell by the photo, she makes her boyfriend look like a damn teddy bear. She cage fights out in New Jersey every few weeks, Farrell as her corner-man. She’s got a perfect record as a pro, fifteen wins, no losses. She finished all but one of those fights, and handed out a string of concussions and three broken arms on her way. She’s a savage, Sam. Difference between her and her boyfriend is that she does it legally inside the cage.’
Archer listened, but continued to examine the woman’s photograph.
‘In the bank, she works as muscle,’ Gerrard said. ‘Farrell controls the room whilst she makes sure everyone inside listens to what he says. Her signature is busting up bank managers and armoured truck drivers. Breaks their nose, puts a shotgun to their balls and tells them to open up. Works every time. Gets them compliant real fast. She’s sent nine of them to the emergency room since we began this case.’
Archer looked at her stats and history on the file.
Father killed in gang-shooting, 2001.
Mother raped and shot dead, 2003.
‘Jesus. Rough upbringing.’
Gerrard nodded. ‘Product of her environment I guess. Doesn’t give her an excuse to start robbing banks or smacking around truck drivers though. But needless to say, that’s one bad bitch.’
Archer took one last look at her photo, then turned over the next file.
He saw another hard face and closely-shaved head. This man was like a smaller version of Farrell, the same flattened nose, the same harsh expression but slightly thinner. He glanced at the name.
Billy Regan, the file told him.
‘That’s Regan. Farrell met him in the joint on Riker’s. He was only on a five monther for breaking and entering, but he and Farrell were cell-mates towards the end of Farrell’s bid. They got real tight. Farrell treats him like he’s his little brother. They’re always knocking about together.’
‘His role?’
‘In the bank, he gets the tapes, takes care of any security guards and helps Ortiz with the cash in the vault.’
Archer took a good look at the guy, then nodded, turning over.
The next man was different. He had brown hair, normal length, but the same angry expression. Like the others, he looked to be in his late-twenties, and looked just as pissed off about life in general.
‘That’s Tate. Muscle. He’s a local kid, grew up in the neighbourhood with Farrell before he went to prison. They’ve used him as a hostage before, seeing as he looks less threatening than the others. He goes inside the bank before the job. The crew run in, Farrell picks him out, puts an empty gun to his head, says don’t move or I pull the trigger. Gets everyone obedient and means they can take him with them.’
‘And make a clean getaway,’ Archer finished. ‘Smart moves for a group of fighters.’
Gerrard nodded as the younger man turned the page. He found himself looking at the last member of the crew. This guy looked kind of like Tate, but had black hair instead of brown and more stubble.
‘That’s Brown. The wheelman. Another local kid from the block. He’ll lift a getaway car a couple hours before the job, then after they hit the bank or truck, Brown will get them the hell out of there. We’ve been trying to work out where they’re dumping the bent cars, but so far, no luck. It’s like the damn things are vanishing into mid-air. Hard to run forensics over a stolen getaway car when you can’t even find it.’
Gerrard shook his head and finished his coffee as Archer scanned each file again, one-by-one.
‘They are eight jobs down with a 100 per cent success rate,’ Gerrard told him. ‘One hundred per cent. Five trucks, three banks. Totalled up, they’ve snatched close to three million dollars.’
‘Are they working for anyone higher up?’ Archer asked. ‘Someone who’s setting up the jobs, buying off information, providing truck rotas, blueprints of the banks?’
Gerrard shook his head.
‘For the most part, they seem to be working alone,’ he said. ‘They do their research, and I’m sure they’re paying people off to give them the info you just mentioned. They’re smart and slick as hell. They’re always disguised, and they know our response times and security measures. They take Tate as a pretend hostage so no one moves, and are five miles away before anyone face-down inside the bank so much as coughs. They always leave the bait money and dye packs and always work to the clock.’
Archer looked up at him, confused.
‘You said they use Tate as a fake hostage? Witnesses can’t ID him later?’
‘He’s always disguised, shades and baseball cap. Not enough to alert suspicion, but enough to cover his face and head. The crew are never there long enough for the witnesses to get a good look, and that’s not including the fact that everyone inside is shit scared and face-down on the floor. We’ve tried perp walks, but no one we’ve brought in has ever been able to make an I.D.’ He paused. ‘But I thought we made a breakthrough ten days ago.’
‘How so?’
‘I got Brown talking.’
‘How?’
‘He’s got a kid. List of charges against him would take his boy away forever if we wanted to contact child services. I dialled the number in front of him, and pressed Call. It opened him up straight away.’
‘What did he tell you?’
Gerrard checked over his shoulder, making sure they weren’t being overheard. They were speaking in lowered tones already, but he spoke even quieter.
He leaned forward over the table.
‘A week today, there’s a world title fight at MSG,’ he said. ‘Welterweight strap. Biggest fight of the year. Brown said Farrell’s planning to hit the place during the fight.’
‘MSG? As in Madison Square Garden?’
‘The very same.’
Archer turned and looked out of the window over his shoulder. The Garden was a two minute walk from here, on the corner of 33rd and 8th.
‘Hit it how?’ he asked.
‘Get in the stash room. There’s a big rock concert taking place the night before, this coming Friday night. The money rooms will be packed from the concession stands. There will be millions of dollars in there, easy, and it’s not scheduled to be transported out of there until Sunday. They’ll find a way of getting inside, or will pay someone off at that gate, and will head straight for those rooms.’
Archer thought about it for a moment, then all of a sudden realised they’d drifted off topic. He’d been too swept up in what Gerry was telling him. He turned back to Farrell’s file, and examined the man’s harsh photo again, memorising his features, trying to picture him in his head doing the deed, pulling the trigger of the shotgun against his father’s head.
He pointed at the file. ‘So you think he’s the one who murdered my father?’
Gerrard nodded.
‘Yes. Or someone in his crew did. Let’s just say they all fit the bill.’
‘But that makes no sense. My father was based in D.C. This is your gig. How the hell would he get dragged into this?’
‘An Assistant Director sent him up here. I didn’t know about it until later, but apparently he was ordered to see what the hell was going on with my team. Observe my five agents and me from a distance and report back what he saw to the offices in Washington. Like I told you, the clearance rates are published in national reports every three months. New York’s stats are bringing a shitload of shame and blame on the Bureau. Thirty-four per cent isn’t going to cut it.’
‘But why would they kill him? They wouldn’t have any idea who he was.’
Gerrard shook his head.
‘After he died, I learned that he’d been investigating them too, by way of association.’ He paused, looking Archer in the eye. ‘I think he found something, Sam. Something that could close this case, and bring them all down. And I think somebody killed him before he could tell anyone what it was.’
Archer thought for a moment.
‘Any proof?’ he asked.
‘The method of execution. This crew, they only ever use sawn-off shotguns. It’s their signature, their calling-card, their bread and butter. Shotguns are a nightmare for ballistics fingerprinting. The buckshot scatters everywhere when you pull the trigger, so it’s impossible to get a sample and match it to a particular weapon. Our only hope would be if they racked the pump and left a shell behind, but they haven’t had to fire the weapons on a job yet. There’s a saying in the Bureau that every bullet is another piece of evidence to convict you. But whoever killed Jimmy didn’t reload. The empty cartridge stayed in the weapon. And he took it, point-blank, when his back was turned. Farrell did eight years for killing a guy the exact same way. Shotgun, point-blank, back of the head. Tell me there isn’t a pattern and a correlation there.’
Archer thought hard, picturing the scenario. He shook his head.
‘I know my dad. Or, knew him,’ he corrected. ‘He wouldn’t turn his back on Farrell or anyone on his team. Especially if he had something that could close this case and bring him in. And why would he meet with him if he had the evidence?’
‘Maybe he got the drop on him,’ Gerrard answered. ‘Maybe Jimmy was meeting someone else and Farrell ambushed him.’
‘That’s a lot of maybes.’
Gerrard pointed at the file. ‘That’s a lot of motive.’
Archer didn’t respond.
He glanced down at the guy’s photograph again, memorising his features.
The hard, tough jaw-line.
The pudgy, flat nose.
Sean Farrell.
He pictured him with a sawn-off shotgun in his hands. Stalking up behind his father or ambushing him, ordering his hands in the air and for him to turn. The barrel of the shotgun nestling into the back of James Archer’s head.
And Farrell pulling the trigger.
He felt his mood darken.
‘OK. Suppose it’s the way you say it is. I’m out of my jurisdiction Gerry. I’m UK police, not NYPD. I can’t go after these people.’
‘I’m not asking you to.’ Gerrard looked at him for a long moment. ‘But I am asking you for something else.’
‘What?’
‘My team and I have conducted raids,’ Gerrard said. ‘Made arrests. Brought each one of these assholes in for questioning. They know exactly what each and every agent in my team looks like. They even know our names.’
He paused.
‘But they don’t know you.’
Archer picked up where this was going straight away. He leaned back in his seat and shook his head.
‘No way. Absolutely no way. It won’t work,’ he said. ‘They’re planning to pull the Madison Square Garden job a week from today. That’s seven days from now. I’m good but I’m not that good, Gerry. I’ll never get near them.’
Gerry leaned forward, pressing him.
‘I’m not asking you to. But you’ll be in Astoria anyway, clearing out your Dad’s place. All I’m asking for is another set of eyes on them in their neighbourhood. There’s a pub called McCann’s, on Ditmars Boulevard. They are in there basically every night. Get inside and grab a beer. If you make contact, try to strike up a conversation with Farrell. Get him to trust you. They’re getting their money out and cleaning it, and we have no idea how they’re doing it. It’s untraceable and it’s been baffling me for months. I need to find out how they manage it, or at least get something that could give me a goddamned break in this case. I’m out of solutions, kid. I need your help.’
He paused.
‘We’ve made armed arrests. Unlike them, we don’t wear disguises. They know what every member of my team looks like, and they’ll be expecting NYPD attention. They’d sniff out an undercover cop or Fed a mile off. But they’ll never guess who you are. Your accent, your cover story. You don’t even look like Jimmy, so they won’t realise the two of you are related. It all checks out.’
Archer looked back out the window, shaking his head. Gerrard pressed forward.
‘I need you, Sam. They’re killing me and my team. You’re going to be around for the next week or so anyway. Please help me out. That’s all I’m asking.’ He tapped the folder. ‘I swear to you that someone in this group knows who killed your father. One of them probably did it. Surely that’s enough?’
Silence followed.
Archer eventually looked across at him, eye-to-eye, his face hard.
‘Listen. If I find out one of these people pulled the trigger on my dad, I can’t make promises to you that I can’t keep,’ he said quietly. ‘I need you to know that before I get involved.’
Gerrard nodded. ‘That’s OK. I’ll handle the case file if that happens. I’ll take responsibility for it. It won’t be an issue.’
Archer looked at him across the table, then out of the window. Gerrard stayed quiet, hopeful, waiting to see if his approach had worked. In the silence light jazz music filled the air. Duke Ellington, or Miles Davis, all saxophone and drums and melody.
Looking out into the street, Archer’s mind weighed up his options, like a set of scales, Farrell and his team on one side, Gerry and his father
on the other. As he mulled over the facts, his gaze suddenly fell on a father and son, hand-in-hand, crossing the street.
He looked closer and realised they were the same two he’d seen on the N train on the way here. He watched as they headed across the street and into a café opposite the Starbucks called Andrew’s. He watched the man open the door and let his son in first, and the two of them disappeared out of sight.
He turned back to Gerrard. ‘My dad’s apartment. Do you have the phone number?’
‘Of course.’
‘Call me at 7 pm. I’ll give you an answer then.’
Before Gerrard could reply, Archer rose, not waiting for a response.
Tossing his empty cup in the trash, he strode out of the coffee shop.
SIX
The Marriott Marquis Hotel Cobb had booked Archer into was located on the west side of Times Square on Broadway between 45th and 46th Street. It was only ten blocks uptown from the Starbucks, a ten minute walk, but Archer walked straight past the luxurious doors, moving on through the bright and busy Times Square, threading his way through the sea of people. Everywhere you looked there were tourists, vendors, tour operators or someone trying to sell you something, and Archer made his way through as fast as he could, past all the commotion, past all the noise.
He needed to think.
Eleven years. Eleven years since he and his father had last said a word to each other. Aside from a birthday card in the mail most years, that was it. After one too many arguments with his wife inside their family home, Jim Archer had packed his bags in a fit of fury one night and left when his son was sixteen. Watching him walk out of the front door all those years ago back in London, standing in the hallway as he watched him go, his son figured that he’d see him again in a couple of weeks, or in a month or two. It was one of those spats that would just need a little dose of time to heal. His parents were both strong-minded and strong-willed people. They’d resolve it soon enough, once tempers had cooled. He’d never have realised it at the time, but that was the last time he’d ever see him alive. Jim Archer had gone straight to Heathrow that night, booked himself onto the next flight to New York, and had never returned.