by Andrew Case
“Now.”
Leonard set the magnet on the marble countertop. The cop held his gun on Leonard as he leaned in. “Stay still.” Del Rio kept his eyes on Leonard and reached onto the counter. Leonard thought for a moment about making a lunge for it. His shoulder hurt too much for him to move quickly. He might have talked Del Rio down from just shooting him outright, but he didn’t want to press his luck.
The cop reached for the magnet with his left hand, keeping his right trained on Leonard. He pulled it to his edge of the counter. Leonard saw his eyes dart down to it. He was maybe four feet away, and behind the kitchen island. If Del Rio was distracted, Leonard might have a chance. He figured that if he could keep the cop talking, maybe keep him thinking about more than one thing at once, he could confuse him. That would be a start.
“Why are you doing this, Joey? Who are you working for? You’re a cop; you aren’t supposed to be out running around killing commissioners and robbing people.”
“That’s right, I’m a cop. It used to mean something, to be a cop in this city.”
“And you don’t think it does anymore?”
Del Rio scrunched up his nose and Leonard saw his pasty cheeks quiver. The cop looked suddenly so young. “It used to be they let us go out and do our job. Keep crime down and everyone is happy with you. Then we are watched by everyone. We are watched by DIMAC. We get watched by the feds. We aren’t supposed to be cops anymore. It’s like working at the post office.”
Leonard smiled. Del Rio couldn’t be more than twenty-five. The new administration had stepped up enforcement against the police, had watched them a little more closely, but this guy had never known a world where the cops could run through the streets cracking skulls and not pay a penalty for it. “Someone’s been feeding you that, Joey. Someone has been telling you about the good old days. The 1970s, before Frank Serpico and all that. You weren’t even born. It wasn’t how they tell you it was, you know.”
“No, I mean just now. The city starts falling apart because the mayor won’t let the cops do their job. And then who gets the blame. We do. I’m sick of it. We’re all sick of it. So if you want to know why, well we’re just letting you know what it would be like without us.”
“But you tried that. You tried just not doing anything at all. And it didn’t work. So you had to start going out and making the crime. What does that tell you, officer? Who is keeping the city safe from you?”
“You keep quiet.”
Leonard remembered that Del Rio had a partner. One he was paired with every day of patrol. Most likely he had been with him on his fateful day off too.
“The whole precinct was in on it, wasn’t it? You were sent out to the boat with Rowson. What were you doing out there? How did you end up getting away?”
“I don’t need to answer any of your questions. I’m not at DIMAC getting investigated. You impersonated a police officer to break into this apartment.” Del Rio stared at Leonard. Leonard could see the cop’s hand start to shake. The cop was attacking him, the natural pounce of someone who was worried. Who was afraid.
Leonard stayed calm and spoke slowly, his eyes on the gun. He had to rattle the officer. “Who sent you out there? Did you do them all? The water taxi, the crane, the chemical spill? Do you even know who’s behind it?”
“I know why we’re doing it. We’re doing it to make the world safer. You get a little taste of what life is like if the police aren’t there to protect you and you’re all going to come running back into our arms.” The same tired rhetoric. The animals are taking over the city. Leonard could tell just from listening to Del Rio who had been feeding him these lines.
“No, Joey. That’s just your sergeant talking. You’re doing it because someone at an investment bank has been betting against those companies. Hoping their stock price will go down and then hiring Sparks or whoever he works for to wreck them. You’re just a tool in your own little conspiracy.”
Del Rio stammered. Leonard watched him work through it. Of course Del Rio wouldn’t have known anything. He would have taken orders from someone, likely Sparks, and never thought about who was running the show. From Del Rio’s perspective, Sparks would have been a guy who got him out of a jam and asked him for some favors. No one would tell the muscle that they were rigging stock prices for an investment company they had never heard of. They’d come up with a story the cops could believe if any of them ever asked. But given how close they had been to being fired, how much they owed to Sparks, it was more likely that none of them had ever asked. Del Rio’s grip tightened on the gun and he stared dead at Leonard. “I know everything I need to know.”
“Did you kill Davenport too? Are you going to phone me in for impersonating a cop, have the Sixth Precinct come by to collar me? They’ll get here, and as far as you know that flash drive has evidence tying you to a murder. Do you think Sparks will cover for you then?”
Del Rio stared at Leonard. Leonard realized that he was bruised and his clothes were ragged, and he didn’t look like someone who could be trusted. But he could see Del Rio start to puzzle it over as well. To wonder, maybe, if he was being set up himself. If Del Rio and Rowson had been out on the boat together, then something had gone very wrong. Del Rio had already seen someone get killed as part of this operation. As the cop stopped to consider, Leonard could see his grip on the gun grow lax and his eyes glaze in a moment of distant contemplation. He stared down at the little flash drive, then reached to pick it up with his free hand.
A moment was enough. Leonard feinted to his right then swung back toward Del Rio’s hand and threw it onto the marble countertop. Forget hitting the body, just take out the hand with the gun. The gun went off, but the bullet clattered past harmlessly. It hit at least three walls before it stopped—one thing they don’t tell you when they sell you expensive tile for your backsplash is how well bullets will ricochet off the product.
Del Rio screamed. Leonard thought about nothing but the cop’s hand. He held it on the counter and twisted his body away from the barrel. Del Rio managed to launch two more rounds before Leonard had climbed all the way on top of the island. Kneeling, Leonard had a good view of Del Rio’s face; he winced as his shoulder seared, but he managed to land a punch. Del Rio screwed up his nose and swung wildly with his free hand. Leonard dodged it and ground his knee onto the officer’s pinned right wrist. That was what made him let go of the gun, screaming and wailing and grabbing his bent palm with his good hand.
The cop had managed to flick his wrist while dropping the gun, so it swung off the counter and onto the floor. Leonard was still on the island, pinning Del Rio’s arm and shoulder below his knee as the cop twisted away from the countertop. Del Rio turned to lunge for the weapon and Leonard slid off the counter and into the officer, the two of them balled on the floor, swimming among books and papers and loose clothing, both out of reach of the gun. The magnet sat harmless on the countertop. Del Rio slid on his shoulders, stretching his foot toward the weapon. Leonard tugged him back and thrust his knee into his gut. Del Rio gagged for a moment, then gasped as he looked up.
Leonard wasn’t in the kind of shape that the cop was; sitting at a desk doesn’t prepare you for someone who hits the weight room twice a day. Plus he only had one good arm. He was the underdog, but when you’re the underdog, you can take bigger risks. You can do things that otherwise maybe aren’t fair. So he yanked on Del Rio’s hair, twisting back the cop’s neck, and landed a pair of blows below the ribs. Del Rio lost air quickly, gasping. Leonard grabbed the back of the Del Rio’s head and slammed his face against the marble countertop. Being a little bit unfair has its advantages.
Leonard tried to slip around the cop toward the gun. Del Rio tripped him. As Leonard fell, his hands hit the pistol, sending it sliding across the floor toward the open door out to the balcony. Del Rio started past Leonard, Leonard grabbed Del Rio’s knee, and they both spun down to the ground. Del Rio was on top of Leon
ard, swinging at his face. The cop landed a few pretty strong blows, and Leonard learned that when the guy takes a full swing, getting punched in the face can really hurt. Not to mention that when you’re lying down and get hit, the back of your head hits the floor, and in a nice apartment like Davenport’s that means hardwood, with an emphasis on hard.
Leonard was pulling up from the blow and Del Rio was reaching for the gun when Leonard grabbed at the cop and something slipped out of his belt. A canister a little bigger than a tube of lipstick. His pepper spray. Leonard didn’t have time to think, he just let loose with it, squeezing the top and letting the stream take its course. By regulation, you are only supposed to shoot one burst of pepper spray, for one to two seconds, and then assess whether it is having the desired effect before firing again.
That, of course, is the regulation if you are a police officer pepper spraying a non-compliant civilian. But Leonard was well past the world of regulations. He squeezed, and when Officer Del Rio shrieked, he pressed harder still. Leonard got closer than the allotted three feet. In fact, although he didn’t feel great about it, he shoved the canister in the cop’s mouth and sprayed some down his throat. If Leonard had found out that a cop had used pepper spray on a civilian like that, the officer would have ended up with a pretty big rip. As it was, Del Rio was rolling on the ground coughing, and it wasn’t clear whether the red gobs dribbling down his face were spray that hadn’t made it down his throat or his own blood. He was on his hands and knees now, blinded by the spray, trying to breathe.
Sprawled on the floor, writhing in pain, Del Rio lunged wildly, trying to corral the gun maybe. Wheezing from the pepper spray, his eyes starting to swell shut already, it was useless. Leonard walked past the cop and picked up the gun. He had never held a gun before. People who talk about guns always say that they are heavy, and so Leonard was prepared for the gun to be heavy. But even knowing that a gun is heavy, when he picked it up it was still heavier than he thought it was going to be, all dense packed metal and also heavy with what it can do, what it means to be holding a gun over a man who is incapacitated, who couldn’t fight back, who was now at Leonard’s mercy.
Del Rio wheezed. “Don’t kill me.”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
He looked up. He couldn’t see, but Leonard could tell that Del Rio was tracking his voice. Leonard was standing by the open balcony door, holding the gun, testing its weight, pointing it at the floor. Not that Del Rio knew that.
“I don’t know anything about a bank. Sparks got me out of a jam. I owed him.”
“And Rowson? And Davies?”
“He’s got about a dozen cops. He pays us extra.”
“He pays you extra to let the chemicals out of the plant? To sabotage the crane? To sink the water taxi?”
“Everyone was supposed to get off that boat okay.”
“It sounds so innocent when you plan it.”
The cop took two very deep breaths. Leonard could tell he was struggling, but that he had plenty of strength left. He was in pain, but cops can still operate when they are in pain. If he could see, if he could breathe okay, then Leonard wasn’t out of the woods, gun or no. Del Rio heaved up to his knees and spoke.
“I’m sorry about all this. I never wanted to hurt anyone. But you should have stayed out of this. It wasn’t your business.”
“You’re in the house of the woman whose business it was. And her business was my business.”
Del Rio was crouched on the floor. As soon as he’d finished speaking he thrust his hands over his eyes. That was going to make it worse. He was going to rub the oil right into the cornea. What he really needed to do was flush both eyes with water, but Leonard wasn’t about to tell him that. It was in the Patrol Guide, and if Del Rio didn’t know, maybe that was just one more reason he got picked for these kinds of jobs. As Leonard walked closer, though, Del Rio pounced. He had been listening to the sound of his footsteps. Leonard had no reflexes to lift the gun and shoot at Del Rio. His arms were down. His finger resting far from the trigger.
But he could step out of the way, and when Del Rio jumped and Leonard swept to the side, the officer sailed through the open window and onto the balcony. Before he could stop himself he was up in the air, his body over the ledge, his feet twirling behind him. His hands swarmed around, looking for something to hold. Leonard swung toward the cop; he didn’t want to kill anyone. He caught Del Rio’s arm and the cop gripped his wrist. Leonard was yanked toward the ledge by the other man’s weight, and his torso bruised suddenly against the railing. Leonard was bent over the edge, Del Rio holding his arm desperately with both hands. The cop’s face was speckled with pepper spray and his eyes were squinting shut with pain. Leonard heaved a moment upward, trying to bring the cop back inside. His shoulder soured and his arm was weak and limp. He looked beyond Del Rio toward the quiet street. The cop grunted, grabbed Leonard, and started to pull upward.
The pepper spray had been smeared across the cop’s hands and streaked onto Leonard’s arms. He could feel it start to sting, but more than that it was oily, slick. As Del Rio lifted one hand, the other slid down Leonard’s wrist, and even as he lunged again for the cop it was too late. Just below him, Del Rio looked as though he was hanging still in space, his mouth smeared with the spray and his eyes fierce, blinded, and cruel. He seemed to hover for a moment before streaking six stories downward. Leonard looked away, and when he turned back he saw Del Rio sprawled in the empty street. The whole block was deserted. If the guard saw it, he would already be on the phone. Otherwise the body might lie there all night. Leonard looked again as something caught his eye. Del Rio’s body, splayed on the street, still had a gun in its holster. The one that Leonard had wrestled away from him was a spare. An extra police-issued gun. Cops don’t carry spare firearms. But there was one weapon from the Harbor Patrol that had been missing for almost a week. And it was just like the one that Leonard was holding now. It was Rowson’s gun.
Leonard jammed the gun into the back of his pants and pulled his shirt over it. Nothing much was concealed—if a cop were walking behind him he would see the outline in a second. Sticking the gun there was the second-worst option, after just walking down the street with it in his hand. He had to get back to Roshni’s office. And now, with a dead cop to deal with, and proof that the cops were the ones that were after him, Leonard felt pretty sure that going out into the city with a gun was safer than going out without one. His hands were searing from the pepper spray. He soaped them up and washed them at the fancy sink. There were no towels and he had to wipe his hands on his pants. He collected the flash drive, he walked to the elevator and shot downstairs.
He couldn’t go back out the lobby. He thought about going to the second floor and taking a fire escape. He pressed the button for the basement and hoped for the best. The elevator opened into a garage filled with sleek little sports cars. Leonard saw a dim red light in the corner of the garage. A fire exit. He jogged past the late-model designer toys and toward the door. He pushed the bar, ready to run if there was an alarm. There wasn’t. Another part of the renovation they had skimped on. The door opened onto Washington Street, the gaudy new condos and the water beyond. To Leonard’s left was the edge of Perry Street, where he knew Del Rio was lying dead. He didn’t hear sirens. He didn’t hear anything at all. He walked right, went up a few blocks, and started to make his way up to the subway, ready for a short ride and another walk back to Roshni’s office. He had Davenport’s final collection of evidence tucked safely into his pocket and a dead cop’s gun tucked into his waistband.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
EVIDENCE
The subway was too cold. People who had been out enjoying the frivolity of a New York summer night in thin gauzy clothes were shivering home on the train, sweat freezing on their necks. The MTA blasts the air conditioning in the summer, trying to prove that it is providing a service, and half the time you end up sick.
&n
bsp; But Leonard couldn’t stop sweating. He was perched in a corner seat, across from the conductor’s booth, squirming so that no one would notice the gun. He couldn’t be sure he wasn’t being watched. He couldn’t spot anyone who looked like a plainclothes. The people on the train, after midnight on a weeknight, were mainly kids, people in their twenties who were now rocking back and forth trying to keep from passing out or peering deeply into electronic gadgets. Maybe a half-dozen, maybe more. They seemed pretty harmless themselves, but you never know who might suddenly step on board.
The girls were in black, and not much of it, showing their navels and shoulders, parading their youth and glee. One of them danced in place, swaying in front of the guy she had gotten on the train with, as he sat with one hand on the railing and the other on her ass, holding drunk and steady, as though trying not to puke on her black-on-black stenciled skirt. The car was clean and fast and quiet—graffiti and soot and blood had yet to find their way back to the subway, and it hummed ruthlessly downtown toward Brooklyn. No one got on at Wall Street, and as the train sped into the tunnel, Leonard figured for the moment he was safe.
He would load up the flash drive at Roshni’s; if it told him the next target, he would tell Veronica. Del Rio hadn’t known anything about the bank, about Eliot Holm-Anderson, but then again, why would he? If he had been hired just to do the dirty work, why would Sergeant Sparks tell him who they were working for? Instead Sparks had given his minions a cover story. Make people afraid to walk the streets at night, to ride the water taxis, the subways. Make them believe that the restaurants are foul and that the buildings are stuck together with silly putty. And then they’ll come crying back to you. Then this whole experiment will get turned around. Another iron fist will land in the mayor’s office and dole out another set of medals to the cops who run through the streets shaking down kids.