by Jason Dean
‘We’re good, thanks,’ Bishop said without slowing. Unless you got some coffee.
He opened one of the doors and stepped into a plain windowless lobby area. There was an elevator bank straight ahead and a door leading to the fire stairs on the right. The concrete walls were painted in uneven hues of grey, probably in an effort to cover up old graffiti. The floor was grimy with dirt.
‘What’s that smell?’ Gerry asked from beside him.
‘I don’t want to know,’ Bishop said, and stepped over to the elevators. He pressed the up button and waited. A minute later the doors slid open and they stepped inside. It smelled even worse in the confined space. Bishop breathed though his mouth as he pressed the button for 19, and a minute later the doors opened again.
Directional signs on the wall ahead advised them to turn left for rooms 1901 to 1910. As they walked down the bare, dimly lit corridor, Bishop could hear loud music and equally loud televisions coming from apartments on both sides. When he reached 1902 at the end, he looked at Gerry and raised a finger to his lips while pointing to the left. As Gerry moved out of the way, Bishop pressed his ear against the door just below the glass peephole. He heard no sounds coming from inside.
He pressed the buzzer and waited thirty seconds. There was no response. He tried again and waited a little longer. Same result.
Bishop reached into his pocket, pulled out the pair of cheap cotton gloves he’d bought in the store on Seaman Avenue and put them on. Gerry did the same. Now wasn’t the time to get start getting careless. Bishop knelt down and checked the lock. It was a deadbolt, which was about what he’d expected. From another pocket he took out the EZ Snap lockpick gun he’d brought back with him from Pennsylvania.
He usually took it with him on jobs. It was amazing how often it came in handy. And it wasn’t even illegal. Yet. Bishop had ordered this one from Amazon. He also had a few more lying around his house on Staten Island, just in case they ever decided to ban them. From the same pocket he also took a double-ended tension wrench, which he worked into the keyhole. He inserted the needle of the gun just above it and pressed the trigger a few times, using his thumb to apply torque pressure to the wrench. When he felt the pins jump into the hole casing, he pocketed the tools and quietly opened the door.
‘Wait here,’ he whispered. Gerry nodded and Bishop went inside.
There was a long, narrow hallway leading off to his left, with three open doorways on the right hand side. The hallway ended in another open doorway that looked as if it might lead to the bedroom. There was a fifth doorway directly in front of him, but the door was closed. Bishop used the knuckle of his index finger to push it open.
It was a large living area. Bishop took a few steps inside and saw magazines and old pizza boxes scattered over the hardwood floor. Against one wall was a fairly large flat-screen Sony TV. Underneath that, a Blu-Ray player with numerous discarded DVD cases. Items of clothing were strewn about. No female clothing. The room’s sole east-facing window overlooked more high-rises in the distance. The only furniture was a ratty-looking couch, two matching chairs and an uneven coffee table, one leg supported by a coverless paperback. On the table were more magazines. Lying amongst them were a small, clear plastic bag containing a few crumbs of off-white powder, a Zippo lighter and a discoloured spoon.
A Latino man with a thin goatee was lying on the couch with his eyes closed. He looked to be in his mid-twenties. Bishop couldn’t be sure, but he looked like the driver from the footage. He was stocky and wore the same hooded sweatshirt. One arm was looped over the side of the couch with the hand touching the floor. Next to the hand was an empty hypodermic syringe.
Even from here, Bishop could see he wasn’t breathing.
FOURTEEN
‘Christ,’ Gerry said from behind him. ‘Is he dead?’
‘I told you to wait outside,’ Bishop said, and crossed the room. He removed his left glove, knelt down and felt the carotid artery under the man’s ear. No pulse. But the skin was still warm. This had happened recently. He dipped a finger into the bag on the table, then tapped it against his tongue. He was no expert, but the intensely bitter taste suggested heroin. Bishop replaced the glove and said, ‘Dead, all right. Looks like an overdose.’
‘Shit. Really?’ Gerry paused, then said, ‘The son of a bitch got off easy.’
‘The end result’s still the same,’ Bishop said, despite agreeing with the sentiment. He had got off easy. ‘But it makes things difficult.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He can’t exactly tell me who his friends are now, can he? I just hope he left some names lying around.’ He turned to Gerry, who was standing at the doorway and staring at the body with large eyes. His thin hair was in complete disarray and hanging off his forehead in coils, while his skin had an unhealthy pallor. Not surprising if this was the first time he’d seen a dead body. ‘And what you need to do is leave, like you said you would. I’ll handle things from here on.’
‘Yeah. Okay.’ Gerry took a deep breath and said, ‘But look, it’ll go a lot quicker if we both search. And the cab’s still waiting outside. If you find an address or a lead, I can let you out on the way and then head on back alone.’
Bishop rubbed a hand over his scalp, thinking. He didn’t like Gerry hanging around any longer than necessary, but on the other hand he couldn’t really find a hole in his logic. Especially as he hadn’t seen too many cabs patrolling this particular neighbourhood on the way in. Finally, he said, ‘Okay, start with the room at the end while I check in here. I want notebooks, paperwork, or even better a cell phone. Anything with a name on it. And keep your gloves on at all times.’
‘You don’t have to remind me,’ Gerry said, and left.
Bishop took in the room again. He’d already seen enough to know something wasn’t right here. Apart from the obvious, of course. He inspected Whelan’s arms. The right had a few old gang tats, but nothing else. On the left, buried amongst more tats, was a single needle mark. And it was fresh. So Whelan had just this day decided to start mainlining pure heroin. Which didn’t seem too likely. He might have snorted the stuff up till now, but Bishop doubted it. The guy was in too good a shape. The last thing on an addict’s mind is his physical fitness. And then there was the TV and the Blu-Ray player over there. And all the DVDs. Anyone with a serious habit would have traded them in for junk long before now.
All of which suggested there’d been somebody else in this apartment recently. Helping Whelan on his way. But why?
He searched the man’s clothes and paused when he felt something in the rear pants pocket. He reached in and pulled out a stainless steel butterfly knife. Or balisong, as it was known in its native Philippines. An intricately designed folding knife made up of two handles that counter-rotated around the tang. Loved by gang members everywhere and illegal in most states. Bishop had once trained up on them in the Corps and knew all too well how deadly they were. Holding it by the safe handle, Bishop flicked his thumb under the catch, performed a double twirl of the wrist and watched the knife flip open in a rapid blur of motion.
Good, smooth action. Somebody had kept it regularly oiled. Bishop flipped it closed in a single movement and stuck it in his own pocket. Never knew when something like this might come in useful, and it was no good to Whelan any more. Assuming it ever had been.
He finished his search of the clothes, but didn’t find a cell phone. Just a cheap, faux-leather wallet with the usual stuff inside. Driver’s licence. Social Security card. A few other pieces of ID. No cash. He placed the wallet on the table and flipped through the magazines. Guns & Ammo. Black Booty. Tactical Knives. Teenage Nymphs. More variations along the same general theme. But no paperwork hidden between them.
Bishop suddenly heard the muffled sound of a ringing phone coming from somewhere in the apartment. He walked over to the discarded clothes and the sound became more pronounced. He picked up a pile of T-shirts and saw it was coming from an AT&T console and answering machine on the floor. The c
ordless phone was still in its charging base. The ringing stopped and an automated voice asked the caller to leave a message after the tone.
‘Pab,’ a man’s voice said, ‘it’s Carlos. Where you at, man? You ain’t been answering your cell. I tried Yuri’s, but it keeps going to voicemail. Look, we need to talk. I think our black boy’s following me around. Wherever I go, I keep seeing flashes of a dude looks just like him. I’m telling you, man, that guy freaks me out and you know I don’t scare easy. And I don’t like Yuri switching off his cell either. I’m getting the feeling our employer’s tying up loose ends, and we’re at the shit end of the stick. Look, you get this message then you come meet me by the pool tables at the back of Angelo’s, okay? I’ll wait here another hour or two. And if you can get hold of Yuri, bring him along. We need to talk about what to do. Okay, man? Later.’
Carlos hung up and a beep sounded from the answering machine. Bishop just stood there and looked at it, trying to make sense of what he’d just heard. Yuri was a Russian name. Meaning he could well be the one who’d referred to Amy last night as a suka. But more important, it sounded to Bishop as though these three, Whelan, Carlos and Yuri, had been paid to assault Amy. Maybe even kill her. Which made no sense at all. And who was the black guy? Was he the one who’d hired them? Because if this Carlos was right about him tying up loose ends, it would answer the questions hanging over Whelan’s death. It also explained the missing cell phone. Cleaning up loose ends.
And although it didn’t explain why Amy was at the park at all, it implied they’d known she’d be at that particular place at that particular time. The attack hadn’t been random at all. It had been planned that way.
Which put a whole new perspective on things.
First things first, though. Bishop needed to find out more about Angelo’s. He was reaching down for the cordless when he noticed Gerry standing in the doorway, holding a rolled-up magazine.
‘What was he talking about, Bishop?’ Gerry asked. ‘Is he saying somebody told them to go after Amy on purpose?’
‘Hey, I just got here, same as you. Did you find anything in the other rooms? A cell phone, maybe?’
‘No phone. And the only paperwork I found was a rental agreement for this place.’
‘What’s that in your hand?’
‘Just an old gun magazine he had lying around.’
‘Let me see.’
Gerry paused for a beat, then brought it over and said, ‘Check the mailing label.’
Bishop took the magazine and saw it was a year-old copy of Soldier of Fortune. And in the bottom right-hand corner was a subscriber’s address label. It was made out to a Mr Y. Vasilyev. The address was Apt. 1907, Building 23, Benchley Place. Looked like Pablo and Yuri might have made a habit of borrowing magazines from each other. Which simplified things.
He looked up at Gerry. ‘Planning on keeping this from me too, were you?’
‘No, of course not. I was coming to show you when I heard that message.’
Bishop wasn’t sure Gerry was telling the whole truth, but he said nothing. It was a good lead, but it could wait. He picked up the cordless and dialled 411 for information.
Right now he needed to find out where the hell this Angelo’s was located.
FIFTEEN
Both men were silent as the cab driver took them down Westchester Avenue. Mid-afternoon and the elevated IRT lines above shrouded everything in shadows, making the day seem older than it was. Bishop just stared out of the window and watched the passing street signs.
The local operator had told him there was only one Angelo’s in the 718 area code. Located on St Paul’s Avenue in the Pelham Bay area. Right around here, in fact. He’d kept the exact address from Gerry, though. He didn’t want him getting any more ideas. He just wanted him gone.
Bishop suddenly spotted the sign he wanted on the right. He let the driver carry on for another block and said, ‘Pull over here.’
As soon as the driver came to a stop, Bishop turned to Gerry and said, ‘You’re going straight back to the hospital, right? Because Lisa and Pat need you there. Amy, too.’
Gerry gave a single nod. ‘You kept your promise,’ he said. ‘I’ll keep mine.’
‘Good.’ Bishop got out. He shut the door and watched the cab as it slowly pulled out into the traffic. Once it disappeared from sight, he turned and began walking in the opposite direction.
It was a noisy street. There were no traffic lights and large delivery vans constantly zoomed by in both directions. Bishop narrowly avoided colliding with a kid on a bike and then turned left onto St Paul’s Avenue. On the left-hand side was a fenced-off parking area. On the right, a one-storey building which extended all the way back for about fifty yards. About two-thirds of the way down was a tinted glass door with a sign above that read Angelo’s – Bar & Pool Hall.
Bishop crossed over and walked towards it. Two men stood near the door, smoking and not talking to each other. Bishop ignored them, opened the door and went inside.
The place was dimly lit, with no windows. There was a bar running along the opposite wall. Half a dozen men of various ages sat on barstools, drinking, and a wide-shouldered, pony-tailed bartender was wiping glasses behind the bar. He looked up at Bishop without interest, then went back to cleaning.
There were some tables and chairs to the left. All empty. Signs for the restrooms pointed to a hallway in the corner. Some kind of rap music was coming from the right. Not too loud in volume, but heavy on the bass. Underneath that, the familiar sound of cue sticks smashing hard resin balls across felt. Bishop saw six pool tables in a single row, all in use. It looked pretty busy down there. Especially in comparison to this side.
Bishop walked over to the bartender, paid for a bottle of Corona and took it over to the pool section. He found a space against one wall and stood there, sipping at his beer and getting a sense of the room. Looked like everybody was playing regular eightball. Mostly one-on-one, although on the third table a pair of girls were playing two boys. There were a few customers standing around and watching as they drank, like Bishop. Others carried on conversations with friends who were playing. Bishop saw a fair few Latino guys in their twenties amongst them, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Apart from the two girls, any one of these people could be Carlos. Assuming Carlos was in here at all.
Well, there was an easy way to find out.
Bishop pulled out his cell, accessed his settings and turned off his caller ID. He’d already dialled *69 at Whelan’s place and gotten the number for the last received call. Now he keyed it in and held his thumb over the call button. He checked to see who was already using their cells. Just one of the girls, texting. Nobody else that he could see.
He pressed the call button.
His eyes darted in all directions, trying to watch everybody at the same time. Seeing who’d reach for their phone. Then he noticed a movement to his right. Between the fourth and fifth table, a guy with his back to Bishop was reaching into his pocket as he watched the game. He pulled out a cell phone and brought it to his ear. Bishop disconnected the call and kept watching. After a few moments, the man took the phone from his ear and peered down at the screen. Then he turned around.
Bishop kept his eyes on the game in front of him. In his peripheral vision, he could see the man slowly moving his head as he searched the room. Carlos must have already figured somebody was trying to draw him out. But then he’d sounded pretty paranoid in that message. His gaze finally came to rest on Bishop and his head stopped moving.
Bishop had the bottle to his lips and took a sip, trying to look as bored as possible. But his instincts were telling him he’d already been made. For all he knew, he was the only non-regular in here, standing out like a T-bone in a vegan restaurant.
Carlos casually crossed to the opposite side and began walking towards the long bar. Purposely not paying attention to anyone. He was about five-nine, wearing tracksuit pants and sweatshirt. His long dark hair was held in place with a headband. B
ishop watched as he continued down past the bar and kept going. When he entered the hallway in the corner, Bishop placed his bottle on the nearest empty table and followed.
He hadn’t given too much thought to what he was going to do next, except that he wanted the man alive. Thanks to an enigmatic message left on an answering machine, what had at first seemed like a random assault and rape had turned into something more. And he needed to know what. But it couldn’t hurt to be prepared for the worst. Carlos had to know he’d be getting company soon. As he entered the hallway leading to the restrooms, Bishop pulled the butterfly knife from his pocket and held it at his side.
The corridor was about twenty feet long with a sharp right turn at the end. There were two doors on the right. Men’s and women’s. Bishop placed a hand on the door to the men’s room. He was about to push it open when he heard the sound of a metal door being slammed further down.
Bishop ran to the end and turned right. The fire exit door was in front of him. He ran out into a small rear yard, and saw a wooden gate on the left hanging open. He ran through and looked right. Nothing. He turned left and saw Carlos about thirty feet away, sprinting along the sidewalk towards Westchester Avenue. Bishop set off after him.
If he lost the creep now, he’d never find him again.
Up ahead, Carlos had almost reached the corner. He glanced behind him, saw Bishop going full out and faced front again. A gap presented itself and he ran into the street. A car sped by, narrowly missing him and honking its horn as it passed. Carlos reached the centre line and stopped, traffic still whizzing by on either side. He took another quick glance behind him. Bishop was only twenty feet from Westchester. Ten feet.
He’d just reached the corner when he saw Carlos suddenly backing into the lane he’d just crossed without checking the traffic behind him. What the hell?
Bishop was about to shout when a loud horn erupted from his left. There was a savage screeching of brakes. Then he watched as a large box truck slammed right into Carlos at forty miles an hour. The man twisted through the air like a rag doll in slow motion and landed on the asphalt in a broken heap. The truck came to a halt inches from his body. Vehicles in the other lane slowed. Within seconds all the traffic on the street had come to a standstill.