Silver Justice

by Russell Blake

“Of course. He agreed it was positive.”

  Richard filled her in on his day, which largely consisted of sitting in meetings with Sam, who was already beginning to display a dictatorial penchant. He had demanded a mountain of new research on the terrorist funding and was pressing Richard to get him the backgrounds on all the brokers at their latest victim’s company.

  “I don’t think he realizes what a big job that is. I understand why he wants it, but it’s not like it’s an hour’s worth of work.”

  “When will you have it for him?”

  “Tomorrow, with any luck. I’m probably going to be working late tonight.”

  “So am I, so don’t feel bad.”

  “Well, I’m hoping we get a break in the next day so I can come see you. The other night was…I think we need to talk, Silver. We need some time alone.”

  Her love life was at the bottom of her priority list at the moment. Still, he deserved some attention, and he was right. Whatever had happened between them deserved an opportunity to develop, if it was going to. She couldn’t hide in the flat forever.

  “Just let me know what your schedule looks like. You know where to find me. Maybe we can have dinner in the next day or two?”

  “I’d like that, Silver.”

  “Me, too. Consider it done, then. We can talk tomorrow. I’m going to be burning the midnight oil on the case the rest of this evening, and it sounds like you will be, too. Sleep well, whenever you get to.”

  She disconnected, and then her attention was drawn to her computer screen. A confirmation message from one of the techs blinked at her — they were starting on the photos. She glanced at her watch — barring a miracle, she wouldn’t have anything back before mid-day tomorrow at the earliest.

  Silver sat back down in front of the screen and brought up the list of decapitations again. There had to be something there. She was sure she was missing something obvious and resigned herself to spending her night poring over the minutiae of the cases in the hopes of spotting something.

  She turned on her speakers and selected her favorite internet radio station, then shifted in the chair, the healing bullet wound a reminder of how quickly time was passing.

  Somewhere out there, the killer was planning to strike again.

  She knew it like she knew her own name.

  And it was now up to her to figure out how, and why, because with Sam chasing ghosts, she had zero faith he’d stop him.

  That left Silver.

  Her stomach rumbled, signaling she had to attend to the mundane task of feeding herself. She did a mental inventory of her options in the flat and decided to go round the corner to grab a rotisserie chicken — she didn’t see the point of spending a half-hour preparing a meal.

  She grabbed her purse and pulled on a light jacket, then considered her Glock. Wherever she went, it would go. That seemed prudent in light of the attempt on her life. She scooped it up and dropped it into her purse, then made her way to the front door.

  She exited her building, taking slim comfort from the NYPD cruiser in front of it, and pressed her way into the mass of humanity thronging the sidewalk on its way home after a long day at work, the crowd moving with an anxious pace particular to big cities. As she approached the corner, the back of her neck prickled, and she felt as though she was being watched. She stopped abruptly and swung around, eyeing the sea of approaching faces, but didn’t spot anyone who was obvious or seemed to pose a threat. It was probably just nerves getting the better of her, she decided, then noticed a figure standing across the street from her building, wearing black trousers and a black jacket — a man who quickly averted his gaze after their eyes locked for a brief moment.

  A woman pushing a stroller next to her lost control of her grocery bag, and it tumbled to the ground, spilling cans and packages everywhere. The businessman next to Silver bumped into her roughly, then apologized as he kneeled to help the young mother. The surge of pedestrians dodged the parcels, a few throwing her dirty looks, several smiling, one other stopping to help. A can bumped Silver’s ankle, so she crouched down, retrieved it, and handed it to the harried woman as she struggled to gather her groceries before they got kicked all over the sidewalk. The baby girl seemed mesmerized by the sudden change of pace and squealed delightedly, unaware of her mother’s consternation.

  Silver stood and turned, straining to catch sight of the man again, but he was gone, melted into the crowd. She considered running across the busy, rush-hour traffic to try to pick up his trail, then thought better of it. There was no law against watching the world go by, even if it triggered her internal alarms.

  She hefted her purse and reached in, feeling the comforting coldness of her Glock. If someone wanted a piece of her, they’d find that it wasn’t that easy to get.

  Silver resumed her walk, now hyper-conscious of her surroundings, but didn’t notice anything further.

  When she returned to the flat with her chicken and rice, she locked all the bolts, set the meal on the counter, and hurried to the window to scan the street below, but saw only the random flow of the city’s population going about its business. She checked the windows to ensure they were locked and then pulled the drapes closed. Silver noticed that her hands were shaking, just a little, a telltale tremor. She sat down hard on the swivel chair that Kennedy used when she played on the computer, and glanced at the multi-colored Post-it notes with her daughter’s precise scrawl on it — the addresses of websites she’d found and wanted to revisit later.

  Silver spent the evening at her dining room table. The first mouthful of chicken bestirred her sadness; she quickly washed it down and took another. A pile of paper she’d printed out for ease of reading sat in front of her, a bottle of mineral water on one side and her Glock on the other — a solitary figure with a lone lamp illuminating the area, struggling to hold it together as she searched for hidden meaning in long-forgotten reports of events nobody cared about.

  Vaslav had called Agent Heron and agreed to a meet in a deli near Times Square at seven p.m.. When the mobster entered the bustling dining room, he instantly spotted Heron and murmured instructions to his two companions, who resembled nothing so much as small, fleshy mountains in suits. They glanced around before taking up positions by the exit while Vaslav moved to Heron’s booth.

  Heron didn’t get up when Vaslav stopped by his table, the last booth at the back, all the surrounding tables devoid of customers. Heron had a milkshake in front of him and was pouring more into the tall, old-fashioned glass from a frost-encrusted stainless steel blending cup. He raised his eyes to Vaslav as he slowed the stream to a trickle.

  “You want some of this?” Heron offered. “It’s amazing. Just like Mama used to make, if Mama worked for Ben and Jerry’s.”

  “No. My body is a temple.” When Vaslav grinned he took on the appearance of a wolf with nicotine-stained teeth.

  “Sure it is. So what do you have for me?”

  Vaslav cleared his throat. “First, my people say that they had no idea what the target’s association with law enforcement was when they agreed to help the customer…”

  “Yes, I suspect that when they’re setting a price to kill someone, they don’t ask questions like ‘is it a cop?’. Let’s just dispense with the stupidities and cut to the chase, shall we? Your people can claim they’re innocent as lambs, and I’ll pretend I believe their bullshit. Which leaves us here, now, with you telling me what you know in the next thirty seconds or I declare war on your ass, starting with cuffing you right now. You sure you don’t want to try the shake? It’s chocolate coconut. Really good.”

  “Nyet.”

  “Come on, Vaslav, live a little. Here.” Heron waved down the waitress and asked for another glass. She reached behind the counter and placed one on their table before making off to the front of the deli. Heron repeated the process with the mixing cup and poured several inches into the glass, then slid it to Vaslav.

  The Russian raised it to his lips and tasted it. “Wow. You weren’t kiddin
g. That is good.”

  “Should be for eight dollars. Now what have you got for me?”

  “My colleagues, who shall remain nameless, were approached by a man they had done business with before. Mainly drugs. This man specified that he had a contract that needed to be fulfilled and that he was both generous and serious. My colleagues should have researched all of the elements of the transaction better, I’ll grant you — I’m not arguing that taking the deal was prudent. Anyway, you know the rest. The assignment, which should have been questioned, in retrospect, went out to a talented freelancer who wasn’t talented enough.”

  “All very touching, but that doesn’t tell me anything I don’t already know. Do I look stupid to you, Vaslav? Are you going to treat me like your bitch when I was nice enough to share my tasty choco-coconut beverage with you?” Heron’s tone had hardened.

  “The group that wanted your associate gone is a motorcycle gang. Seventh Sons. You’ve heard of them?”

  Heron’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the name. “It rings a bell.”

  “What my colleagues proposed is this. They can do a meet with the representative of that organization, you can record it, and then take whatever steps you see fit — as long as you leave my colleagues out of it from then on.”

  Heron took another appreciative pull on his shake, pausing to savor the flavor before setting the glass down. “What’s the name of the contact person with Seventh Sons?”

  “Teddy. Teddy Bear.”

  Heron’s expression didn’t change. “Is this some kind of Russian humor, Vaslav? Because you’re losing your audience.”

  “I don’t mean to offend. That’s the name he uses. He’s a huge man and looks like he’s been through several wars. I don’t pick their names. I’m just reporting.”

  Heron sighed. He tapped a brief text message into his phone and sipped his shake while he waited for a response. Two minutes later his phone vibrated, and he peered at the message.

  “Fair enough. There’s a known leader in their organization who goes by that moniker. I’ll need to run this up the flagpole to get approval but I think it’s a reasonable solution. I have your number. I’ll give you a call as soon as I have a ‘go’, and then we’ll work on the logistics of a meet — maybe you’ll need to get more money out of them to finish the job. Whatever. We can fine-tune that later.”

  Heron finished the milkshake with a loud slurp and rose to his feet. “The shake is on you, Vaslav. Have one while you’re here. No reason not to. I’ll be in touch within twenty-four hours.”

  “I think I will,” Vaslav said, draining the last of his glass. “I’ll be waiting for your call.”

  Kennedy heard the man approaching before the door made any noise. Her ears were getting used to being alone in the quiet room, and she was now sensitized to any sound that was out of the ordinary. When the door opened, she was standing, ready, clutching the pizza box in front of her like a peace offering. It had been longer between bathroom breaks this time, but she was holding her own and wasn’t uncomfortable. She guessed it was late.

  “Last time for the night. You eat everything?”

  She nodded. “Even most of the pepperoni.”

  “Good. Use the can, and then we’re done until tomorrow. Don’t drink any more water tonight, or you’ll be in trouble.”

  “Okay.”

  They made their procession to the toilet, and the man took the box from her. She looked at him before going into the little room.

  “Too bad there’s no shower in there.”

  “This isn’t a spa,” he replied with a shrug. “Not taking a shower for a few days won’t kill you.”

  “It would be way more convenient if you could just lock the entire downstairs, and then I could use the bathroom whenever I needed to,” Kennedy said matter-of-factly.

  “Yes, and when you tried to create some kind of distraction with the boiler or pipes or electricity and wound up killing yourself, my worries would be over because you’d never have to use the bathroom ever again. Then I’d just let the dogs eat you, and I could move on with my life.”

  “I don’t hear any dogs,” Kennedy countered.

  “They’re trained to stay silent. All good killer dogs are.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ll be right out.” She disappeared into the bathroom, listening for any movement by the little window. She didn’t hear anything. Kennedy was beginning to suspect that the dog story was concocted to keep her from trying to escape.

  When she exited, the man was holding a black cloth item in his hand.

  “If I leave the light on, you can use this to sleep.” He handed her the object.

  “What is it?”

  “A sleep mask. They give them away on planes and sell them at drugstores so people can sleep when there’s lights on. You put it over your eyes, and the elastic holds it on your head.”

  She inspected the mask.

  “Don’t worry. It’s new.”

  “I wasn’t worried.”

  “Fine. How are the books?”

  “Good. But I’ll be done with them by tomorrow.”

  “What? You read that fast?”

  “I told you I read at an advanced level,” Kennedy said with precise pronunciation. She sounded much older for an instant.

  “Well, read slower at an advanced level. I’m not going to have time to get you books every day.”

  “You could always just let me go. I would take care of my own books, then.”

  He appeared to consider it. “Now there’s an idea…Oh, wait, I thought about it, and the answer is…no. So we’re back to you need to read slower.” The man’s expression didn’t change.

  “I was just tossing it out there.”

  “Very kind of you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got things to do. Time to retire to your lavish digs. I’ll be back in about twelve hours.”

  “How will I know twelve hours have gone by? I don’t have a watch.”

  “You’ll know because I open the door again.”

  “You could always leave a cell phone. Those have the time on them.”

  “I wonder why I didn’t think of that. I’ll certainly consider it.”

  She smiled for the first time. “Just a thought,” she said.

  “Thanks for that. But it’s going to be a long night, so I have to lock up now. See you tomorrow.”

  “Are you really going to let me go?”

  “At some point.”

  “When?”

  “When I’m ready.”

  “Are you lying?”

  “If I was, then my saying I wasn’t would also be a lie.”

  They stared at each other.

  “Are you planning to hurt my mom?”

  “What is it with all the questions? Jesus. No, I’m not planning to hurt her, or you. Now go sit down on your bed, go to sleep or read your books — slowly — and don’t drink any more. Can you do that?”

  She shuffled back into the room, giving him a petulant glare.

  He swung the door closed.

  Just as it was almost shut, she said, “Goodnight. And thank you for the mask.”

  The door stayed open a crack.

  “You’re welcome.”

  The bolt eased back into place, then she heard his boots making their way back to wherever they’d come from.

  Chapter 22

  Red and blue lights flickered off the glass storefront, the cheap neon sign overhead adding a carnival quality with its blinking, stylized, 1930s-era, tuxedo-clad cartoon figure waving a liquor bottle. NYPD had called in the FBI when The Regulator’s card was spotted clutched in the corpse’s bloody hand. A substantial contingent of agents had since gathered, waiting for the crime scene to be processed.

  Sam looked like he’d been roused from a deep sleep, which was in fact the case when his jangling cell phone had jarred him awake an hour ago. He’d listened to the voice on the other end for a few moments, asked two or three groggy questions, then leapt into reluctant action, calling the l
ead members of the task force as he pulled on clothes and headed for the scene.

  “What do we know about him?” Seth asked.

  Sam pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment. “Not a lot. ID says his name is Stewart Corbess, address over on the West Side in one of those twenty-million and up buildings over by Columbus Circle.”

  “He’s a little far from home, isn’t he?” Seth commented as he looked around the dilapidated parking lot, deep within the confines of Hell’s Kitchen. Even with the gentrification of Manhattan there were some areas that were unsafe after dark, and this area near Javits Convention Center was high on the list.

  “Hey, you never know how a guy’s going to try to find his stimulation, right?” Sam countered.

  Seth didn’t smile. “NYPD got a call, shots fired. Looks like he took three to the chest. Dead before he hit the ground.”

  “Do I want to know what the card says?” Sam asked.

  “Rough Neighborhood.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes. Only that. Although he could have saved himself the trouble. I think most everybody agrees this isn’t a five-star block.”

  Sam nodded. “The predators do enjoy their nighttime haunts, don’t they?”

  “Hey, we have some data coming in on him…holy shit. This guy is a bigwig. Shows up as owning half of New York. Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but still — he’s in the same ballpark as Trump. Oh — hey, guess what he did for a living?” Seth was reading off his iPhone as the feed uploaded.

  “Bus driver?”

  “Close. He’s the top dog at one of the biggest hedge funds on Wall Street. As in mucho billions.”

  “How can I have never heard of these guys, and yet they’re worth as much as the average midsized city?” Sam complained.

  “I guess you need to travel in different circles,” Seth advised, immediately regretting his words when Sam threw him a dirty look. “He’s got another address up in the Hamptons and one in Connecticut. This isn’t the kind of guy you’d expect to be looking for some street action in Chelsea, that’s for sure.”

  Sam approached the blanket-draped corpse, stopping just beyond the crime scene tape.