Trust No One (A Lucas Holt Novel Book 2)

by JP Ratto

  THE END

  AUTHORS’ NOTE:

  Thank you for reading TRUST NO ONE. We hope you enjoyed it. Following is an excerpt from book three in the series. We invite you to join Lucas Holt as he resolves the mystery of Marnie’s disappearance.

  You can visit our website www.jpratto.com for updates on future releases of the Lucas Holt Series.

  ~JP Ratto

  ***SNEAK PEEK***

  A LUCAS HOLT NOVEL

  BOOK THREE

  CHAPTER 1

  NYPD Detective Ray Scully had left Captain Roy Burke’s office just as his superior took a call from Commissioner Sheppard.

  I know in my gut they’re hiding something.

  At his desk, he watched Sean McCarthy’s hunched back expand and contract with each deep breath. His partner had been busy updating reports since they returned from McAllister’s Pub earlier that evening.

  Scully’s head jerked at the sound of a door closing. Without a good night to anyone, Captain Burke locked his office, strode to the open elevator, and left. Scully checked the time. Looking for his sergeant and not seeing her, he seized an opportunity. He cleared his desk and rose to stand next to his partner.

  “Sean, can you cover for me? I should be back before the shift ends.”

  “Okay.”

  “Thanks,” he said and grabbed his jacket.

  “Ray?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Anything to do with your meeting with Burke?”

  “You should be a detective,” Scully joked, but McCarthy wasn’t smiling.

  Sean shook his head. “You know you’re playing with fire, right?”

  ***

  Ray Scully pushed through the doors to the street and stood on the top step, staring at the hammering rain. Raising the collar of his jacket, he skipped down the steps. Pressing himself against the precinct building, he paused to see if the rain would let up before heading toward the parking garage. Scully took advantage of a slight lull in the rainfall and stepped away from the building.

  At the sudden familiar sound of a suppressed rifle shot, he dropped to the ground, taking cover behind a large SUV. The shot whizzed past Scully, splintering the doorframe of Sy’s, the 12th’s favorite deli. The few pedestrians near the police station scattered in different directions, one dashing into the precinct.

  Drawing his Glock, Scully scanned the immediate area, from the well-lit precinct entrance to the row of darkened walk-ups across the street. He rose from his crouched position and peered over the hood of the car. Hearing a noise behind him, he twisted and raised his gun. A young man approaching with music blasting through his earbuds halted at the sight of Scully’s weapon. Wide-eyed and jaw slacked, he threw his arms in the air. Scully stood and waved him back. The young man turned and ran. Another shot sped past Scully, missing him by inches and shattering the deli’s window.

  Men in blue poured from the police station, blanketing the street. Scully moved farther from the precinct and more minutes passed with no other shots fired. Scully’s mind raced. He knew two things. The shots were aimed at him, and the shooter had been on the roof of one of the row houses, but was most likely gone.

  Scully ran away from the precinct toward the busy avenue. He crossed the street and darted along the avenue to the next street. The rain tapered to a drizzle as he made his way to the buildings that backed up to the row houses across from the precinct. He stopped at an empty lot between an apartment building and another stretch of brownstones. Looking past the building’s edge, he saw a lone car ten yards away, its fog lights on. Before he could act, a well-built man, sporting a military crew cut and dark clothing, emerged from behind the brownstones. The man ran to the car, hoisted a duffle bag inside the vehicle, and jumped into the driver’s seat. The car’s headlights beamed bright, then it lurched into drive.

  Within seconds, Scully debated the wisdom of opening fire. Instead, he pressed himself against the building when the car revved forward. He watched it hit the street, noting the sedan’s dark color and make. The car sped away too quickly to see the details of the orange and black New York plate, but Scully caught sight of the “freedom is not free” bumper sticker and noticed one tail light was out.

  The detective’s cellphone vibrated; it was McCarthy. Scully turned off the phone, deciding not to talk to anyone from the precinct before he could come to grips with why he was a target. Walking back to the corner, he saw two Kevlar-clad officers at the end of the street. Scully turned in the opposite direction, walked a few city blocks in the light rain, and hailed a cab.

  ***

  After the call from Ray telling me he wanted to see me right away, I showed Maddie where she could put her overnight bag and freshen up. I didn’t mention to Ray that Maddie had shown up at McAllister’s to surprise me. The timing wasn’t great, but I was glad to see her.

  I turned off Louie Armstrong and peeked out the window for any sign of Ray. I was thinking he’d be lucky to get a parking spot this time of night, when a taxi pulled up in front of my brownstone. Ray Scully jumped out and reached my door the same time I did.

  “Lucas,” he said and rushed past me. He looked disheveled, and he was soaked to the skin.

  “What happened to you?” I asked. “Take off that wet jacket and those shoes.”

  Ray stared at me a moment and then walked back to my front door and peered through the etched glass. “Can you shut off the foyer light?”

  I did without question. “Ray?”

  “Someone tried to kill me.”

  It took a moment for the words to sink in, and before I could respond, Maddie said from the stairs, “Are you hurt?” Maddie had changed out her filmy blouse and camisole for a loose-fitting cotton pullover. Her deep red hair was pulled back in a low ponytail; a few loose tendrils touched her face. She hurried to us.

  Momentarily confused, Ray glanced from Maddie to me. “Ray, this is Madeline Grange. Maddie, Ray Scully.” I looked at Ray. “Now, tell me what the hell is going on?”

  As he slipped out of his jacket and shoes, Ray told us how a sniper shot at him. Seasoned detective that he is, he gave us a detailed account, but I knew he was shaken. I led us all to the kitchen and handed Scully a shot of whiskey to calm his nerves. Maddie made coffee, and we sat at the kitchen’s breakfast bar to decide what to do next.

  Ray’s main concern was his family. He didn’t want to use his own phone, so I gave him a burner to call his wife. Regina was understandably upset after getting a call from Sean McCarthy looking for his partner. I know Regina to be a brave cop’s wife who could rise to any challenge and Ray was able to reassure her. Ray then called Sean McCarthy and filled him in on what had happened. McCarthy promised to call in a few favors and send a couple of off-duty officers to Brooklyn to keep an eye on Scully’s house.

  “McCarthy’s a loyal partner,” I said to Ray.

  “Yeah, the best.” He shot me a glance and smirked. “Well, after you, that is.”

  Ray and I had been partners at NYPD’s 12th Precinct for five years. I left the force a few months after my daughter Marnie was kidnapped. Until McCarthy was assigned to the precinct, Ray was saddled with a series of rookie cops, who hadn’t worked out.

  “You think the attempt on your life has something to do with your investigation of Giaconne’s death,” I said.

  “Yes, which I believe is connected to Marnie’s kidnapping.”

  Maddie, who had opted for decaf coffee, decided to call it a night. “Since there’s a lot I’d need to be brought up to speed on,” she said, “I don’t want to be a drag on your discussion. I’m not going anywhere for a few days, at least, and will be glad to help if I can.” She leaned over and kissed me. “Night. Glad you’re okay, Ray.”

  We both bid her goodnight and dove into the details of Ray’s investigation and who might want him dead.

  CHAPTER 2

  In desperate need of caffeine, New York Police Commissioner Harold Sheppard eyed the slow drip of the coffee maker as if it were an instrument
of torture.

  He had awakened a half hour before at five a.m. and wanted to be in the office as soon as possible. The commissioner needed to get an update from Roy Burke, captain of the12th Precinct about the previous night’s shooting. If he didn’t leave soon, the reporters would be there ahead of him. He sighed. Hell, they’re probably camped outside the plaza already.

  Sheppard took his black coffee to the living room and turned on the television. Based on the minute-by-minute reporting he had received last night, the early news reports on channel five were accurate. He raised the volume to hear the latest rendition.

  “At about nine-thirty last night, a sniper fired several shots outside the Twelfth Precinct in lower Manhattan. Pedestrians were sent running for cover, and one passerby ran into the precinct to report the gunfire. Within minutes, armed officers in protective vests and helmets flooded the street. No one was hurt and it is unclear whether this was a random shooting or if police were the target. Two bullets hit the station’s neighboring building, shattering the window of Sy’s Deli and splintering the doorframe. There is an unconfirmed report that one of the precinct’s detectives was seen crouched behind a car parked in front of the deli when the shooting began. No word on the identity of that detective. The sniper escaped and is still at large.”

  Sheppard had called the station and spoke directly to the desk sergeant, who he could tell by the officer’s stuttering, was discomforted by a call from the commissioner. He chuckled to himself. This guy probably shit his pants. The sergeant told Sheppard that besides Captain Burke, Detective Ray Scully was the only officer to leave the precinct prior to the end of his shift. A call to his wife confirmed that he had not gone home last night. Any calls to Scully’s cell have gone unanswered.

  So, where is he?

  His phone rang, startling him out of his thoughts. “Hello?”

  “Be here at seven,” said a gruff, familiar voice.

  Sheppard grunted into the phone. “I can’t. There was a shooting last night outside the Twelfth. I have to get on top of it. The mayor will have questions.”

  “He can wait. We can’t. Just be here.” The phone went dead.

  One day, he’s going to push me too far.

  Dressing in a pin striped suit and his favorite power tie, Sheppard rehearsed answers to the questions he knew would be asked. He liked wearing a suit; he liked the status the formality gave him. He wished his position required a uniform—one where he could show off his shield and his rank. But as Police Commissioner of New York City is a civilian position, the navy suit would have to suffice.

  More than ten years had passed since Sheppard was captain of the 12th Precinct. Ever since the Academy, it had been his dream to be police commissioner of the greatest city in the world. Now he had loftier goals, but it wouldn’t come without a price.

  ***

  Sheppard stepped out of the taxi onto the grey diamond-shaped tiles at the entrance to New York’s Plaza Hotel. He climbed the red-carpeted stairs, passed through its gilded doors, and strode to the elevators. Stopping at a mirror, he checked his appearance and flicked off a bit of lint from his suit lapel. Pulling his shoulders back and lifting his chin gave him the military bearing he used to intimidate. He rode the elevator to a residential floor.

  The time spent traveling to the hotel had done nothing to alleviate the stress of another meeting with the members of the secret group he’d belonged to for the last eighteen years. He’d been invited into their fold when he was a mere precinct captain. They used him as a tool for protection against criminal indictments that might thwart their goals. As his rank within the NYPD rose, so did his status within the group. Lately, though, they treated him with less respect and didn’t appreciate his methods. Inevitably, each meeting ended with his recommendations and their postponement of any decision to act.

  I have to protect our little cabal and make the problems disappear while they hamstring my methods.

  The door to the posh residence opened before Sheppard had a chance to knock.

  Tall and broad-shouldered, the perfectly attired executive who lived there nodded. “Harold, glad you could make it,” he said in a tone filled with animosity.

  Sheppard resented the summons, but hid his irritation. He entered the apartment and closed the door behind him. “I’ll likely have to give a press conference sometime this morning, so I don’t have much time.”

  Emmett Kerrigan eyed Sheppard with a hard stare, then crossed the room to where another man sat.

  Sheppard acknowledged the other man in the room. “Ben.”

  The seated man’s girth spilled over the delicate arms of the dining room chair. “Hello, Harold. Do you only have one suit?” Ben Mueller asked in an apparent attempt to break the building acrimony. “You wear it like a uniform. Nice tie, though.”

  Sheppard’s mouth curled at the sides for a forced smile. “If I wore anything else, my wife wouldn’t recognize me. So what’s on your collective minds?”

  Mueller raised an eyebrow. “Harold, that implies we agree and collude on everything. I can assure you, we don’t. I think we reach reasonable conclusions separately. It’s just that…sometimes you can be headstrong.”

  Sheppard suspected where this was going since Kerrigan’s call was undoubtedly prompted by the news of the shooting. “Let’s not talk in code, gentlemen. Emmett, I’m pressed for time and hope this won’t take long.”

  Kerrigan and Mueller glanced at each other. “Only as long as it takes for you to assure us you had nothing to do with an attempt on Detective Scully’s life,” said Kerrigan.

  Sheppard tugged on his jacket, smoothed down his tie, and cleared his throat. Even though he seethed with anger at having to defend himself, he calmly answered, “I believe I have the experience to make solid judgments in the matters I’m tasked with. Like what to do about Ray Scully. He was the sharpest detective in my command…once Lucas Holt left. Like Holt, Scully is a bulldog; he keeps going until he gets answers. And he’s getting closer to us. He’s connected the death of Frank Giaconne to the abduction of Marnie Holt.” Sheppard watched their faces and was surprised there wasn’t a reaction.

  Could they have another source in the department?

  “You know as well as I do,” Sheppard continued, “that drastic times call for—”

  “That’s enough!” Kerrigan interrupted. “We’re not murderers, Harold. We don’t want that as part of our legacy. We have a decision to make. So, answer the question: did you put out a hit on Ray Scully?”

  Sheppard’s cop instincts told him his response was crucial and would affect his future. He held Kerrigan’s eyes and made him wait a few long seconds for the answer.

  “No. But I applaud the person who did.”

  Sheppard thought Kerrigan didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t care.

  “Somehow, Harold, I’m still not at ease. If it wasn’t you, then who?”

  Sheppard shrugged. “Police detectives can have many enemies.”

  Kerrigan nodded. “Find out what’s going on. I don’t want Detective Scully’s blood on our hands. Is that understood, Harold?”

  “Perfectly.”

  ***

  Kerrigan closed the door behind Commissioner Sheppard and spent the next few minutes talking about the New York Jets’ chance of making the playoffs. The phone rang. “Excuse me, Ben.” He took the call and listened for a moment. “Thank you,” was all he said.

  “So?” Mueller asked.

  “Sheppard left the building.”

  Mueller chuckled. “Did you think he would be listening outside the door?”

  “You never know.” Kerrigan removed his jacket and settled into a chair across from Mueller. “So what do you think?”

  “He’s consistent, I’ll give him that. His solution is to come down hard on anyone in his way. It’s more than a coincidence that he recommends having Ray Scully eliminated and then someone takes a shot at him.”

  “I agree,” said Kerrigan. “I thought his call to stop Sc
ully was premature. There are more civil ways to keep an officer from investigating, and we put those into play.”

  “Apparently the detective didn’t get the message.”

  “No, and all Sheppard did was alert Scully to the fact that he’s making progress and should keep going.” Kerrigan rose from his chair and collected the few papers that were spread on the table. He opened a briefcase and set them inside. “On the other hand, it could have been a random shooting.”

  Mueller shook his head and gave Kerrigan a look of doubt.

  “Dammit,” Kerrigan said, slamming the briefcase shut. “This is all very bad timing. This Giaconne bastard had to get himself killed now—so close to the presidential election? Everything we’ve worked for is in jeopardy.”

  “The detective’s case is closed,” said Mueller. “If he’s smart, he’ll listen to orders, and that’ll be the end of it.”

  “I hope so. They don’t even know where Scully is.”

  “Probably just laying low and getting his bearings. It’s quite a shock to have someone shooting at you—even when you’re the police. What about Sheppard?”

  “I don’t trust him,” Kerrigan said. “He’s taking too much upon himself. Acting without authority. He’s becoming a liability.”

  “Yes,” agreed Mueller. “But what can we do? There’s a good reason for him to be on the committee. He can get information from hundreds of sources within the police department. And if we need a radical solution, he’s our man.”

  “Remember, Ben, we have a source at the precinct too.”

  “True, but he’s unproven. He couldn’t keep Scully from going to Moravia Correctional Facility. We need Sheppard.”

  Kerrigan frowned. “You know, Sheppard knows everything. Someday, he could be a threat. Perhaps blackmail us. We may have to abandon our principles.”