by Tom Barber
*
In the 4th floor apartment on Rivington Street, the three figures in white overalls and black gas masks stood in a line in the bathroom, observing Alex Santiago’s body as he lay in his own bath-tub. The dead man was fully submerged in hissing clear liquid, the extractor fan helping to clear the eye-watering chemical stink from the air as the concoction in the tub went to work on the corpse.
A few years back, the three killers had chosen pest control as their way of moving around a city easily without the risk of being challenged. People ignored fumigators; it was an unpleasant job but an essential one in the city, which meant no-one wanted to interrupt their work, happy to see the exterminators getting rid of whatever pest was infecting their space. They were anonymous, helped by the masks they wore as part of their assumed role, which were replaced by baseball caps worn low when they weren’t on a job or were out on the street.
They’d worked together for a number of years and their routine was so slick and well-practiced they could get on with the task in hand without any communication whatsoever before, during or after. The moment their target opened a door, the leader would shove a pistol in their face. He’d push them back as the second man secured the door, locking it behind them. The third member, the woman, would clear the victim’s residence with her pistol, making sure no-one else was there. If they were, they were unlucky.
The target was chloroformed, ensuring no marks were left on their attackers from a blow which could potentially incriminate them. After the targets were restrained with zip-ties, the baths were prepared, the two men bringing up the reinforced pesticide cans from the van outside as the woman kept a pistol on the target or targets just in case they came round.
When the baths were ready, the victims were strangled quickly and quietly.
And once they were dead they were placed in the liquid.
A normal sized bath-tub needed about ten cans to dissolve a corpse and their specific concoction worked fast. In under an hour, all they had to do was turn on the taps and the body was gone, leaving no trace. They always used the victim’s own bath to dispose of them when there was one available, which took away the risk of moving the body and potentially providing any evidence for police or forensics. If they had to remove a body, they carried it to their van wrapped in plastic and a box along with their other equipment and disposed of it at a warehouse they used as a base. It was effective as hell.
No-one here knew their names or who they really were.
As the extractor fan whirred and the liquid in the bathtub hissed, the leader of the trio turned and stepped out of the bathroom, glancing to his left to make sure the curtains were drawn, which they were. He then removed his mask to take a deep breath of air and pulled out his cell phone with a gloved hand, checking his messages.
He was pissed off; his two partners had just returned after leaving earlier to secure the last escort, April Evans, but apparently the bitch had slipped through their fingers and got away. Reading a fresh message that had come in ten minutes ago, the large man’s eyes narrowed. Deleting the text and pocketing the phone, he turned and looked over at the other two who were standing outside the bathroom, watching him, the hissing from the tub filling the silence.
They’d also pulled off their masks. The figure on the left was a man, about five-ten and lean with a shaved head and a beaked nose. The woman standing next to him was around five foot six, dark-haired with a hard but not unattractive face. She wasn’t wearing any make-up and looked pretty ordinary apart from a blackened vein on her neck from a drug overdose a few years ago. He had close ties with both but right now was furious with each of them.
‘We good?’ she asked.
‘No. We’re not. Because you two got sloppy, we’ve got less than five hours to find one woman in the entire goddamned city.’
Neither replied. The larger man looked at them angrily.
‘Pack your gear. We need to get moving and find this bitch. She’s a risk to this entire operation.’
‘What about him?’ the slender man asked, jabbing a thumb back into the bathroom behind him.
‘Let him soak. We’ll come back and flush him away later.’
As the pair pulled their masks back on and moved back into the bathroom to gather the empty cans, the leader also replaced his mask then shifted his thoughts to their last target, April Evans. Despite the fact they’d never met he knew a lot about the woman, where she lived, her patch, her habits, her clients. He knew she’d be scared shitless and low on cash.
He knew she’d be alone and that she’d be making mistakes.
They had five hours to find one woman in New York City.
But considering who they were and the connections they had, that was more than enough time.
THIRTEEN
Driving fast towards the city from Cypress Hills, Hendricks called a Bureau number on the hands-free system as the car carrying him and Archer moved onto the Brooklyn Bridge.
‘Sergeant Hendricks?’ Ethan’s voice responded, slightly tinny over the Ford’s intercom.
‘Ethan, I need you to run a check for me.’
‘What do you need, sir?’
‘Priors, charges and addresses on two male suspects’ surnames. Goya and Santiago. I don’t know their first names but both are involved in the city sex-trade; that should narrow it down.’
‘Yes, sir. One moment.’
As he and Hendricks waited for Ethan to come back, Archer watched the Financial District lights rolling into view and saw the newly finished World Trade Center building standing tall and proud, a vibrant blue in the evening sky, a defiant big brother returning after a spell away.
‘Sir, Rach told me she just spoke with Sergeant Shepherd; apparently he asked for a check on two names, Carlos and Alex, and she pulled a result. The men you want are Carlos Goya and Alex Santiago.’
‘Who are they?’ Archer asked.
‘Both born in Pittsburgh, early thirties, convictions for some minor infractions. Santiago was just released yesterday after serving twenty one days for a public order offence. According to city files, they share an apartment on the Lower East Side.’
‘Got an address?’
‘Fourth floor walk-up on Rivington Street. Apartment 4E.’
The moment Ethan passed over the specifics, Hendricks ended the call and put his foot down. As they approached the end of the Bridge he glanced across at Archer, that cold ruthless determination he was renowned for on his face.
‘These two are the pair who really shot you, Leann Casey and Detective Vargas.’
‘So let’s go pay them a visit,’ Archer replied. ‘I’ve got some catching up to do.’
At Karen Casey’s, Shepherd had received the same information from Rach a few moments earlier; after making another brief call, he looked at Palmer and rose from his seat.
‘We’re on. I’ve been given the address for Carlos and Alex. It’s not too far away.’
Beside them Karen Casey remained on her sofa, looking bewildered, events moving rapidly around her. Eager to get going, the pair nevertheless took a moment, not wanting to abandon the woman too abruptly.
‘I’m sorry about Leann,’ Palmer said. ‘We both are.’
She nodded. ‘Appreciated.’
‘And we’re going to find who really did this,’ Shepherd said. ‘That’s a promise.’
Karen looked up at him but stayed silent; then she nodded slowly, trying to smile. With that, Shepherd turned and walked to the door followed by Palmer who closed it quietly behind them.
Suddenly alone again, Karen stared at the door for a few moments longer then glanced around and saw Leann looking at her from photos around the room. It had been four weeks since her death but only now were the police starting to get their act together and track down who might have really killed her. We’re going to find who really did this, the Sergeant had promised.
As she sat there motionlessly on the sofa, she couldn’t help wondering just how the hell he was going to do that.
Eight miles north at Rikers, Marquez and Josh pushed open an exit to the facility entrance and walked out into the car park, having been told that Hendricks had beaten them to it and left with Archer over half an hour ago. The only access Bridge to the island was from Queens so they’d been forced to loop their way around, using up valuable time.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Josh said, moving across the tarmac. ‘Archer’s like the goddamn Sasquatch. Where the hell is he now?’
‘And how did Hendricks know he was here?’ Marquez asked.
As Josh started to reply Marquez’ phone rang, cutting him off. Pulling it out, she saw it was Shepherd.
‘Sir, good news,’ she said. ‘Archer’s been released and he’s safe. Sergeant Hendricks pulled him half an hour ago.’
As she listened to his response her eyes widened, Josh watching and noticing an immediate shift in her body language. Making eye contact while continuing to listen to Shepherd, she started to move towards their car with more haste, Josh following her lead.
‘OK, we’re on our way,’ she said, ending the call and opening her door.
‘What’s up?’ Josh asked, climbing into the driver’s seat beside her.
‘Karen Casey just coughed up two names, the pimps who ran Leann and her friends,’ she told him, pulling on her seatbelt. ‘Shepherd thinks they might be the ones who really killed Leann.’
‘Addresses?’ Josh asked, firing the engine.
‘They share a place on the Lower East Side.’
‘Just as well the Department’s paying for gas,’ Josh said, taking off the handbrake, activating the siren and fender lights then flooring it out of the space, heading back into the city as fast as he could.
Not long after, Hendricks and Archer turned onto Rivington Street, pulling up behind an unmarked white van with its rear doors open. A man in white overalls and a baseball cap was finishing stowing some gear in the back; they studied him for a moment, but he didn’t match the description of either Goya or Santiago, and a beat later he shut the rear doors and walked round to the front of the van.
Killing the engine, Hendricks checked the chamber on his pistol then holstered the weapon, Archer very much aware that he was unarmed.
‘We wear vests,’ Hendricks said, peering up at the apartment building. ‘These two won’t be happy to see us and we know they’ve got no problem shooting cops.’
Opening their doors simultaneously, the two men stepped out and headed for the back of the car; Hendricks opened the trunk and passed Archer an NYPD bulletproof vest, taking one himself and strapping it over his sweater. As Archer secured the garment, catching his breath as it pushed against the cut on his chest, Hendricks looked at him for a moment, then reached inside the car and pulled out a black Mossberg pump-action shotgun which he passed to the blond man. Considering he was suspended, that was technically illegal but Archer suddenly felt a hell of a lot more confident with something to protect himself.
‘That’s for persuasion only,’ Hendricks said. ‘If shit goes down, you let me handle it and use your hands instead. Don’t want you giving Royston any more ammunition.’
Archer shook his head. ‘Me neither.’
As Hendricks slammed the trunk lid shut, Archer loaded shells into his shotgun then racked the pump.
‘Let’s go get reacquainted.’
‘Two cops just arrived!’ the slender man with the shaved head hissed into his cell phone from inside the van, watching through one of the blacked-out windows.
‘What? A squad car?’
‘Unmarked. I think they’re coming up.’
‘We’re still finishing up. Are they inside yet?’
‘They’re at the front door,’ he replied, seeing the two armed men pause outside the entrance. ‘And they’re strapped.’
‘With what?’
‘One has a shotgun, the other a pistol,’ he hissed quietly. ‘You’ve got less than a minute. Get the hell out of there!’
FOURTEEN
Four floors down, Hendricks pushed a random button on the grid, telling the resident he was UPS delivering a package; a moment later the door was buzzed open. Drawing his pistol he eased his way inside the building, Archer following and shutting the door behind them.
The two men strode over to the stairs, moving rapidly up to the fourth floor, their footfalls light on the stairwell, the building around them quiet save for some music playing from an apartment on the second floor and the muffled sound of a couple arguing on the third.
As they moved onto 4, the two men stalked their way down the corridor towards Goya and Santiago’s place, the hallway empty.
Arriving outside the apartment, Hendricks stood with his back against the wall.
He tried the handle silently but the door was locked.
He glanced at Archer, who quickly moved to the other side of the door and buried the stock of the shotgun in his shoulder.
Showtime.
Dipping his shoulder, Hendricks blasted the door open and pulled his pistol back up into the aim a split second later, moving right and followed a step behind by Archer who took the left.
‘NYPD!’ they both shouted, moving into the apartment.
Looking through their sights, the two men split, seeking to use that initial element of surprise to catch anyone inside off-guard.
The sitting room was empty, the curtains across the room flickering in the slight breeze from an open window. As Hendricks moved right to clear the two bedrooms, Archer moved to the left into the sitting room then stopped and sniffed the air.
There was an unpleasant, acrid chemical smell in the room. He frowned; it was starting to make his eyes water.
What the hell is that?
He saw a closed door to his left. Approaching it cautiously and keeping his Mossberg in the aim, Archer paused for a moment, listening for the sound of any activity, picturing Goya, Santiago or both the other side with a weapon aimed at the wood.
Checking over his shoulder, hearing Hendricks moving about in one of the bedrooms, he stood to one side of the door and reached for the handle with his left hand.
Inside the apartment next door, the female member of the trio had her pistol to the head of the terrified owner as the big guy had his weapon drawn and ready, their black respiratory masks back in place to protect their identities.
The big man was listening intently, the door slightly ajar, but since the noise of the door being breached and the shouts of police, there was no sound of movement.
However, Santiago hadn’t finished his bath yet.
In Santiago’s place, Archer twisted the handle then kicked the door back, snapping his shotgun back into his shoulder as it swung open.
A split second later he saw movement, not in front but behind him, reflected in the bathroom mirror straight ahead.
Two figures, one big, one smaller, in white overalls and black gas masks.
Both were carrying silenced pistols.
And they weren’t here to talk.
Spinning round just as Hendricks appeared from the main bedroom, Archer saw the big figure was already lifting his weapon, pointing it straight at him, the smaller figure aiming at Hendricks.
‘Get down!’ he shouted.
But it was too late. The smaller figure pulled the trigger, firing a quick double-tap, Hendricks taking both rounds in the centre of his chest which knocked him back. Across the room, Archer was already on his way down and aiming his Mossberg but then realised that unless he had a clear shot the powerful shotgun could blast through the wall and potentially kill anyone in the apartment across the hall.
Using every ounce of self-restraint he had, he held off pulling the trigger and scrambled behind a couch as silenced pistol rounds ripped through the fabric, spraying feathers and pieces of wood into the air, the bullets smashing a lamp and a window behind him as he drew the fire of both weapons.
Edging forward, he reached the end of the couch and saw Hendricks lying on the wooden floorboards, shot twice in the chest.
Lying on his back, Hendricks suddenly brought up his Smith and Wesson and pulled the trigger, hitting the smaller figure in the arm. The larger figure fired again, hitting Hendricks right at the top of his vest but giving Archer time to aim his shotgun at the smaller figure standing just inside the apartment. He had a shot.
He pulled the trigger. It was a direct hit, straight to the torso, and punched the anonymous figure off their feet, the sudden red on their white overalls demonstrating that unlike Archer and Hendricks, they weren’t wearing a vest. The other gunman saw his partner go down and after hesitating for a split-second, abandoned the fight, turned and took off down the corridor.
As Hendricks staggered to his feet, still winded from the gunshots, Archer took the lead, stepping quickly over the dead figure in white to get to the door then snapping out low.
He caught a glimpse of the other shooter reaching the stairs at the end of the hallway before disappearing out of sight.
The Mossberg in his hands, Archer took off after him.
As he raced down the corridor and arrived at the stairs, he suddenly snapped back as a barrage of bullets hit the plaster and wood immediately above his head, the gunman emptying the clip at him from two floors down.
Moments later the fire ceased, replaced by the sound of running footsteps. Descending the stairs two at a time, careful to stay against the wall and out of the line of fire, Archer reached the ground floor, made sure the gunman wasn’t waiting for him at the bottom and then sprinted down the lower hallway towards the front door.
He burst out through the door just as the white van parked ahead of the police Ford roared off down the road. He raced after it but the vehicle had a head start and turned the corner, quickly speeding out of sight.
Archer continued to the end of the street, rounding the corner but it was already gone, the faint sound of a speeding engine disappearing into the night.
Mossberg in hand, he stood there for a few moments regaining his breath. Frustrated, he then turned and moved back the way he’d come, pulling his cell to call the Bureau and get them working the plates immediately.