The Dark Path

by Kevin McManus

  Davis thought about it. “A day,” he said. “Two at the most. I’m getting calls from those high-brow sons of bitches daily.”

  Morrigan couldn’t help but sigh. But he’d have to work with the hand he was dealt.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’m gonna talk to some people about those 9mm rounds. Have your tech inside text me a few high-res pics so I can show these people.”

  “You got it. I’ll keep you in the loop on the forensics. I’ll tell them to work fast.”

  “Appreciate it. Listen, the moment you smell the brass coming, let me know. I’ll move as quickly as I can,” Morrigan replied and fist-bumped Davis.

  The two men shook hands and Morrigan called over Hackett.

  “What’s up, boss?”

  “How would you feel about rousing Jake Dalton out of bed?”

  Hackett cracked a smile. The last time they had a run-in with Jake Dalton, the weapons-selling cretin told him to go fuck himself.

  “Oh, I’d like that,” Hackett said enthusiastically. “I’d like that a lot.”

  One hour later

  Dalton was a thirty-one-year-old slacker south-sider who never held an honest job in his life. Starting when he was nine, Dalton had gone from selling dirt weed on the corner near his house to pushing H when he was twelve, and finally graduating to more severe felonies by selling guns and ammunition that he acquired from various third-party sources. He was a gangly and awkward looking specimen, about six-one and weighing a buck-thirty soaking wet.

  His gangly frame shot out of bed when he heard the sound of someone pounding furiously on his front door.

  “What the fuck? It’s three in the goddamn morning,” he yelled, fully expecting his E-addicted friend Denny to be at the front door.

  It had happened on more than one occasion.

  He came out of the bedroom near the foyer of the shoddy, two-story house held together by just the paint. “Goddamn it, Denny!” he called out. “I swear to God if you’re trying to get down—”

  Dalton twisted the lock and opened the door, his weary eyes adjusting as he saw two familiar faces with lethal expressions.

  “Oh, shit!”

  Dalton moved to slam the door but Morrigan’s booted foot turned into a doorstop.

  “What’s the news, Jake?” Morrigan said as he pushed open the door and shoved Dalton aside.

  “Yo!” Dalton protested, arms out to the side. “I didn’t invite you in, Morrigan.”

  Morrigan started searching the apartment as Hackett entered and closed the door behind them. “Call my precinct then,” he said, and started searching through cabinets in the kitchen. “File a complaint.”

  “You good, Jake?” Hackett said, making it a point to get somewhat in the guy’s face. “You keeping your nose clean?”

  “Go fuck yourself, Hackett,” Dalton said, jutting his chin. “I did my time. I check-in with the probation officer.” He pressed his thumb to his chest. “I’m a model fucking citizen.”

  “You’re a no-good, punk-ass son of a bitch who couldn’t keep his nose clean even if he was sponsored by a tissue company,” Morrigan said, and slammed a cabinet shut. “And based on the twitch in your eye—I’m probably two cabinets off finding something you shouldn’t have. Aren’t I?”

  Dalton said nothing. But the look in his eye confirmed everything.

  “What do you want, Morrigan?” Dalton asked, his tone depleted.

  Morrigan took out his cell and displayed the images of the 9mm rounds from the crime scene. “You see these before?”

  Dalton squinted, peering at the phone. “Yeah. They’re called 9mm rounds.”

  Hackett shoved Dalton. “Fuckin’ smart-ass. Answer the question.”

  Dalton composed himself and took another look at the photo. “Looks custom,” he said.

  “No shit,” Morrigan said. “But I want to know who made them.”

  Dalton’s eyes went wide. “It sure as shit wasn’t me.”

  “How do I know that?”

  “Because I’ve never done custom rounds like that.” He pointed to the image. “See the primer?”

  Morrigan looked at the silver dot at the base of the bullet pressed in by a firing pin.

  “I can’t tell exactly what the material is,” Dalton said, “but that isn’t the regular material. You can see from the indentation of the pin. It’s smooth. Really smooth.”

  Morrigan took note of this and logged it away in his brain. He held up the phone. “You know of anyone who might dabble in this stuff?”

  “I’m not a snitch, Morrigan,” Dalton said. “We may differ on the morals thing, but I don’t sell any of my own people out.”

  “You implying that you know?”

  Dalton kept his mouth shut—stubborn as hell.

  “Okay,” Morrigan said with a shrug. “Hackett, toss the house.”

  Dalton lit up. “Hey! Morrigan! What the fuck!”

  “No, no!” Morrigan said, a finger in Dalton’s face. “Sit down. Sit down right now!”

  Dalton huffed and backed up, tossed up his hands, and plumped down on the faded orange couch in the living room. Morrigan towered over him, leaving Dalton feeling more like he was in a police station now than he was his own home.

  “We both know,” Morrigan said, “that your ass could get thrown back into the can in a heartbeat the second Hackett starts going through this house.”

  “Come on, man!”

  “Give me a name. Give me something.”

  “You can’t just do this, Morrigan! What about warrants? What about—”

  “You sure as hell ain’t an expert on the law, Jake. And we both know that a guy like you thrives off shoveling bullshit. You’re bent. You’re corrupt. We both know it.” He leaned in further. “But don’t try to hide behind technicalities to make sure your criminal ass stays safe.”

  Dalton’s eyes shifted from Morrigan to Hackett, both of them turned at an angle, hands flexing and ready to tear apart the home littered with stuff that Dalton wasn’t permitted to have.

  He sighed. “Hank,” he said, head in his hands, “Hank Toombs. He lives about six blocks from here. If anyone knows, it’s him.”

  Hackett pulled his cell and made a call on the name so he could find an address.

  After a moment, Dalton looked up at Morrigan. “Are we done, man?”

  “Hey, Dalton,” Morrigan replied.

  Dalton waited for the rest.

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  He slammed the door as he left.

  6

  Loose Ends

  Midtown Precinct North

  10am

  Morrigan and Hackett sat across from each other at a desk as they pondered their next move.

  “So, we go to talk to Toombs later, hopefully he can give us something to get our teeth into,” Morrigan said as he rubbed his eyes and yawned.

  “You look beat. Are you not getting any sleep?” Hackett asked.

  “Don’t you start, I get enough of that crap from Bukowski.”

  Morrigan’s cell phone vibrated on the desk.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s me, Helen. We need to meet now.”

  “Kind of bad time, Helen.”

  “No, John, now. I’m at Hutley’s bar getting breakfast.”

  “It’s a tad late for breakfast, Helen. You were always an early bird.”

  “Just come over. I’ll be here for an hour.”

  And then the line went dead.

  “What’s up?” Hackett called out.

  “Gotta run a quick errand,” Morrigan said. “Text me Mr. Toombs’s address. I’ll meet you there in forty-five.”

  “Everything good?”

  “Yeah,” Morrigan said as he moved out the door. “Just gotta get divorced really quick.”

  Outside Hutley’s, Morrigan left his Subaru idling in the red with the hazards on and the doors locked. The car reeked like the cops even in cold January weather. No one was going to screw with it.

  The joint was pretty
packed by the time Morrigan rolled in. It was a regular haunt for guys and gals doing all-nighters. A place to come down from the night before or a place to knock a few back before work. Hutley’s bar was the epitome of dive bars—dark and tacky with most of the illumination coming from the red-and-blue beer signs screwed up along the walls. But it was always a favorite watering hole for John and Helen Morrigan because it was the place where they met for the first time.

  Morrigan spotted Helen in the crowd, stuffed in one of the booths on the right toward the end of the bar near the entrance to the restrooms. It was the quietest spot in the house. The rest of the place was too clogged, cramped, and noisy as Sabotage by The Beastie Boys rumbled out of the speakers.

  Helen was still a beautiful woman. Morrigan couldn’t deny that as he saw the light overhead casting a glow over the auburn hair cascading down her slender but toned shoulders, complementing her neckline, he was reminded why he had been attracted to her in the first place. But time took away most of that charm, and time had also healed most of the wounds that he endured while in her company.

  A few patrons took note of the badge that hung around Morrigan’s neck and cleared the room or turned their heads. Morrigan sauntered up to Helen, opening his mouth to greet her in a cordial manner—but he cut himself off when he spotted the good-looking and spray-tanned gentleman in the Gucci suit seated across from Helen in the booth.

  “Helen,” Morrigan said with a wry smile.

  Helen took a breath before gesturing. “John,” she said. “This is Adam.”

  The bronzed guy with the broad shoulders shot out his perfectly manicured hand in Morrigan’s direction. “Hey there, John boy! Adam White. Pleased to meet you.”

  Morrigan stared at the hand like remnants of a sneeze were coating the palm and ignored his gesture, instead turning his attention back to his soon-to-be ex-wife.

  And Adam boy didn’t appear to like it in the slightest.

  Morrigan slipped his hands into his pockets. “Hell of a time to be calling, Helen.”

  She shrugged, her focus on the cup of coffee in front of her. “Well, I keep setting appointments with you to get this finished, but you can’t seem to stay focused.”

  “It’s called a job, Helen.”

  “And I was the one who had to ride shotgun with you for three years of it. Luckily, separation grants one the ability to legally not give a shit about that kind of stuff anymore.”

  “You always say the right things, Helen, to make a guy feel good about himself.”

  “Don’t,” she replied, grimacing.

  Adam sighed loud enough for both of them to hear and leaned in. “Okay, guys,” he said, a seedy salesman’s swagger in his tone. “Let’s keep this civil.”

  Morrigan shut his eyes and forked a thumb in Adam’s direction, his body still facing Helen. “Where the hell did you find this guy?” he asked.

  “He’s a friend,” Helen said, dismissive.

  “A friend?” Adam said with a squint. “What do you call what we just did back at your—”

  Helen kicked Adam in the shins under the table. “Adam.”

  Adam held up his hands in submission as a satisfied smirk stretched across his face. “Hey, my bad…”

  Morrigan felt the early symptoms of an alpha-male chest-bumping match with Helen’s boy toy. He knew it was within his power to call the whole thing off, to be the bigger man and not make a show. But Morrigan, at the end of the day, was a hotheaded cop with a track record of convictions to justify it.

  Morrigan smiled and looked at Adam. “Where you from, ace?”

  Adam forced a shit-eating grin. “South Hampton.”

  Morrigan rolled his eyes. “Saw that coming…”

  Adam shot the cuffs of his white Calvin Klein shirt. “Look, John, we all know why we’re here. You’re a cop. You’re a smart guy. Don’t turn this into something that’ll force me to intervene.”

  Helen shut her eyes—Bad idea.

  “Adam—” she began.

  Adam held up his hand. “I’ve got this, Helen.”

  Morrigan, though Helen was his ex-wife, couldn’t stand the thought of this trust-fund-wielding goon treating her like a fifties housewife. “You speak for her now?” he said.

  “I’m backing her up,” Adam said. “I’ve heard all about you, John. I know what kind of guy you are.”

  “Then you know that I got a short fuse for assholes like you who look like they just sauntered out of an episode of Entourage.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “No,” Morrigan said, resting a hand casually on the butt of his holstered pistol. “Don’t fuck with me…”

  In the blink of an eye, Helen reached into her purse, produced a folder, and slapped it down in front of Morrigan. “Enough of this,” she said, jaw clenched as she fished for a pen in her purse. “Just sign the damn papers, John… and Adam…?”

  Adam flexed his brow. “What’s up?”

  “Stop talking,” she said.

  Adam settled back into the booth.

  Helen leveled her gaze in Morrigan’s direction. “This has been a long time coming, John. We’ve both had enough headaches to last a lifetime. Please don’t make it worse.”

  With that she slid the pen across the table and waited for him to sign. Morrigan picked up the pen and studied it like a piece of evidence. “Well,” he said, “when you’re right, you’re right…”

  Morrigan opened the file, signed on three highlighted areas, closed the file, and slid it back across the table. He then turned on his heel, drew a breath, and said, “Nice knowing you, Helen. Take it easy.”

  He walked away from the table, swallowing his pride and giving himself credit for not inflaming an already tender situation.

  And then Adam White decided to open his giant fucking mouth… again.

  “You know,” Adam said, “maybe if you had satisfied your wife more, you wouldn’t be in this situation.”

  Morrigan stopped dead in his tracks. He wasn’t sure what was more insulting—the asshole Helen had subbed him out with, or the fact that said asshole was crass and cheap with his insults. Turning back, Morrigan kept a neutral expression and walked back up to the table. A thick and acrid silence choked with tension filling the air around the booth. Helen had taken on a pale shade of ivory.

  “Where’s the bathroom?” Morrigan asked Adam.

  Adam squinted, perplexed as to why Morrigan was asking for directions to the can—which was five feet away to his left.

  “Seriously?” Adam asked.

  Morrigan nodded, looking around the joint and pretending that he couldn’t spot the signs for the restroom a few feet from him. “I’ve got a shitty sense of direction,” he said. “Could you point it out?”

  Helen was practically trembling, unable to protest because she knew her ex-husband well enough to know when he was getting ready to pop someone across the chops—and that there was no stopping him when he got to that point.

  Adam laughed, gesturing to the bathroom as Morrigan positioned himself in front of him. “You want me to point out the bathroom?” Adam said in an incredulous fashion.

  “Yeah,” Morrigan replied, only a couple of feet away from Adam. “It would be a big help.”

  Adam took a breath, shrugged, raised his finger to point straight ahead—and then Morrigan stepped in his path. Adam’s index finger grazed the metal of Morrigan’s gun so it appeared he was taking a swipe at it. Morrigan grabbed Adam’s finger, twisted it, pulled him up, and pinned Adam’s arm behind his back.

  Adam’s mouth opened, his face red as he felt the searing pain in his shoulder. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” he hissed.

  “You just made a move for my gun,” Morrigan said. “I could have you arrested.”

  “John,” Helen said, her voice trembling.

  “Please,” Adam protested. The swagger had vacated his voice, to be replaced with a pleading and pathetic tone. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

  “You’re sorry, huh?” Morrigan said, squeezin
g harder.

  “Yes! Yes! I’m sorry!”

  “Say it again.”

  “I’m sorry!”

  Morrigan shoved Adam back into the booth, wrinkling the man’s Gucci suit, and causing a loathing look to form in the corners of Helen’s eyes. It was at that moment that she remembered full well why she had wanted to divorce Morrigan in the first place.

  Morrigan, taking a scan of the several patrons looking on in horror at the action, held up his badge for all of them to see. “NYPD Assholes Task Force, people,” he said. “Nothing to see here.”

  Everyone looked away, fearful of the dark and brooding cop with the disconcerting attitude.

  Morrigan waved his hand in Helen’s direction, walked away, and said, “Have a nice life, kids.” He left the bar feeling worse than he had before he walked in.

  7

  Toombs

  Lexington Avenue

  11:20am

  The neon from the OPEN sign cast a luminous glow of red and blue across the oil-slicked street on that dark January morning. The chill of the New York air bit hard against Morrigan’s face as he pointed a crooked finger out his open car window in the direction of a gaunt and pale man with a bad comb-over hacking a butt on the curb outside a liquor store.

  “Is that him?”

  Hackett nodded, the rap sheet for one Mr. Hank Toombs open on the computer screen mounted into the dash of the Subaru. “Yep,” he said. “That’s him.”

  Morrigan rolled the window down further and lit a cigarette. “Poor bastard looks more protein-deprived than a starving kid on one of those commercials.”

  “Eesh,” Hackett said as he waved his hand.

  “A poor joke?”

  “No,” Hackett pointed to the cigarette. “Too much smoke.”

  Morrigan rolled the window all the way down and draped his hand clutching the cigarette outside the car. “What’s his rap sheet look like?” he asked.