Double Scotch

by Steven Henry

  “Think CSU will find the gun on board?” Erin asked.

  Jones shrugged. “Not if the shooter was smart. If he knew what he was doing, he ditched it overboard along with the bodies and it’s somewhere in the Atlantic.”

  “If he was really smart, he'd have weighted the corpses down with something, so they didn't float ashore,” Erin said.

  The first wave of Patrol officers arrived to secure the scene. The two detectives were kept busy directing traffic until the CSU van arrived and the techs started working over the ship. Then they left for the precinct. It was after nine o'clock by the time they pulled into the garage, and the night's end was nowhere in sight.

  “He lawyer up yet?” Jones asked as they walked into Major Crimes.

  “Nah,” Vic said. “We've got him in Room One, softening up.” The big Russian snorted. “He's gonna crack.”

  “How you figure?” Erin asked.

  “We took him down to the morgue, showed him the stiffs,” Vic said. “He just about painted the floor with his lunch. He's no hard case.”

  “He's also not our guy,” Webb said. “But maybe he knows who is.”

  “You sure about that, sir?” Jones asked.

  “Sure as I can be,” he said. “The only reason he hasn't already talked is that he's scared of someone else. I'm guessing that's the killer.”

  “Sir,” Erin said.

  “Right,” Webb said. “You've got something on our other case. So, homicide or suicide?”

  “I think it's worse than that.”

  Webb's eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “The guy who did this,” she said. “I think it's part of a series.”

  There were a couple of seconds of complete silence. Even Vic was staring at her in astonishment.

  “I don't think I heard you right,” Webb said.

  Erin was nettled. He'd heard her perfectly damn well. “It's got planning. Careful execution. He set it up ahead of time, fixed the lock so he could get in, then lock it again on the way out. He poisoned her, then posed her all dressed up. This guy gets a thrill out of it. I'm sure of it.”

  “What are you now, an FBI profiler?” Webb demanded.

  She was startled at his tone. “No, I just think it fits the way a serial—” she began, stumbling a little over her thoughts.

  “No,” Webb snapped, cutting her off. He advanced on her, backing her up to the wall of the office. He put his finger right in her face. “Don't say that word again, not in here, and sure as hell not on the street.”

  “Why not?” she shot back. She was feeling defensive, and that always made her angry. He had her pinned against the wall, so she felt trapped, too, even though he hadn't touched her. She reflexively braced for a physical confrontation.

  “Listen to me, O'Reilly,” Webb said in a low voice, biting off his words one by one. “Listen very carefully. We have hundreds of murders every year in this city. One in a hundred, maybe, is part of a series. And what happens when someone hears that word? Press. You want reporters hanging around you every step of the way, talking to your witnesses and suspects, digging into your family, nosing into everything? You think you can do your job that way?”

  “That isn't the point,” she said.

  “That's exactly the point,” Webb said. “Even if you're right, if, it's not going to help you catch the guy if you start sounding off about him being the next Bundy or Gacy. And here's the thing, O'Reilly. You've got good instincts. You're good police. You're shaping up to be a fine detective. But you're still new at this. You don't have the training, or the experience, to make a call like this. Besides, you're still shook up from the Russian thing.”

  That was a low blow. Erin couldn't believe he'd bring up the shooting incident as a point against her. “I'm fine!” she snapped.

  “Are you?” he challenged. “You going to tell me you sleep just fine, no nightmares, no flashbacks?”

  “You've read my psych evaluation?” she blurted out. “Those are confidential!”

  “Of course I haven't,” Webb said, and she saw she'd fallen for a classic interrogator's trick. She'd forgotten how good he was at getting people to admit things. But he didn't look smug. He mostly just looked tired. “Look,” he said. “This job takes a toll on us. Forget about the case for tonight. Go home, get some rest if you can. I'm sorry I had to drag you in here.”

  “I'm fine,” she said again. “I don't need special treatment.”

  Jones put a hand on Erin's shoulder. “Erin,” she said gently. “Maybe you should listen to the Lieutenant. He's—”

  Erin shook the hand off. “Dammit, I'm fine!” She looked across the room at Vic, who was watching the argument in silence. “He went through the same shit I did, and you're not sending him home. If this is because I'm a woman...”

  “That's got nothing to do with it,” Webb said, and Erin got a little satisfaction out of the defensive tone that had crept into his own voice. “Neither one of you is going to be in that interrogation room. Jones and I will conduct. If you insist on being present, you can observe next door. We clear?”

  Erin swallowed all the things she wanted to say and nodded, her jaw clenched tight.

  “Good,” Webb said. He took a deep breath. “And again, excellent work finding that fingernail. That ties the victims to the ship. That's how we build cases. Evidence, not speculation.”

  She gritted her teeth and nodded again.

  Chapter 6

  Webb and Jones sat down opposite Captain MacIntosh in the interrogation room. The Scotsman looked nervously from one of them to the other. Webb folded his hands on the table and stared at the other man without speaking.

  Vic, watching with Erin through the one-way observation mirror, nodded and smiled in a mean-spirited way.

  “What?” Erin demanded. She was still pissed off.

  “Wouldn't work on a tough guy, someone who's been through the system,” he said. “But this boy's a civilian.”

  Erin looked back into the interrogation room. Nothing was happening. Jones was studying her fingernails, leaning casually back in her chair. Webb was still watching MacIntosh, who was getting more and more fidgety.

  “Break 'em with silence,” Vic explained. “The other guy talks first, the Lieutenant's halfway home.”

  “All right,” MacIntosh burst out. “What are ye waiting for?”

  Webb raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. “Me? I'm waiting for my guy with Homeland Security to get here.”

  “What's that to do with me?” MacIntosh asked. “I'm nae terrorist!”

  Webb blinked. Jones sat forward and gave the other man her full attention.

  “I didn't mention terrorism,” Webb said quietly. “But if that's something you're involved in, I'm sure they'll sort it out. That's above my pay grade. Of course, they'll want to be questioning you at their own facility, and in their own time.”

  “What are ye talking about?” the captain asked. He was starting to sweat.

  “They keep talking about shutting down Guantanamo Bay,” Webb said. “But I don't think they've gotten around to it yet.”

  “I'm not even an American!” protested MacIntosh.

  “Makes it easier,” Webb said. “They'll probably classify you as an enemy combatant, until they can figure out exactly who you're working for, and why. Doesn't even have to go through our courts. Then? Who knows?”

  “For the love of God, I've done nothing!” MacIntosh cried out. “What is it ye want from me?”

  “When I took you in, I just wanted to ask about Garrity and Carr,” Webb said. “Find out who killed them, catch a murderer. But that was before we checked the shipping manifest.”

  Erin shot Vic a quizzical look. He shrugged.

  “Beats me,” he muttered. “Kira was looking through 'em. She must've found something.”

  “All my papers are in perfect order!” MacIntosh said.

  Jones laid a piece of paper on the table. An item was circled in red ink. “Except for one discrepancy, Capt
ain,” she said. “Can you explain why your manifest lists twelve cases of Glen Docherty-Kinlochewe whiskey, but only ten cases were in your hold?”

  “It's pronounced Docherty-Kinlochewe,” MacIntosh said.

  Jones blinked. “That's what I said.”

  “Nae, lass, ye said Docherty-Kinlochewe.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  Webb shrugged it away. “Whatever,” he said. “The point is, there's two missing cases of Scotch.”

  “Whiskey goes missing around Scotsmen. Is that a federal offense?” MacIntosh demanded.

  “That depends,” Jones said. “There's some debate regarding whether maritime terrorism constitutes acts of piracy.”

  The only words MacIntosh heard were “terrorism” and “piracy.” He looked wildly around the room. Erin thought he might be about to throw up or even faint.

  “For God's sake,” the poor guy whispered. “I did nae even know what was in the boxes.”

  “Bingo,” Vic said softly.

  “I know it wasn't whiskey,” Webb said, leaning forward. “Two men don't get tortured and murdered over a few bottles of Scotch. What was in those boxes, Captain?”

  “I dinnae know!” MacIntosh said. “You have tae believe me! I dinnae ask any questions, I just carry the cargo! Sean and Danny were looking after it!”

  “Smuggling,” Erin said to Vic. “How'd she know to check the manifest?”

  He shrugged. “Kira checks details. And she remembers them.”

  “Captain,” Webb said in a quiet, encouraging voice. “I know you didn't kill these guys. And I know the man who killed them took two cases marked Glen... Glen whatever. Now, Homeland Security doesn't give a damn whether you're involved or not. As far as they know, these cases were full of bombs, or nerve gas, or guns. They're going to be worried about what's going to happen to that cargo. Now, I don't know if it's weapons in those missing cases, but I won't be the one asking those questions anyway. All I care about is solving these murders. I can't protect you if you don't help me. If you don't know anything about it, then there's no way I can justify keeping you here, under New York Police protection. But if you can help me, then I can tell the Feds you're a cooperative witness, and we can keep you safe here with us while this whole thing gets laid to rest.”

  MacIntosh hesitated. “You'll protect me? From your government? And from him?”

  Webb didn't ask who he was. He just nodded. “You have my word.”

  “Very well,” MacIntosh said. “I dinnae know much, but what I know, I'll tell you.”

  Erin turned to Vic. “Did he just get this guy to ask us to keep him under arrest?”

  “Yeah,” Vic said. “Beautiful, isn't it? Sometimes I want to kiss the Lieutenant. Then I look at him, and the urge goes away, but it's there for a second or two.”

  “Danny and Sean worked for a lad in Glasgow,” MacIntosh was saying. “I dinnae know his full name, but he's called Smiling Jack. He represents a band of hard men who specialize in moving things from place to place.”

  “This Smiling Jack,” Webb said. “What can you tell me about him?”

  “He's nae cheerful nor pleasant,” the captain said. “I'm guessing he got the name on account of his grin.”

  “Glasgow smile,” Vic said.

  Erin wasn't familiar with the term, and told him so.

  “Street thug punishment over there,” he explained. “Use a knife or a straight razor, lay open the cheeks on both sides, extend the mouth.”

  “Right,” Erin said, swallowing.

  “He deals in cash,” MacIntosh went on. “Nae questions asked. You dinnae argue with Smiling Jack. I carry Glen Docherty-Kinlochewe all the time, and usually it's just the whiskey, aye?”

  “How do you know it's only whiskey?” Jones asked.

  “Nae men come along with the shipments,” MacIntosh said. “They only come on special voyages.”

  “How frequently?” Webb asked.

  “Perhaps three, four times a year.”

  “You ever open any of these boxes?”

  “Nae,” the captain said, looking shocked. Then he paused. “But they're heavy, and well-packed. And they've a smell about them.”

  “What kind of smell?” Webb asked.

  “Sometimes a smell of machine oil,” he replied. “Sometimes a sort of putty smell, like modeler's clay.”

  “Like clay,” Webb repeated.

  Erin had taken some basic demolition training when she'd worked with Rolf on explosive detection. She yanked out her phone and tapped out a quick text to Webb, just two letters. The Lieutenant's hand went to his pocket when he felt the buzz. He glanced at the screen, nodded once, and put his phone back.

  “What'd you send?” Vic asked.

  “C4,” Erin said.

  Vic's eyes widened. “Plastic explosive? You sure?”

  “Well,” she said, “they could be smuggling plasticine instead.”

  “Christ,” Vic said. “Gunrunners. I didn't know your nose was trained to ID chemicals.”

  “Not many of them,” she said. “But my K-9 instructor was a little wacky. He thought we ought to know what our dogs were smelling, so he kept making us shove our noses in the same stuff they were training on.”

  “You don't even need the dog,” he said. “We should just put a leash around your neck.”

  “You just try it. But it's useful, knowing smells.” She paused. A thought was chasing her. “Smells,” she said again. “Fragrances.”

  “I don't follow.”

  “The perfume,” Erin said, snapping her fingers. “Do we know the fragrance? From the hotel?”

  “How the hell would I know?” Vic retorted. “It's your case. You didn't tell me shit about it.”

  “The hotel room with my victim was full of perfume,” she explained. “If we can find out what it is, maybe we can trace a sale.”

  “Yeah, great, do that,” he said, turning back to the observation window. “But do it tomorrow. We're missing stuff here.”

  Erin started paying attention again. MacIntosh was talking about what had happened to the boxes.

  “This bloody motor launch came alongside us, just after two in the morning,” he said. “I dinnae know about it until they were aboard. Three lads, great big ones, carrying guns. They were wearing masks. They knew exactly what they were looking for. Poor Danny and Sean were asleep, thinking we were still well out to sea. They never had a chance.

  “The leader of these pirates took them below with one of his lads, into the engine room,” MacIntosh went on. “The other lad held his piece on myself and the rest of the crew. The engines were loud, but we could still hear the screaming.”

  The captain gulped and wiped his forehead. “Horrible, it was. It went on for half an hour, maybe a bit longer. Then we heard two gunshots, and they dragged the poor lads topside and dumped them over the rail. I thought we were next. After that, two of them went below again, and came up with a case each of the Docherty-Kinlochewe. They hoisted them down to a couple of other lads in their own boat. Then the leader said he'd be seeing us again, if we blabbed any of it to any man, and they left.”

  “So you heard his voice,” Webb said. “What did he sound like?”

  “A foreign chap,” MacIntosh said.

  Webb sighed. “From which country?”

  “Germany, I'm thinking,” MacIntosh said. “Or some such place.”

  Webb stood up. “I'll need you to write out a statement, Captain MacIntosh,” he said. “Don't leave anything out. Take your time. Detective Jones will assist. There's some things I need to take care of.”

  Vic and Erin met Webb outside the interrogation room. “C4?” Webb snapped at Erin. “How sure are you?”

  “I didn't smell it myself,” she said. “But that's something that smells a little like modeling clay, and might be smuggled.”

  “Fantastic,” Webb said. “Which is worse? Military-grade explosives being smuggled into New York, or those explosives getting ripped off by other criminals?”<
br />
  “What do you want us to do?” Erin asked. “Won't we hand this off to Homeland Security when they get here?”

  “O'Reilly,” Webb said patiently, “Homeland Security's not coming. I made that up.”

  “Oh,” she said, feeling foolish. “Right.”

  “But I'll need to report it to them now,” he said. “So for tonight, go home and get some sleep, both of you. Keep working your cases. I'll let you know.”

  Chapter 7

  Erin snapped awake, smelling gunpowder and blood, seeing flashing red-and-blue police lights. She grabbed for her gun in her nightstand, then stopped. Her bedroom was dark and quiet. There was no sign of danger.

  She turned on the bedside lamp and ran a hand through her hair. Rolf lifted his head and blinked sleepily at her.

  “It's okay, boy,” she told him. “Go back to sleep.”

  Rolf didn't know that command, but he curled his snout behind his tail and closed his eyes again.

  Erin lay back on her pillow and stared at the ceiling. Her heart was still pounding. Adrenaline drove away all thoughts of sleep. As she tried to let her pulse slow down, she glanced at the clock. It read 3:33.

  “Shit,” she said.

  Her shootouts with the Russians were what the police called “Critical Incidents.” She'd been required to see the NYPD psych guy, Doc Evans, to unpack what had happened. But Erin didn't want to talk about it. She just wanted to get back to work and put that case in her rearview mirror.

  The shrink wasn't buying it. Didn't she feel some regret or remorse? She'd never killed anyone before.

  No, she didn't feel any remorse. The bastard she'd shot had been an evil man who'd done terrible things to innocent young women. Plus, he'd been trying to kill her. There wasn't anything to regret. If she wasn't supposed to put him down, why had the NYPD issued her a gun in the first place?