Double Scotch

by Steven Henry

  “Hi, Corky,” she said. “I heard you were hiding Cars. You got him in there somewhere?”

  “Why don't you have a look?” he said. “You can search as thoroughly as you like.” But he made no move to get out of the way.

  “Corky,” Carlyle's voice came from inside. “Don't you find it a mite rude to keep a lady waiting on the doorstep?”

  “I've been called a great many things,” Corky said, “but rarely rude.” He stepped to the side and spread one arm in welcome. “Do come in, love.”

  Erin stepped into the apartment, instinctively checking the corners. She was surprised by how ordinary the place looked on the inside. She'd been in a Midtown apartment before, on an earlier case, and it had been full of priceless artwork and antiques. Corky's suite was very middle-class, even blue-collar. He had posters of soccer players on the walls, a couple pinups of female athletes, and a framed photo of the New York Yankees that looked to have been signed by the whole team. The furniture was in good repair and looked comfortable, but was nothing special.

  “You bring your girlfriends here?” she couldn't help asking.

  “Oh no, love,” he said brightly. “I take them to my other place.”

  Carlyle was standing in the living room, a glass of whiskey in one hand. He'd gotten a change of clothes and was every inch the dapper gentleman. It struck her, not for the first time, how different these two Irishmen were from one another. “Erin,” he said. “I knew they'd send someone to talk to me soon, but I admit I wasn't expecting you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Now who's being rude?” Corky said. “The lass is standing here without a drink in her hand, and you're talking at her. What's your pleasure, love?”

  “I don't need anything.”

  “I didn't ask what you needed. I asked what would pleasure you.”

  She gave Corky a slow once-over and let him see her do it. Then she shook her head. “Can't see anything that would.”

  Carlyle chuckled. Corky laughed out loud.

  “You're an Irish lass,” Corky said. “I'll go out on a limb and pour you a whiskey.” He went to a side table and got a bottle of—what else—Glen D. “Soda? Rocks? Straight up?”

  “Ice,” she said, giving up. It was a hot day, and holding something cold in her hand wouldn't be such a bad thing.

  Corky dropped two ice cubes into a glass and poured a double Scotch over them. Then he made a second drink, handed her one, and kept the other for himself.

  “Perhaps we should sit down,” Carlyle suggested.

  “Okay.” Erin took a seat in an armchair. Carlyle took the other armchair in the room. Corky sprawled out on the couch against the wall. Rolf sat next to Erin's chair.

  “So,” Corky said. “Thank you for coming to see me, Erin. I know you're a busy lass, and it means the world to me.”

  Erin and Carlyle looked at him.

  He grinned. “Well, a lad can dream. I know you've come to see Cars. After all, you hadn't time to complete your business at your prior meeting. Come to that, what exactly was that business?”

  “I think maybe this should be a private conversation,” Erin said to Carlyle.

  “In our fine legal system, a lad's permitted to retain counsel, I believe,” Carlyle said.

  “You telling me he's your lawyer?” Erin said in disbelief.

  “The word I used was 'counsel,'” Carlyle said. “There's no one I trust more, this side of the pond.”

  “That's not to say he trusts me,” Corky put in. “Be careful what you infer from this lad, Erin. He's practically a lawyer himself. But we're best mates, and that counts for a lot.”

  “Have it your way,” Erin said. “But we need to talk about what happened.”

  “I couldn't agree more,” Carlyle said.

  “So let's start talking,” she said. “Who are Daniel Carr and Sean Garrity?”

  “Murder victims, as I understand it,” Carlyle said.

  “You knew them,” she said. “Did they work for you?”

  “I have three bartenders, two of them part-time, a cook, two kitchen assistants, and four waitresses on my payroll.”

  “Did these guys make deliveries to you?”

  “I don't keep the names of all the lads who deliver food and drink to the Corner.”

  “But they knew about the reinforced door to your apartment.”

  Carlyle paused. “No,” he said after a moment. “I don't imagine they would have known a thing like that.”

  “Erin,” Corky broke in. “You're surely not suggesting those poor bastards had anything to do with the unpleasantness at the pub.”

  She glanced at him. “Are you?”

  “Erin suspects they were slain by the same men who attacked the Corner,” Carlyle said. “She's attempting to build a connection. I'm sure she's not implying those lads were involved in anything improper with me or mine.”

  “They were smuggling explosives,” Erin said. “Some of which were then used to blow down your door. Explosives procured by an arms dealer called Smiling Jack.”

  Carlyle sipped his whiskey and said nothing.

  “Rüdel is running around New York killing people,” she said. “Your people, Cars. We're on the same team, for Christ's sake. Don't you want him to be found?”

  “Aye,” Carlyle said. “I do.”

  “Then help me!”

  “Erin,” he said gently. “Who am I?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It's a simple question. Look at me. Who am I?”

  She didn't like this sort of game. Looking him in the eye, she gave it to him straight. “You're Morton Carlyle. Irish immigrant. Former IRA terrorist. Expert bomb-maker. Gambling bookie. Mid-level O'Malley associate. And owner of the Barley Corner pub.”

  “Do you think I'm what you call a civilian? Do you believe I pick up the telephone and dial 911 when something goes amiss?”

  Corky tried not to laugh and almost succeeded. He turned it into a cough.

  “You know what?” Erin said. “I don't understand you, not one bit. You're in danger. People tried to kill you in your own home, I saved your ass, and you still won't let me help.”

  Corky was still grinning, but Carlyle wasn't. “A lad like me is always in danger,” he said. “You think I have the luxury of choosing a safe path? Or have you ever thought that trying to avoid one danger might put me square in the path of another?”

  “You're worried about your own people,” she said.

  “If you were to start associating with known criminals, who would you have to fear?” Carlyle asked. “Your new associates, or your fellow officers? Or both?”

  “That's not the same thing,” she said.

  He didn't bother to argue the point.

  “Anyway,” she said, “Rüdel's a menace.”

  “I agree,” Carlyle said. “Anyone who takes him off the street will be doing the world a favor.”

  “And you're all about the favors,” she said.

  “I am,” he agreed. “And I'll not forget you've saved my life. Again.”

  “I trusted you,” she said. “I put a gun in your hand.”

  “You can still trust me,” he said softly. “I'm no enemy, Erin. And I'd like to be your friend.”

  “In exchange for what?” She hadn't really meant to say it. The words just popped out.

  “This isn't a business transaction,” he said.

  “Okay. What can you tell me, then? As a friend?”

  “I can tell you anything that doesn't infringe on my own business, nor that of my associates.”

  “What's that got to do with Rüdel?” she asked.

  “Nothing. As I told you, he's merely a facilitator. He's not doing this for himself, save for a paycheck.”

  “So who's writing his checks?”

  “I can't possibly answer that.”

  “Can't, or won't?”

  “Is the distinction important?”

  “I'd say it is,” Corky interjected. “For instance, if a lass says she
'll not sleep with a lad, if she means she won't, she's still persuadable. If she means she can't, well...”

  “Corky,” Carlyle said, “must you view every philosophical question through the same lens?”

  “These are the eyes the good Lord gave me,” he said cheerfully.

  “Cars,” Erin said, ignoring Corky, “do you know who hired Rüdel to come after you?”

  “No.”

  The flat denial startled her. She'd been expecting another dodge. But as she thought about it, she realized why. He'd had no problem answering the exact question she'd asked. She tried again.

  “Who do you think hired Rüdel? In your opinion?”

  “I couldn't say.”

  And just like that, they were back on philosophical grounds.

  Erin stood up. She put her drink down, untouched. “Sorry to waste your time. And mine.”

  Carlyle rose politely. “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  Something in the way he said it caught her attention. He actually did look sorry. But he had such good self-control, she wasn’t sure it wasn’t an act. “See you around, Cars. Corky.”

  Corky snatched up her discarded drink. “Drop by any time, love.”

  Her phone buzzed in her pocket, saving her from any more back-and-forth. She nodded to the two men and led Rolf out, putting the phone to her ear as she exited the apartment.

  “O’Reilly,” she said.

  “This is Levine.”

  “Hey,” Erin said. “What'd you find out?” She nodded to the Irish thugs by the elevator, got on, and pushed the button for the ground floor.

  “Negative on the lipstick,” Levine said. “It wasn’t possible to tell how much time elapsed since application.”

  For a second, Erin couldn’t remember what she was talking about. Then she shifted gears back to her other case. “Okay, it was a thought,” she said. But she knew the ME wouldn’t be calling just to report a negative test result. “What else have you got?”

  “The victim was drugged twice.”

  “Say what?”

  “The wine bottle tested positive for Rohypnol, but not for cyanide.”

  “But she was killed by cyanide, right?”

  “Tox screen shows lethal levels,” Levine confirmed. “I’m confident cyanide poisoning was cause of death. But there was no quantity of cyanide in the victim’s stomach. It appears the agent was not orally administered.”

  Erin leaned against the back of the elevator. “So, what’s that mean? Needle stick?”

  “There’s no trace of gas in the lungs, so the agent was almost certainly introduced into the bloodstream.”

  “What are you telling me? The killer drugged her, then gave her a shot?”

  “That’s correct,” Levine said. “Judging from the amount of Rohypnol in her blood, she had probably been unconscious for some time, at least half an hour, before death.”

  “And there was no sign of sexual assault?”

  “None.”

  The elevator reached the lobby. Erin walked out past the second batch of goons. She tried to think. “Any idea where the needle strike was?”

  “I'll check,” Levine said. “It wouldn’t have bled much, if at all, and there are a lot of places you can put a needle without leaving obvious signs.”

  Erin loaded Rolf into her car and got behind the wheel of the Charger. She cocked her head against her shoulder to hold the phone while she buckled up and started the engine. “Okay, I’m coming back to the precinct now. Are you done with your report?”

  “I’ll send it up,” Levine said. “One other thing. The victim’s clothing was changed antemortem.”

  “He dressed her up before killing her? I thought it was after.”

  “I told you what I meant.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “There was a ripped seam in the dress. Even though she was drugged, she would have convulsed as the cyanide took effect.”

  Erin tried not to imagine the scene and failed. She suppressed a shudder. “The clothing tore when she thrashed around.”

  “Correct. Then she was posed in a resting posture.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No.” And Levine hung up.

  Chapter 13

  “Any luck?” Vic asked.

  “What do you think?” Erin snapped. She glared at the whiteboard in the Major Crimes office. “It's a goddamn game to these guys, even when they nearly get killed.”

  “I didn't think he'd spill anything,” Webb said. “But it was worth a try.”

  “We still don't even have an ID on the wounded guy,” Kira said. “Interpol hasn't gotten back to Vic yet.”

  “So we're stalled,” Erin said.

  “Oh, one thing,” Webb said. “We got the ballistics report from CSU from the Barley Corner shooting. It's funny. They said the guy we've got in custody was shot with two different guns.”

  “Yeah, those were mine,” she said. “My Glock and my backup piece.”

  “Holy shit,” Vic said. “Guns in both hands. Shootout at the O.K. Corral.”

  “No,” Erin sighed. “Carlyle had my backup.”

  The others stared at her. There was an awkward silence.

  “You gave him one of your guns?” Kira finally said.

  “He didn't have his own?” Vic asked at almost the same moment.

  “He doesn't carry,” Erin said.

  “That's the craziest thing I've heard this week,” Webb said. “And that's saying something.”

  “I bet he goes strapped after this,” Vic said.

  “Whatever,” Erin said. “It'll be in my report. I loaned him the gun, it was clear self-defense. What's it matter?”

  Webb shook his head, a hint of a smile on his face. “It's a little unusual,” he said.

  Kira wasn't smiling. “You know the provisions of SAFE, right?”

  Erin did. The Secure Ammunition and Firearms Enforcement Act had just gone into effect. It was a tough gun-control law with several provisions dictating sale and transfer of guns. “That doesn't apply here,” she said.

  “If he's prohibited from owning a gun, that's criminal facilitation,” Kira said. “On you, Erin.”

  “Jesus,” Vic said. “Once Internal Affairs, always Internal Affairs. That's a load of bullshit and you know it. You gonna lock her up, or what?”

  “Carlyle's allowed to own a gun,” Erin said. “He was never convicted of a felony, or even charged with one, at least not in this country.”

  “He's a terrorist!” Vic said.

  “Whose side are you on here, Neshenko?” Webb wondered. “Just so I can keep things straight.”

  Vic threw his hands in the air. “I don't know! These guys are all assholes. Can't we just arrest all of them?”

  “As far as I can tell, Carlyle didn't do anything,” Erin shot back. “Except try not to die when his bar got shot up.”

  “Whose side are you on?” Vic retorted.

  “The law's,” she said. “Is there something you want to charge him with? Because being an asshole isn't illegal in New York, last time I checked.”

  “Thank God for that,” Webb said. “Otherwise we'd be out of space in lockup pretty quick. And I'd have to arrest half the people in this room, to start with.”

  “What's that supposed to mean?” Vic snapped.

  “It means that's enough, God damn it!” Webb shouted.

  An angry, embarrassed silence followed.

  “Okay,” the Lieutenant said, more calmly. “I get it. We're all upset. But we've got a case to close and a killer to catch.”

  “Two killers,” Erin said.

  “The bartender said there were three,” Kira said. “We caught one, so that still leaves two.”

  “That's not what I meant,” Erin said. “I was talking about the hotel case.”

  “Give it a rest, Erin,” Vic said. “We need to nail this one down first.”

  “Okay,” she said. “How do we find Rüdel? Tell me.”

  More silence.

&n
bsp; “Do you have a lead on the Barnes case?” Webb asked her.

  “I might,” Erin said, exaggerating.

  “Okay, fine,” Webb said. “It might be better if you step away from this one for a little while anyway. Find what you can on the hotel and run with it. The rest of us will keep working the Irish angle, see what we can get. And Neshenko?”

  “Yeah?” Vic was still angry.

  “Before you say the next insubordinate thing that pops into your head, imagine my size twelve walking shoe, and think about how far up your ass I can put it.”

  Vic actually smiled. “Careful, sir. Keep talking dirty to me, I can't be responsible for the consequences.”

  Erin really didn't have much in the way of leads. She knew the killer had drugged Janice Barnes, dressed her up, and poisoned her. She knew the brand of perfume he'd put on his victim. She knew he'd watched Janice die, then eased his way out of the hotel room, worked the chain lock from outside, and left it locked.

  That meant he'd been in the room at least twice, maybe three times. Once to fix the chain so he could open and close it from outside, the second time to drug her, and the third to finish the murder.

  Which told her nothing.

  She rubbed her temples and tried to think. A big part of her was still wrapped up in the shootout at the Corner. Maybe Doc Evans should've kept her off the street a while longer.

  There was one thing she could think of. She'd been wondering about it ever since she'd had the idea she might be tracking a serial killer. She started scanning the case files for unsolved locked-room killings.

  There weren't any open cases that fit the MO.

  That didn't necessarily mean anything. Her own squad had initially thought Janice might be a suicide. She ran a search in the CompStat system asking for suicides over the past three years. The computer gave her the phone book, of course. She noted that the rate was increasing year by year, which reinforced her dad's opinion that the world was gradually going to hell. There'd been 503 three years ago, 509 two years back, 557 the last year, and an even 300 in just the first half of the current one. Way too many to sort through.

  Serial killers were pretty consistent. If this guy had killed a woman once, that was probably his thing. She eliminated men from her search, which left her with only 129, 128, and 163 for the past three years.