by Nick Dorsey
He took a minute to stand around the office and catch his breath and get his mind right. He was making a break from the organization. No going back. Burning it all down. He was doing it, and it was exciting, that was true. Then he remembered Nico and David and the shitstorm that would catch up to them if they weren’t quick and smart.
His stomach groaned with the weight of it all. Dominic had to stop at the men’s room before he left the restaurant to noisily empty his bowels, then he walked calmly back to the SUV.
He repeated the whole routine at the car dealership. Alarm, office, safe, and not giving a damn about the camera there, either. This time he found more than loose change. There were receipts and checks from the legitimate businesses that were useless for him, but there was far more. The money from the organization’s various dealings was funneled through the dealership, and in the back office, he found a safe stuffed with bound bills. There was over a hundred grand just sitting there. He stuffed the bundles into his duffel bag. In a place like Cuba that was probably a small fortune. He grinned in the dark of the office. It was all too easy. He should have done this years ago.
Now, as they left CC’s with a coffee and an iced whatever for Erika, Dominic was back to feeling good. As if she could sense it, Erika said, “I want to say goodbye to my sister.”
“Call her up. Shit. Then we should probably get rid of our phones.”
“No, I want to go see her. In person.”
Dominic gave her a look before he pulled out of the coffee shop’s parking lot. “You want to go to Lafayette now?”
“She doesn’t know anything. And it’s far away.”
“It’s still in the state,” he said. Although honestly, it wasn’t a terrible idea. The little city in the middle of Louisiana might be a good place to crash, if just for a day or two. The organization didn’t know anything about Erika, anyway. He told her so.
“Yeah. Exactly. They don’t know about me.” She slurped her coffee and smacked her lips. “Hey. I just thought of something. Your friends don’t know anything about me, but somebody else does.”
“What?” His life was the organization. It didn’t seem like there was anyone else in the world. Then it hit him. “Your boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Tom whatever. The cop.”
“Detective.”
“Yeah. That’s him.” Dominic scowled at the oncoming traffic. He hated to admit it, but she was right. The detective was the only one outside the organization that knew what was going on. He was the only one that knew what Dominic and Erika had done. The lawyer, that Perez woman, maybe she was dancing around it, but the detective had seen them both, Erika and Dominic. He didn’t dance around anything. He knew.
He sniffed. “Okay. We’re making another stop.”
Patton Brooks couldn’t sleep. Maybe, he thought, he slept a little between one and two, but he couldn’t be sure. At four o’clock he decided no, he wouldn’t get any more sleep. He rose, put on a pair of shorts, and walked to the futon in his living room. He tried to read the Millhauser short story collection he had borrowed from the library but he couldn’t get into it. The dark, strange stories couldn’t compete with the real-life mystery he was investigating. He turned to the Adelfi case notes and looked at the same few sentences a dozen times or more. When he began work for the Public Defenders, he thought he would be helping to defend folks who had no other recourse. Now he was knee-deep in the mafia. Murder. And whatever conspiracy Tom Connelly thought he had uncovered. At least it would be good experience for law school, he thought.
Those last few early morning hours lasted forever. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t read. He just stared at the darkness beyond his living room window and waited. When the sun was beginning to rise, Patton brushed his teeth and dressed. He chose a black suit with a patterned orange tie. He gathered the case notes scattered about his apartment, grabbed two coffees from the bakery next door, and left to meet Tom.
Connelly lived off Bonnabel in a strange little complex defended by a chipped and creeper-covered cinder block wall. The place was set up like an old motel, all the rooms facing a courtyard that didn’t get much use. Ragged palm trees stood guard over a path that cut through the courtyard. Brown and broken fronds crunched under Patton’s boots as he crossed it to the narrow stairway that led to Connelly’s second-floor apartment.
The outside light was on, but it was still dark inside the apartment. With the coffees balanced in one hand, he raised his other to knock. He saw too late the shadow around the inside edge of the door. As he knocked, the door eased open an inch or so.
“Tom?” Patton asked. He pushed the door open farther. He didn’t think Connelly was the type of guy who would leave his door unlocked, let alone open. Something wasn’t right. As soon as he had the thought it was confirmed. A figure shifted from a small kitchen table. Tom?
The lights blinked on and blinded him for a moment. He raised both hands, forgetting the coffee and moving too late. The cardboard cups hit the floor, plastic lids popped off, and the stuff splattered all over the dirty white tile.
The figure at the table squeaked in surprise and rose. It wasn’t Tom. It was a woman, taller and blonde, with her face wrinkled in surprise and disgust. She locked eyes with him and said, “Who are you?”
“What?” Patton said. Then a younger man in a tan leather jacket stepped from another room into the kitchen, a small pistol held high.
“Who are you, she said?” The man hissed at him.
Patton didn’t answer. He was too focused on the black barrel of the gun and the hand holding it, wavering slightly.
“Get the door,” The man told the woman. “And you, come here.” He waved Patton toward him. Like any sane man, Patton hesitated.
He said, “You can have my wallet.”
“Christ. Get your ass in here.” The man grabbed Patton’s sleeve and tugged him into the other room, which turned about to be a small living room. Patton stumbled into the room, then turned and looked at the man with the gun. It was lowered now while the man whispered something to the woman, who was leaning against the front door.
Patton recognized them. It was the guy from the poker room, Dominic something. The guy with the SUV. And the woman at the door looked a little bit too much like Sofia Adelfi for Patton’s liking. All at once, all Tom Connelly’s theories crystallized and became reality. He suddenly hated Connelly a little bit for being right.
Dominic focused on him again. “Where is he?”
That was the question. Patton shook his head. He looked around the room. There was a shelf of old toy cars. A kid’s drawing hanging on the wall. Not much else. Like Connelly just moved in or something. But the man himself wasn’t there.
Dominic raised the gun and shouted, “Where is he?”
The woman rushed over, “Not so loud!”
“I don’t know,” Patton said. “I was supposed to meet him here.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
The woman kicked one of the fallen coffee cups. “He was bringing breakfast. I think he’s telling the truth.”
Dominic peered at him. “You work with him. Right? I remember you.”
Patton nodded.
Dominic and the woman shared a look. “Get his phone?” She asked.
He agreed and held out his hand. “Slow.”
Patton extended his arm far to one side, then slowly brought it to his chest like he was performing a sobriety test. He saw the two tense, then saw their shoulders relax when he pulled out his cell phone.
The woman grabbed it before Dominic could. She made some small movements. “He’s got a Connelly on his calls from yesterday.”
They whispered to one another again, and Patton realized they had no idea what they were doing. That should have been some consolation, but the idea only frightened him all the more. He said, “I don’t know anything.”
Dominic gave him a look. He turned to the woman. “You believe this guy?”
“May
be he doesn’t. We just came here for Tom. He’s not here. So?”
“Did you just go crazy right here, right in front of my eyes? I told you, you should have stayed in the car.”
“You were taking too long.”
Dominic mauled his face with one hand. “He’s with the guy, probably the lawyer too. And he’s seen us both.”
Patton shook his head and stared at the ground. “No, no. I haven’t seen anything.”
Feet shifted. Patton couldn’t see who was moving. The woman said, “I don’t feel okay with it.”
“We came here to tie up loose ends.”
“But not that loose end,” she said.
Patton’s whole body was vibrating. They were talking about him. About killing him, probably. And they were doing it right in front of his face.
“We can’t just let him go,” Dominic said.
Patton’s mind tried to think straight. He thought they had killed before, which meant they were seriously dangerous. They were blocking the door, so that ruled out running. What other choices did he have? “I have an idea,” he said, although he didn’t. The other two stopped talking. Maybe he could convince them to take him with them. Yes. That would at least put the whole loose end conversation off. If they took him along, kidnapped him, he could be their insurance. Right? He thought he could sell that. Yes. He could be their insurance, and he would be with them until they got whatever it was they needed, or until they arrived wherever it was they wanted to go.
“I have an idea,” he said again, and looked up. He raised both hands and took a step toward Dominic.
“Shit!” The man said, and pulled his hands up, his eyes wide and terrified. The little pistol in his hand bucked once.
Then Patton saw black.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
It was still dark that morning when Tom was driving from his meeting mulling over James’ (or Jerry’s?) advice. It was true, he could see the train coming. He could see that big ugly thing racing toward him, and that was new. A few years ago he would have been blind to it, he would have just let the train slam into him and spent the next few months binging and drying out and gnawing at whatever slip of a case he had until it was shredded down to nothing. But today? Today he might be able to jump out of the way. Patton had some information. Maybe even a real-deal, rarely seen in the wild break in the case. He would listen, then present it to Jean. Lay it all out. It seemed like the car and the gas station security footage together put Dominic at the scene and that should be enough to satisfy her, but he had to reckon with the idea that it might not be. Even with all she had seen, both at the Pan and her own house, Jean might not be able to run with it.
If that were that case, if she didn’t want to hear any more, he had to reckon with the idea of letting it go. That was the real challenge, he was thinking. That was akin to jumping off the tracks before the train struck. Could he do that?
He wasn’t sure. If he was honest with himself, he wasn’t sure.
Sunrise was bullying the night away when Tom pulled into his apartment complex. The first thing he noticed was Patton’s blue Jeep in the parking lot. He guessed when he told Patton to come early the kid had taken it to heart. Only the other investigator wasn’t in his car. He walked across the courtyard under dying palm trees and looked up at his apartment door. He didn’t see the kid up there, either. Strange.
On the second floor, things were stranger still . From a few yards away he could tell his door was open. A black sliver more than an inch wide separated the door from its frame. What Tom wanted to think was this: Last night Tom, rushed and late, as usual, had forgotten to lock the door. Patton had arrived early, found the door unlocked, and let himself in. Then he left the door open himself. Only Tom hadn’t left his door unlocked since he quit drinking, and Patton wasn’t the type to let himself into a strange apartment.
Yeah. It all seemed a bit far-fetched. Tom stood at the door with the fingers of his left hand spread just above the doorknob, ready to push it open. His other hand was lingering at his hip, looking for the service revolver that would have been there back when he was police. Of course, the only weapon he had now was the loner stashed under his bed. He cursed under his breath and shoved the door open.
The first thing he saw was the floor. Somebody had spilled coffee all over his kitchen, a muddy puddle spreading there like an accusation. The door eased open further and Tom had a clear line of sight into the living room and the body lying within.
Patton’s suit was black. He was lying on his side, face turned away from Tom. but Tom could see the blood pooled around his head. His stomach dropped. It took a second for adrenaline to get him going, but when Tom moved he moved quickly. He flew across the room and sunk to his knees next to the kid.
“Patton?”
No response. The blood was coming from a head wound. A thick sheet of it was still oozing down the side of the young man’s face. So all this hadn’t happened all that long ago. He pulled Patton’s shoulder until he was lying flat on his back, arms outstretched and eyes wide. Blinking too fast to make sense of anything, Tom thought. There on the right side of his face, just beyond the curve of brow, was the problem. Some kind of wound. The rest of him looked alright.
Tom felt the young man’s neck and found his windpipe. He could feel hot breath on his wrist, quick and shallow. His fingers slid to the narrow cord of carotid artery. Blood drummed under his fingertips. It was too fast, Tom thought, but it was there.
A sequence of events flashed through his mind. Patton arrives early. Someone is waiting for him. One of Sal’s? He doubted it. Dominic? More likely.
Dominic who threatened Jean at her home? Dominic, who knew what both Tom and Patton looked like? Who had to know they were figuring out some of what he had done?
Yes. Definitely.
The how and why of it all fought for attention, but Tom shoved those questions away and pulled his phone. He fumbled it and slapped it onto the hardwood and the sound it made was a loud cracking thing, and it felt good to hear that harsh sound. The fear and anger of it all were threatening to consume him, and that sound cut through it. Focused him. He had to think. His screen was cracked, which normally would have sent him over the edge. A small thing that, dumb and expensive and completely within his control to prevent, it would have turned him in a cursing moron. Not now. It still worked. That was enough. His thumb moved across the spiderwebbed plastic and dialed 911.
“Jefferson Parish 911. What’s the address of your emergency?” The voice burred through the speaker.
Tom started to speak. Then stopped.
“Sir?” The voice came again.
Tom gave his address and apartment number. “My friend is having a heart attack. He looks real bad.”
“I’m sending help. What’s your name, sir?”
Tom hung up without answering. His heart was beating out of his chest. Tom saw a t-shirt on his couch. He grabbed it and wadded the thing up, holding it to Patton’s head like it could make a difference. He watched the red soak into the white of the cotton.
Somewhere between dialing the emergency line and the operator answering he had decided he wanted to find whoever did this and find them fast. If he was honest with the operator, that couldn’t happen.
He knew the procedure. It was most likely that firefighters would arrive first. If he told the 911 operator the emergency was the result of an assault then the firefighters wouldn’t enter the apartment. They would have to wait outside until the police arrived. It was for their protection, but Tom had seen an entire neighborhood start to turn on a fire engine as he pulled up in a patrol car. He couldn’t blame them. The firefighters sitting outside while a son or daughter or whoever was bleeding to death just feet away. Friends and family looking like they were ready to attack the guys with whatever was at hand.
Who could blame them?
So the firefighters would wait until the police arrived, and once they arrived Tom would be caught in a days-long cycle of interviews. What happen
ed in his apartment? Did he assault the kid? Why was the kid at his place so early? Those and more questions, on repeat, forever. Especially if they thought he had a hand in injuring Patton, which, with his history, they just might. Then the shit would hit the fan. Tom would be stuck in an interview room or even a holding cell instead of going after whoever did this to Patton.
Below him, the young man grunted and gasped. Tom leaned over him. “I’m going to get you help, Patton. Don’t worry,” he said in a quiet voice. The kind of voice he would normally reserve for comforting his son.
Then he called Ray. The phone buzzed for ten seconds later, then the casino EMT answered, clearing his throat and grumbling. “I’m sleeping. What do you want?”
“I need help. Somebody’s hurt. Head wound. They’re bleeding.”
Ray’s voice changed. Softened somehow. “What are you saying?”
“I don’t know what happened but he’s bleeding everywhere.”
“Are you fucking with me, Tom?”
“I need your help.” Tom heard his voice crack. “It’s bad.”
There was shuffling on the other end of the line. “Shit, is he awake?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“No, Tom, he is or he ain’t.”
“No, then.”
“Does he respond to his name?”
Tom said he didn’t.
“Is he breathing?”
“Yeah. I can hear him. His pulse is high. I counted over 30 beats in fifteen seconds.”
“Okay. That’s bad. He’s still bleeding? What kind of head wound?”