Black Magic

by Steven Henry

  “If you truly wanted me gone, you’d have slammed the door in my face by now.”

  She very nearly did it. “Damn you, Carlyle. I’ll give you ten minutes, tops.”

  “Would it be pressing my luck to ask for a drink?” he asked, glancing toward the kitchen.

  “Get one back at the Corner,” she shot back. “I’m almost out of whiskey.”

  “I’ve a bottle with your name on it.”

  “Want to know where you can stick that bottle? Clock’s running. Start talking.”

  He walked into the living room. She followed him, suddenly and uncomfortably aware of the half-empty glass of whiskey on the coffee table. She was also aware that by choosing the ground, he was putting her on the defensive. Carlyle was a master negotiator for the Irish Mob, she reminded herself. He manipulated people for a living.

  Rolf bristled at the Irishman and stuck close to Erin’s side. Carlyle sat down at one end of her couch. She stayed standing.

  “Erin, I scarce know where to begin,” he said. “I should start with an apology, but I’m not regretting in the least what’s passed between us. Save that it’s driven a wedge. For that I’m truly sorry.”

  She didn’t answer. She was watching his face, looking for anything he might give away.

  “I’ve never meant you any harm,” he went on. “I’ve considered you a friend for some time, and had hoped it might become something more.”

  “Even with you being what you are, and me what I am?” she replied.

  “Aye, even then. A lad can hope.”

  She shook her head. “Christ. You’re years older than I am. You’re a damn terrorist and—”

  “Retired,” he interrupted gently.

  “Retired terrorist,” she corrected. “And gangster. You still middle management for Evan O’Malley?”

  He nodded. “As you likely recall, when your lads hauled off Tommy Jay O’Malley for his part in the late unpleasantness with that German lad, it left a vacancy, which I now occupy.”

  “Great. You’ve been promoted. Congratulations.” Erin put as much bitter sarcasm into her voice as she could. “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”

  “I’d rather hoped you were thinking we’d worked well together, that we were good friends with a strong attraction.”

  “It’d been a rough day,” she said. “I wasn’t thinking straight. It just happened, you know?”

  “Aye.”

  “And it was a mistake.”

  “If you think it was, I fear you’re correct,” Carlyle said. “But I’m here to make amends however I can. What can I do?”

  “Is this a negotiation?”

  He shook his head. “Think of it as a penance.”

  “Five Hail Marys and three Our Fathers? That sort of thing?”

  A dry chuckle escaped him. “Maybe. What do you want from me, Erin?”

  “If I wanted anything from you, I wouldn’t have blocked your number.”

  “But I’m sitting here in your apartment. You must want something.”

  “Okay, how about some answers?”

  “You’ve asked precious few questions as yet.”

  “Ian Thompson. Who is he?”

  “A lad from Queens. His mum passed away when he was a wee lad, and his da was a worthless drunkard. The lad was running with street gangs when I met him, a hard lad at the ripe age of twelve. I could see he was heading from trouble to worse. I took an interest in steering him a straighter path.”

  “I don’t believe this,” she said. “You telling me you mentored him?”

  “You could call it that. I got him off the streets and back into school, helped him to his high school diploma.”

  “So he’d come work for you?”

  “I didn’t want that for him,” Carlyle said. “Besides, he’d a desire to join the military. The lad had something to prove to himself. So he went overseas, and I fear more trouble found him. He came back changed.”

  “How so?” Erin asked, thinking of the medal citation she’d seen.

  “He was more polite, but colder.” Carlyle shrugged. “He’d been in battle, seen and done dreadful things. He doesn’t like to talk about it. The lad was lacking direction, but was in possession of a particular set of skills, so I took him on as a bodyguard and driver. You’ve my word, he does nothing illegal.”

  “So why’s he following me? It’s not just because you’re worried I didn’t return your phone calls.”

  Carlyle nodded. “Tommy Jay’s absence has been noted by my colleagues. While the lad was a right bastard, if you’ll pardon my saying it, the way he was removed was a trifle unusual.”

  “Guys in the life get busted all the time,” she pointed out.

  “Aye, but this lad was taken down by a lass I’d a connection with. As I then took his place, it’s got some of the lads wondering what exactly the nature of our relationship might be.”

  “Great,” Erin said. “Just great. So the O’Malleys know? Did you tell them all the juicy details?”

  “I’ve told no one,” Carlyle answered. “I told Evan that you and I exchanged information unrelated to the O’Malleys, in order to remove his competition and take care of particular problems. Though I fear Corky may have tumbled to something, on account of your abrupt absence from the Corner.”

  She sighed. James Corcoran, Carlyle’s best friend, was exactly the sort of man who’d figure out that sort of thing. He’d tried to sleep with Erin once, almost succeeded, and remained a shameless flirt. “So, what are you telling me? Are mob guys gonna try to whack me? That’s why Ian’s on my ass?”

  “It’s merely a precaution,” he said. “Until everyone gets used to the new chain of command. The lad won’t bother you, I promise.”

  “And if I tell you to send him somewhere else?”

  Carlyle shrugged. “That’s your choice.”

  “Your ten minutes are just about up,” she said. “Anything you’re desperate to tell me, before I throw you out?”

  He stood and looked her square in the eye. “My wife was murdered almost twenty years ago,” he said quietly. “Since that day, the only time I’ve felt anything close to what I did with her is when I’ve been with you. I understand it’s a complicated situation, but if you think I’ll let you pull away from me without putting up the best fight of which an Irishman’s capable, you’re mistaken. I’ll be on my way tonight, Erin, but I’ll be coming back to you. I promise.”

  Erin was still trying to work out her reply as he went out the door. Rolf watched him go, then turned his eyes on her and nudged her with his snout. She absently dropped a hand and scratched him between the ears.

  “Good boy,” she murmured. At least there was one guy in her life she understood.

  Chapter 7

  “Congratulations,” Webb said. He tossed the day’s issue of the New York Times onto each detective’s desk. Erin, still bleary from a restless night, squinted at the paper and tried to make sense of the headlines.

  “We’re front-page news,” the Lieutenant continued. “I’ve just gotten off the phone with Captain Holliday. He likes being above the fold, but only when we close a case. Last time we made page one, it was that thing at the Civic Center. We won that round. Does this feel like victory to you?”

  Erin focused. “Bloodbath in Manhattan,” she read aloud. “Police search for answers in brutal theater slaying.”

  “Nice,” Vic growled. “Time for our pep talk, boss?”

  “I haven’t got any pep,” Webb said. “What I’ve got is one of the most public murders in the history of New York City. I want answers, people.”

  “What’s the word on getting another detective?” Vic asked. “To replace Kira.”

  “I’m sorry,” Webb said. “I didn’t realize the workload was too much for you. I’ll get right on that.”

  “Someone woke up on the wrong side of his life this morning,” Vic muttered.

  “What’s that, Neshenko?”

  “Sorry,” Vic said. “I should’
ve said someone woke up on the wrong side of his life this morning, sir.”

  “That’s better. The first thing I want is a closer look at Miss Grimes. We know about Louis Miller. Let’s find out if she had any other boyfriends or affairs. Check her financials for anything shady. She’s got a record. She may have made enemies somewhere along the way. O’Reilly, look into that grand larceny charge from Detroit.”

  “Sir, that was years ago,” she said.

  “I know, but she walked. It’s a possible motive. See what you can dig up. Neshenko, you’re on the money trail.”

  Vic sighed loudly and turned to his computer. Erin got herself a fresh cup of coffee from the department’s espresso machine and got ready for some boring data mining.

  “That’s funny,” Erin said.

  “I could use a laugh,” Vic said.

  “The manager Grimes was accused of ripping off,” she said. “Hugo Bucklington.”

  “Okay, the name’s a little funny,” he agreed.

  “That’s not what I meant. He’s here, in New York.”

  That got Vic and Webb’s attention. “He’s not in Detroit?” Webb asked.

  “Court documents from Michigan,” she explained. “Bucklington’s contact info got updated three months ago. He’s living in the Bronx.”

  “That’s something,” Webb said. “You’ve got an address?”

  “And phone number and employer,” she confirmed.

  “Let’s go get him,” Vic said, jumping to his feet.

  “Sit down, Neshenko,” Webb said. “I’m still waiting for your report on her financials. O’Reilly and I will take care of Bucklington.”

  “Damn.” Vic sat back down with a scowl.

  “Where’s he work?” Webb asked Erin as they headed for the door. Vic glared at them.

  “Auto body repair,” she said. “Crash Course Collision.”

  “Let’s give him a little surprise,” he said. “If we rattle him enough, maybe we can get a confession, wrap this up by lunchtime.”

  They took Erin’s car, since it had a compartment for Rolf. Webb spent the drive reading up on the old Larceny case. They found Crash Course Collision in a “recovering neighborhood.” That was the term used by the same people who called Third World warzones “developing countries.” The best thing that could be said was that no one shot at them as they parked. The shop was a broken-down brick building with a scrapyard next door. The yard was surrounded by a chain-link fence, topped by razor wire and populated by the corpses of wrecked automobiles.

  “Better lock your doors,” Webb observed. “I guess I know why he left Detroit. He is definitely on the skids.”

  “This must remind him of home,” Erin said.

  They hadn’t even gotten halfway to the front door when a huge, black, furry thing hurled itself against the fence. It didn’t look like any animal Erin had ever seen, but judging from the ferocious barking, she knew it had to be some kind of dog. It snarled and sprayed saliva through the chain links at them. Rolf went stiff-legged and bristling, growling low in his throat.

  “Steady, boy,” Erin said quietly. “Fuss.”

  That was his “heel” command. Rolf stuck obediently at her side, but his hackles stayed up.

  Webb went in first, pushing through a door painted an ugly, peeling green. It opened on a dingy little office with a young guy sitting behind a counter watching TV. He glanced up, saw the three of them, and did a double take.

  “Shit, man,” he said. “You can’t bring that dog in here. Ripper gonna kill him!”

  Erin pointed a thumb to the window, where the black beast was apparently trying to dig through the glass to get at them. “That’s Ripper?”

  “Hell, yes. He a killin’ machine!”

  “And this is an NYPD K-9,” Erin said. “So I think it’s in all our best interests to keep them apart.”

  “Hey, it’s cool,” the kid said. He gave Erin a long, appreciative look. “You cops? Damn, you the finest cop I seen outside the movies.”

  “I get that a lot,” Webb deadpanned. “You have a Hugo Bucklington working here?”

  “Hell, yes. He in back, workin’ on a ‘87 Aries. Talk about your shitmobiles, man. Weary old K-car. I tell him you here.” He went to the back door and opened it a few inches. The sound of some sort of power tool got suddenly much louder.

  “Hey, Hugo!” the kid shouted at the top of his lungs. “Five-O here for you, man!”

  “Damn,” Webb said quietly. “Should’ve seen that coming.”

  The sound of the machine suddenly stopped. A metal tool clattered on concrete. Then they heard running footsteps, headed away from them.

  “Go,” Webb said to Erin.

  Normally she’d have turned Rolf loose in pursuit, but she didn’t fancy getting him mixed up with Ripper. Erin started running, Rolf loping easily alongside. The kid thought it was funny until Webb grabbed him. The last she saw of them as she raced into the garage was the Lieutenant flipping the boy around and putting him face-first against the wall.

  The garage was full of half-assembled autos, a maze of old Detroit steel. Rolf was straining at his leash, knowing they were in the chase. She followed his lead but kept her grip on him. He led her through the garage to a small back door which stood a little ajar. Then they were through it and into the scrapyard.

  As she went, she drew her Glock. Erin loved dogs. If Ripper went for her, or for Rolf, she could legally shoot the animal. But she didn’t want to, no matter how vicious a bastard the junkyard dog might be.

  Ripper wasn’t about to make the decision easy. He came around an Oldsmobile station wagon, all black fur, white teeth, and beady, murderous eyes. Erin had a frozen split second when she wished she had her Patrol gear, especially her Taser. Rolf tensed himself for a fight.

  “Down!” Erin shouted, putting all her dog-trainer’s authority into the word. Never show fear, they’d taught her. Never doubt that the dog will do what you want. You don’t ask them to do something. You tell them what they’re going to do, and you already know they will.

  Ripper skidded to a stop. He stared at the woman and the other dog. Then, obediently, he sank to his haunches. He flattened onto his belly. His ears drooped and he whined a little. Something scraggly that might have been his tail wagged ingratiatingly.

  “Stay,” she ordered. “Good boy.” While she spoke, she was looking around the yard for Bucklington. She saw movement at the far corner of the lot. Hugo appeared to be trying to climb the fence by means of the cab of a Ford pickup.

  Ripper had a metal-studded collar. Erin took hold of it, firmly but not cruelly. The dog cringed as she did it. She flinched inwardly, knowing this dog had been beaten into submission. “Rolf,” she said, unsnapping his lead with her other hand, “such.”

  Rolf sprang into motion. He covered the length of the scrapyard in a matter of seconds. Before Hugo Bucklington had managed to clamber to the top of the fence, the Shepherd was barking and scrambling up onto the hood of the Ford.

  “Give it up!” Erin shouted at him. “He wants to bite you. Come on down, or I’ll let him!”

  Bucklington cautiously descended, keeping as far from the K-9 as he could. Erin reflected that people who beat animals had a tendency to be afraid of them.

  “Hands where I can see them!” she ordered. Improvising, she clipped Rolf’s leash to Ripper’s collar and quickly tied the junkyard dog to the doorframe of a car with busted-out windows. Then she advanced on Bucklington. “Turn around! Hands behind your head!”

  He kept looking nervously at Rolf. Rolf wasn’t about to put him at ease. The Shepherd kept growling, waiting for Erin’s “bite” command. His tail was sweeping from side to side with eager excitement.

  Erin took advantage of the distraction to close the distance, keeping her Glock on him. Hugo Bucklington was a big guy, but with more fat than muscle. She got the cuffs on him and frisked him for weapons, finding none.

  “Hugo Bucklington?” she asked.

  “What?”

>   “You’re gonna need to come with us, answer some questions.”

  “I didn’t do anything!”

  He was facing away from her, so couldn’t see her roll her eyes. “Says the guy who ran the second the cops showed up,” she said. “C’mon, let’s go.”

  Webb had the kid in custody by the time Erin got back inside. He gave Erin a thin smile. “Good catch. Let’s get them back to the precinct.”

  “You takin’ us to the Five Four?” the kid asked.

  “How old are you, anyway?” Webb asked in reply.

  “Why you wanna know?”

  “Because you look like you’re about fourteen,” the Lieutenant said. “And for a kid that age, you know way too much about the NYPD. No, we’re not going to the Fifty-Fourth. We’re taking you to Manhattan, Precinct 8.”

  “You guys with ACIS?” the kid asked, naming the Auto Crime Division.

  “We’re with Major Crimes,” Webb said. “But now that you mention it, I’m sure ACIS will be interested to have a talk with you, once we’re through.”

  “It’s gonna be a tight squeeze in the Charger,” Erin said, thinking of Rolf’s compartment. It took up half the back seat.

  “They can get cozy,” Webb said.

  “What about Ripper?” she asked.

  “Huh?”

  “The junkyard dog,” she said. “If we’re busting these two mopes, I’m not gonna just leave him out there for God knows how long.”

  Erin looked at Bucklington and Devon. “Which one of you owns that dog?”

  Bucklington didn’t say anything.

  “He belong to himself, mostly,” Devon said. “But I feed him, sometimes.”

  “And hit him to make him behave,” she added.

  “You seen him. He crazy!”

  “You have someone you can call, to come look after him?”

  “I guess.”

  “Then you can ring him up from the precinct.”

  Once they got the prisoners and Rolf loaded into the squad car, Erin went back for Rolf’s leash. Ripper growled when she approached and crouched, ready for trouble.

  “Sit,” she said.