Massacre

by Steven Henry

  Massacre

  The Erin O’Reilly Mysteries

  Book Eight

  Steven Henry

  Clickworks Press • Baltimore, MD

  Also by the Author

  The Erin O’Reilly Mysteries

  Black Velvet

  Irish Car Bomb

  White Russian

  Double Scotch

  Manhattan

  Black Magic

  Death By Chocolate

  Massacre

  Flashback (coming soon)

  * * *

  The Clarion Chronicles

  Ember of Dreams

  Copyright © 2020 Steven Henry

  Cover design © 2020 Ingrid Henry

  Cover photo used under license from Shutterstock.com (Credit: Vasilyev Alexandr/Shutterstock)

  NYPD shield photo used under license from Shutterstock.com (Credit: Stephen Mulcahey/Shutterstock)

  Author photo © 2017 Shelley Paulson Photography

  Spine image used under license from Shutterstock.com (Credit: Evstigneev Alexander/Shutterstock)

  All rights reserved

  First publication: Clickworks Press, 2020

  Release: CP-EOR8-INT-P.IS-1.0.1

  Sign up for updates, deals, and exclusive sneak peeks at clickworkspress.com/join.

  Ebook ISBN: 1-943383-64-1

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-943383-65-8

  Hardcover ISBN: 1-943383-66-5

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, and events are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  For my dear friend Kira, who is better than her fears and stronger than she knows.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Sneak Peek: Flashback

  Ready for more?

  Our Latest Recommendation

  About the Author

  Also by Steven Henry

  More Great Titles from Clickworks Press

  Massacre

  * * *

  Combine 2 oz. tequila, 4 oz. ginger ale, ½ oz. Campari bitters in a highball glass with ice. Stir and serve.

  Chapter 1

  Erin O’Reilly had done dozens of interrogations, probably hundreds. She knew how to look for weak points, how to sweat a perp until he cried. She knew when to intimidate, when to bluff, when to lie, when to offer comfort and reassurance. There was nothing quite like a full confession to grease the wheels of the legal system.

  But all that knowledge depended on being the one doing the interrogating. The shoe was definitely on the other foot now.

  “That’s enough about work, dear,” Mary O’Reilly said. She carefully placed her coffee cup in the middle of its saucer and leaned forward over the table in Erin’s living room. “I’ve been married to a police officer for forty years, and I know there’s more to life than what you call ‘the Job.’ You must have a young man in your life somewhere.”

  “Don’t you ever give up, Mom?” Erin said, stalling for time.

  Mary clasped her hands on her knee like the kindest, warmest-hearted, most persistent interrogator in the history of policing. “You know we don’t give up in this family.”

  “I really am pretty busy with work,” Erin said. She couldn’t lie to her mother. Every time she tried, the O’Reilly matriarch saw right through her. But she absolutely did not want to tell her mom about Morton Carlyle. For starters, Mary would think he was too old for her. But that was a minor detail compared with her family’s history with him. If Mary told Erin’s dad about Carlyle, Sean O’Reilly just might crack open his rifle case and come out of retirement long enough to blow a few holes in him. Sean knew Carlyle from his own days on the Job, and wouldn’t trust him with the time of day, let alone his only daughter. Thank goodness, Sean was visiting Erin’s brother and sister-in-law this afternoon. He was even better at seeing through Erin than her mom was.

  “You really could have tried to make something work with that nice art dealer,” Mary went on relentlessly.

  “I told you, Mom, he was the one who broke it off,” Erin said. “He couldn’t handle dating a cop.”

  “It’s really not so hard, once you get used to it,” Mary said.

  “You can get used to anything,” Erin retorted. “A few more gunfights, I’ll get used to people shooting at me.”

  “Don’t say that, dear,” Mary said with a shudder. “We do worry about you.”

  “Then you see the problem,” Erin said. “It’s a tough gig.”

  “So you haven’t been seeing anyone?” Mary pressed.

  And Erin hesitated. She knew it the moment it happened, and she cursed herself for it, but she just couldn’t help it. Even as she opened her mouth to try to deflect, to change the subject, to say anything, she saw the spark of triumph in her mother’s eyes and knew she was screwed.

  “It’s… complicated,” she said weakly. “It’s not like I’m going to be bringing him to meet the parents anytime soon.”

  “I understand, dear,” Mary said. “But remember, your clock is running. If you want children, you can’t wait forever.”

  “How many grandkids do you want?” Erin couldn’t resist asking. “You’ve got Patrick and Anna already. And it’s not exactly easy to run down perps if I can’t see my shoes.”

  “I don’t know how you young people balance a career and a family,” Mary admitted. “It really was easier for my generation.”

  “I’d have gone crazy sitting around the house all day,” Erin said.

  “It’s busier than you think,” Mary objected. “And more rewarding. Erin, the first time I saw your little face staring up at me…” She smiled, remembering the moment. Then she shook herself back into the present. “But all in good time, dear. First, you need to find the right man. Is this young fellow the right one for you?”

  “I…” Erin began, having no idea how she was going to finish her sentence.

  Her phone saved her, buzzing to life in her pocket. She pulled it out and saw the name of her commanding officer.

  “Sorry, Mom, it’s work,” she said, trying to hide her relief. She thumbed the screen. “O’Reilly.”

  “You awake?” Lieutenant Webb asked. “And sober?”

  “Sir, it’s three o’ clock,” she said. “I know it’s my day off, but seriously, who do you think I am?”

  “Neshenko could be drunk already,” Webb said.

  “That’s a good point,” Erin admitted. “What’s up?”

  “Sorry to bother you on your down day,” Webb said. “But you know the drill. You’re only really off-duty when you’re dead. Something big just went down. A restaurant’s on fire.”

  Erin was perplexed. “We’re investigators, not first responders, sir.”

  Webb sighed. “I know what we are, O’Reilly. FDNY’s already on scene. But most fires don’t start with Molotov cocktails and machine-guns.”

  “Machine-guns?” Erin echoed.

  “And that makes it a Major Crimes problem,” Webb said. “This looks like a multiple homicide. Get to 160 Mulberry, Little Italy. And wear something you don’t care about. It’s going to be a dirty one.”

  Erin stood up. “Sorry, Mom,” she said again. “Duty calls.”

  Her partner Rolf, always keyed to her mood, sprang to his feet, tail wagging. He didn’t unders
tand the meaning of the term “day off.”

  “I remember how that goes,” Mary said, getting to her feet. “Well, it’s been a nice visit anyway, dear. I’ll just pop over to Junior’s house with your father, Shelley, and the children. I hope you have time for a hug before you run off to save the world.”

  “Always,” Erin said. She wasn’t a very huggy person as a rule, but she’d have needed a heart of stone not to want one from Mary O’Reilly. The woman put all the warmth and comfort of home into every embrace.

  Thus fortified, Erin quickly changed into some of her older clothes, as Webb had advised, and set off for Little Italy. Rolf bounded into his compartment in the back of her unmarked Charger. She put the car in gear and rolled out.

  Erin saw the smoke from three blocks away, rising over lower Manhattan. As she got closer, she was able to follow the flashing lights of squad cars, fire engines, and ambulances. The street was choked with emergency vehicles. Lights, sirens, and blaring horns overwhelmed her senses. Poor Rolf, with his sensitive ears, was having an even worse time.

  Erin parked as close to the scene as she could. She got Rolf and dismounted, making her way toward the billowing smoke. She didn’t see Lieutenant Webb, but she noticed the Bomb Squad van in front of the building and angled that way. A young guy with a military buzz cut was standing next to the van, talking to an engine captain from the Fire Department.

  “Hey, Skip!” she called, recognizing the explosives guy.

  “Hey, Erin!” Skip Taylor replied. “You might want to keep back a little. Fire’s still going.”

  “I can see that,” she said. She turned to the firefighter. “Sir, what’s the situation?”

  “Firebombing,” the captain said. He pointed to the front of the building. Dense clouds of smoke poured through the shattered plate glass. “Excuse me, Detective. I know you have your job to do, but right now, I have mine. We’re containing the blaze. I’ve got Engine 24’s crew working the fire, and 55 doing a rescue search.”

  “They’re inside?” Erin asked, appalled. She’d made entry to burning buildings back when she’d been working Patrol, but it was never safe or easy. The fire in front of her was much worse than any she’d dared approach.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Excuse me.” He turned and went quickly toward the fire.

  “What can you tell me, Skip?” Erin asked the bomb tech.

  “I was just talking to the cap about the danger of secondaries.”

  “Secondaries?”

  “Secondary explosions,” he explained. “We’ve shut down the gas lines, and I’m guessing they don’t have propane tanks inside, so the worst I’d expect would be a grease fire, but the kitchen’s gonna be dangerous.”

  “O’Reilly!”

  Lieutenant Webb hurried over, Vic Neshenko looming behind him. Erin’s commanding officer had his trademark unlit cigarette in one hand. Webb looked unhappy, even by his standards.

  Vic, on the other hand, was cheerful. He always got energized by action. “Welcome to the party,” he said.

  “What’ve we got?” she asked.

  “Dispatch got a 10-10S,” Webb said, the code for a crime in progress with shots fired. “We had a Patrol unit less than a block away. When they rolled up, they took fire from at least two automatic weapons, so they fell back and called for backup.”

  “Any officers hit?” Erin asked sharply.

  “Nope,” Vic said. “Lucky bastards. Got some holes punched in their car.”

  Erin suppressed a shiver, remembering a similar situation she’d been in last year. “Glad they’re okay,” she said.

  “While they were pinned down, some joker tossed a Molotov through the storefront,” Webb continued. “Then the perps took off around the corner. They must’ve had a car waiting. Backup arrived in less than two minutes, but the shooters were already gone.”

  “Traffic cams?” Erin asked.

  “No good,” Vic said. “We’ll check ‘em, but there’s a lot of traffic on that road, and we don’t have footage in the middle of the block, so we don’t know which car was theirs. We may be able to ID the shooters at the corner, but we’ll have to run all the plates on all the cars.”

  “And theirs will be stolen,” Erin predicted. “They’ve probably already dumped the car.”

  “Probably,” Webb gloomily agreed.

  “How many shooters?” she asked.

  “The uniforms saw three,” Vic said.

  “We’ve got spent brass all over the sidewalk,” Webb said, indicating the front of the building. “Of course, New York’s Bravest are contaminating the hell out of the crime scene as we speak. I hate arson jobs.”

  “On the bright side,” Vic said, “the shooting ended before we got here.”

  “You’re in a good mood,” Erin observed.

  “Can’t a guy be happy?”

  “Not if it’s you,” she said. “I’d call that highly suspicious. I only see you happy when you’re in a fight.”

  “You gotta watch out, Erin,” he said. “All this time around crooks and psychos is making you paranoid.”

  “It’s not paranoia…” she began.

  “…if they’re out to get you,” he finished. “Hey, Lieutenant, how long you think they’re gonna take hosing down our crime scene?”

  “Depends on what they find,” Webb said. He was starting to say something else when a distinctive sound cut through the controlled chaos on the street. A series of loud pops, it was immediately recognizable to anyone who knew it.

  Erin and Vic had their sidearms drawn before they’d even fully registered what they’d heard. Skip, who’d served in combat in Iraq, was even faster. He was crouching behind his van’s engine block by the time Erin shouted, “Shots fired!”

  “Where the hell did that come from?” Webb demanded, drawing his old service revolver. Cops and firefighters were scattering, taking cover and looking frantically for the shooter. More shots rang out.

  “Over there!” Vic shouted, pointing at the burning building.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Erin muttered.

  The fire captain ran toward Webb, a radio at his ear. “Lieutenant!” he shouted. “I’ve got men inside taking fire! I have a man down! I need cover!”

  “Get me masks and fire gear,” Webb snapped. He waved over the nearest Patrol officers. “I need some volunteers. We’ve got men in there who need help.”

  There was the briefest hesitation. Then a young officer whose nametag read RUIZ stepped forward. “I’ll go, sir.”

  “I’m in,” Vic growled. Two more shots came from the building. Everyone but Vic flinched.

  “Let’s do it,” Erin said. Turning to the captain, she quickly asked, “Is the fire safe for my K-9?”

  “Can he do SAR?” the captain replied, referring to Search and Rescue training.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then we need him. Let’s move!”

  The police grabbed firefighter overcoats and oxygen tanks on their way. Erin was trying not to worry about Rolf. He was absolutely willing to go, and being low to the ground, he wouldn’t have as much to fear from smoke inhalation as the rest of them, but he wouldn’t be able to stay inside long. And he couldn’t wear an oxygen mask without compromising his sense of smell.

  “Komm,” she ordered, giving the command in Rolf’s native German. He trotted beside her, alert and attentive.

  “You better stay outside, sir,” Erin told Webb. He tended to get short of breath at the best of times, what with his smoking habit and extra bulk.

  “You giving me orders, O’Reilly?” he retorted. “I’ve been sucking smoke since I was sixteen. I’m used to it.”

  Ruiz looked very young, and very scared, but he buckled on his gear with steady hands. The four officers formed up outside. Even through the protective gear, Erin could feel the heat of the fire, like an open oven door.

  “Let’s go,” Webb ordered.

  “NYPD!” Erin shouted as they plunged in. “Sound off, guys! Where are you?”<
br />
  The fire made a strange, hollow roaring sound. Everything was smoke, heat, and flickering flame. Erin heard the rasp of her own breathing in the oxygen mask. The smoke was disorienting. Even though they were barely inside, she had trouble remembering the way out. Strange shapes of tables and chairs appeared and disappeared through the smoke. If anyone answered her call, she didn’t hear them.

  “Rolf!” she ordered. “Such!”

  Hearing his “search” command, the K-9 moved forward, sliding with his belly close to the floor. How he could smell anything but smoke was a mystery, but he was clearly on the scent of someone. Erin held his leash in one hand, her Glock nine-millimeter in the other. She was in the lead, the other officers keeping close so as not to lose contact.

  Rolf suddenly stopped and scratched the floor. Erin saw a body at her feet. She knelt and saw it was a man, dressed in street clothes, face down. Blood was pooled around him. He didn’t seem to be breathing, but it was hard to tell.

  “Got a casualty!” she shouted. Even as she said it, a sustained burst of gunfire came from very close at hand.

  “Christ!” Vic said. He snapped off two shots in return.

  “Don’t fire blind!” Webb barked. “You out there! This is the NYPD! Put down the weapon and give up! Otherwise you’re going to die in here! We’re here to help you, idiot!”

  “Fire Department!” someone shouted to Erin’s left. “We got a man down!”

  “Rolf!” Erin repeated. “Such!” She nudged him in the direction of the voice.