Massacre

by Steven Henry

“Some of them are going to be civilians,” Erin said.

  “I know.” Webb didn’t look happy. “That’s ten fatalities. Ten. That’s a damn massacre.”

  After talking with Logan, there wasn’t much left for Erin to do. Detectives spent a depressing amount of time waiting for people to get back to them. Vic went out to Little Italy to pound pavement and ask around, in the hopes that someone might have seen something. Levine was in the morgue, working her way through the ugly task of identifying seven badly burned corpses. Erin wandered down to see how the medical examination was getting on, telling Rolf to stay by her desk. The Shepherd obediently settled on his makeshift bed for a nap.

  The smell stopped her in the morgue’s doorway. The room usually smelled of disinfectant and formaldehyde, with underlying decay. Erin wasn’t accustomed to the scent of an overcooked barbecue. There was actually smoke in the air, and knowing it was particles of the victims themselves didn’t make her feel any better. She knew that smell was going to linger in her hair for days. She was glad she’d left Rolf upstairs. She hadn’t forgotten about the bath he still needed.

  “Hey, Doc,” she called.

  “What?” Levine was bent over one of the victims, taking a picture of the body’s face. She didn’t look up.

  “How’re you coming on the IDs?” Erin took a cautious step into the room, one hand clamped protectively over her nose and mouth.

  “We’ll need to use dental records,” Levine said. “Fingerprints are unusable, due to the incineration of soft tissue.”

  “Did they have wallets, anything in their pockets?”

  “Some of them,” Levine said. “But the heat was sufficient to melt plastic, so driver’s licenses and credit cards didn’t survive. I’m sending dental X-rays to dentists in the greater New York area for potential matches.”

  Erin sighed. “We think some of these guys might be internationals.”

  “I may be able to ascertain that from dental evidence,” Levine said.

  “Yeah, I remember you did that with that Russian girl last year,” Erin said. “Could you tell if dental work got done in, say, Colombia?”

  “Colombia is known for dental tourism,” Levine said.

  “That’s not what I do on vacation,” Erin said.

  “It’s much cheaper abroad,” Levine explained. “Especially without insurance. Unfortunately, the procedures themselves are very similar to those done in the United States. I doubt that will be helpful for establishing country of origin.”

  “If we get a miss on the dental records, what will you do?” Erin asked with a sinking feeling.

  “DNA,” Levine said, confirming Erin’s fears.

  “What’s the current backlog?”

  “Four months.”

  “We don’t have four months. We have to know who these people are now.”

  Levine shrugged. “I can’t rush the process. Maybe your commander can get it moved forward in line, but it’ll still be a month or two. What do you know about them?”

  “Some of them probably worked at the restaurant. We’ll have locations where the bodies were found. Can you at least tell me whether they’re male or female?”

  “Certainly. Six men, one woman.”

  “Okay, that’s a start. Find out everything you can about these people, and keep us posted.”

  “I can get you blood types within twenty-four hours, and tissue samples now. If you can get me other samples for comparison, I can do a DNA match between them in seventy-two hours.”

  “Levine, if we had samples, we’d already know who they were.”

  Levine shrugged again. “I can’t change the science.”

  Erin went back upstairs, glad to get out of the smoky room. But the smell clung to her and followed her up the elevator.

  Erin thought about what Levine had said. Maybe they could get something from the crime scene. She called up the New York Department of Transportation and, after the requisite automated menu and wait on hold, ended up talking to one of the traffic camera supervisors.

  “Yeah, Detective, we’re workin’ that thing your people sent us,” he said. “We got a car for your gunmen. It’s a Dodge Caravan, black. No positive IDs on the guys. Looks like they tinted the windows past the legal limit. We sent the plates over a few minutes ago.”

  “Good, thanks,” Erin said. “But I’m actually calling about something else. Can you send the traffic cam footage from before the incident? Say, everything from the preceding half hour, the cameras on both sides of the restaurant?”

  “Sure, no problem. You know what vehicle you’re trying to ID?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, I’ll get you the footage. Give me ten or fifteen minutes, I’ll send it.”

  Erin hung up and walked over to Webb’s desk. “You got the plates on the getaway car?” she asked.

  He nodded but didn’t seem excited. “Yeah. They’re registered to a Subaru Outback belonging to a Daisy Langley. She lives in Brooklyn. I just called her, and it turns out she’s out of the country, building houses for Habitat for Humanity in Haiti.”

  “Stolen plates?” Erin asked.

  “Stolen plates,” he agreed. “Her car’s parked at JFK, according to her husband. Without its plates, I expect.”

  “So, that’s a dead end,” she said.

  Webb nodded again. “Worth a try. It just confirms this was a professional hit.”

  Once she had the traffic video files on her computer, Erin settled down for some boring movie-watching. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking for, but trusted her Patrol instincts to nudge her if anything was out of place.

  Sure enough, a few minutes before the shooting started, a black SUV drove through the intersection south of the crime scene. The driver and passenger both had black, slicked-back hair and sunglasses. That wasn’t strange. What was strange was when she saw the same vehicle go through the next intersection two minutes later, without the passenger, circling the block. Probably looking for a parking spot, or maybe loitering in the vicinity of the meeting.

  Erin saved screenshots of the car and sat back from her computer. She’d been hoping to identify a parked car at the scene, and maybe be able to get vehicle registration and DNA samples from it, but this could be just as good. Now she had faces, a potential victim and a potential associate, and a car and license plate to go with them. She ran the plate and got a rental agency at JFK airport. She called them immediately. It was after midnight, but airport rentals were open twenty-four seven.

  After another obligatory automated menu and few minutes on hold, the line was picked up by a guy. His voice was flat and hopeless. She’d heard livelier sounds coming out of the morgue.

  “Speedy Rentals, Carl speaking. Do you have a reservation?”

  “Hi, Carl,” Erin said brightly, trying to inject some energy into him. “My name’s Detective O’Reilly. I’m with NYPD Major Crimes. I need to ask you some questions about a rental.”

  “What’s your reservation number, ma’am?” he droned on.

  Erin stopped, took a breath, and tried again. “Carl!” she barked. “I’m Erin O’Reilly. I’m a cop. Major Crimes. I need you to wake up now.”

  “Huh? Oh… yeah. Sorry. Look, uh… sir? Ma’am? What do I call you?”

  “Detective will do fine.”

  “Okay, yeah. Detective. Uh… I should get Mr. Talbot.”

  “Who’s Mr. Talbot?”

  “My manager.”

  “Yeah, Carl, I think maybe you should.”

  “Uh… here’s the thing. He’s… uh… not here.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Uh… he went on, like, a coffee break.”

  “When do you think he’ll be back, Carl?”

  “I dunno.”

  Erin prayed to Saint Michael, patron of police, for patience. “When did he go on break?”

  “Uh… about nine o’ clock.”

  “Carl,” she said. “That was three hours ago. That’s a pretty long coffee break. I don’t think
Mr. Talbot is coming back.”

  “You think so?”

  “I think it’s just you and me, Carl.”

  She heard his nervous gulp even over the phone. “Okay,” he said. He now sounded completely awake, and like he’d rather be somewhere else. “Look, lady… Detective, I mean… I don’t wanna get in trouble here. I need this job.”

  “No trouble, Carl,” she said, making her voice as soothing as she could. “I’ve got a license plate for a black Toyota 4Runner, plate number BPC 2987. I just need to know who rented it.”

  “That’s personal information, Detective,” Carl said, and despite herself, Erin was a little impressed at the way he managed to put some backbone into his answer. “Look, I… like I said, I don’t wanna get in trouble, but I don’t know if you’re really a cop, okay? And even if you are, I can’t give you that without a court order.”

  “Okay, Carl. How long is your shift?”

  “I’m here until four.” He said it like a convict less than halfway into a long prison sentence.

  “Okay, I’m going to e-mail you the document in a few minutes. Then I’m going to call you back.”

  “Okay,” Carl said, sounding a little more cheerful.

  “Carl,” Erin said, her police instincts tingling, “you’re going to answer the phone when I call back, right?”

  “Uh… yeah. Of course.”

  “You’re not going to go on a coffee break yourself, are you?”

  “No.” But the spark had gone back out of his voice.

  “Because we’ll come and get you if you go. You know how many cops there are in New York City? Think carefully.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “That’s good, Carl.” Erin hung up and called Judge Ferris.

  Police, as a general rule, distrusted judges. Erin’s dad liked to call them lawyers who played dress-up, and no good cop was keen on lawyers. But Ferris was a useful contact for law enforcement. No one knew just how old he was; seventy-five was Erin’s guess. He slept most of the afternoon, but tended to be up late. He was a judge who believed in law, order, and a good police force. He could be counted on to sign off on most warrants and court orders, as long as he was awake.

  She was in luck. Ferris answered on the fourth ring. His voice was mellow, with the gravelly undertone of an old man who’d smoked a lot in his youth. It reminded her of the actor James Coburn.

  “Good evening,” he said.

  “Evening, Judge,” she said. “This is Detective O’Reilly.”

  “Ah, the charming Miss O’Reilly. And how are you this fine evening, young lady?”

  “I’m good. Say, I’m not disturbing you, am I?”

  “I’m just sitting here in my parlor with a few close and intimate friends, in front of a warm fire.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Should I call back later?”

  “No, young lady, my friends are patient and reliable. Their names are Elijah Craig, Nat Sherman Sterling, Samuel Clemens, and Roy Bean.”

  Erin tried to make sense of what he’d just said. Elijah Craig was a whiskey brand, and Samuel Clemens sounded familiar. The other two were strangers. Then she placed Clemens. “You’re reading Mark Twain and drinking bourbon,” she guessed.

  “With a fine cigar and my loyal dog at my feet,” Ferris confirmed. “All that was missing for my contentment was the conversation of a fine young woman. Thanks to you, my evening is now complete. How may I be of service?”

  She smiled. “I need a court order, Judge.”

  “Would this pertain to that terrible business this afternoon?”

  “It would. I got a rental car on traffic cams, driving past the crime scene and dropping off at least one passenger right before the shooting. I need an order to get the rental record.”

  Ferris paused, and Erin could picture him taking a sip of his excellent top-shelf bourbon. “You think this information will be useful? Surely, if this vehicle was rented by an assassin, he would have taken pains to disguise his identity.”

  “I think it’s one of the victims, not the killer.”

  “Ah. That casts the issue in a different light. I shall be delighted to assist you.”

  “I’ll send the info to you. Thanks.”

  “I am, as ever, as your service. Have a very pleasant night, Miss O’Reilly.”

  A few minutes later, armed with Ferris’s signed order, Erin called Speedy Rentals back. The unfortunate Carl answered.

  “Speedy Rentals, Carl speaking. Do you have a reservation?”

  “Hi, Carl. This is Detective O’Reilly. Did you get my e-mail?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well?”

  “That 4Runner was rented yesterday… by a Diego Rojas.”

  Bingo, Erin thought. “Thanks, Carl,” she said. “Did he pay cash?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Erin hung up and looked at the clock on the wall. It said 12:55. Rolf, his chin between his paws, looked expectantly up at her.

  “I know,” she said to him. “I don’t want to be here either.”

  What she wanted was to call Carlyle, have a drink, and relax. What she did instead was call Agent Johnson.

  “Johnson.” He sounded wide awake and alert. Erin wondered if Homeland Security guys ever slept, or if they just plugged batteries into the backs of their skulls.

  “Erin O’Reilly,” she said. “I got a hit on Diego Rojas.”

  “Talk to me.”

  “He rented a car at JFK, Toyota 4Runner, black, BPC 2987. Paid in cash, yesterday.”

  “O’Reilly?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We know about that already.”

  “Oh.” Erin felt suddenly stupid. Of course Homeland Security would know. They were following Rojas and he’d used his own name to rent the car. What a waste of an evening.

  “Good follow-up, though,” Johnson said. “How’d you tumble to that?”

  “I got some traffic cam footage with that car outside the restaurant.”

  “Yeah, we figured. Like I told you, we thought he was meeting with the Italians. At least you’ve confirmed he was probably there. You know if he’s one of the dead guys?”

  “Not sure,” she said. “I don’t suppose you guys have a DNA sample we could run on the bodies?”

  “We’re working on that,” Johnson said. “If I can swing it, I’ll make sure it gets to your medical examiner.”

  “Agent Johnson?”

  “Yeah?”

  “There anything else I should know about Rojas?” She didn’t add, “So we don’t chase our tails any more than we have to,” but was pretty sure he heard it in her voice.

  “He flew into JFK out of Bogota yesterday with three associates: Sebastian Alvarez, Javier Montero, and Francisco Contreras. All of them are known narcotics guys, cartel connected. Alvarez and Contreras are sicarios, hitmen.”

  “You let guys like that just fly into my city?” Erin demanded. “And you call yourselves Homeland Security!”

  Johnson didn’t take the bait. “I told you, we were letting Rojas run in the hope he’d lead us to bigger game. I’m sorry it worked out this way. Do you think Rojas and his team were the shooters, or the targets?”

  “I’m thinking targets,” she said. “But we’re still trying to sort out what happened.”

  “Tell you what,” Johnson said. “I don’t need to do this, and it’s a little outside our usual line, but I’ll send you pictures of these bad guys. Maybe your doc can match them to the bodies. Believe me, if Rojas is dead, we want to know it. We also want to know who killed him.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Erin said. “For a government goon, you’re not half bad.”

  “And you’re okay, for a flatfoot gumshoe,” Johnson volleyed back. “Good working with you, O’Reilly. Check your e-mail.”

  Sure enough, a message popped up in her inbox with several pictures attached. She opened them up on her monitor, flicking back and forth between the new images and the traffic camera footage.

  “Thanks,” she s
aid again. “Yeah, two of these guys are the ones in the front seat of the rental car. Rojas is driving, Contreras is riding shotgun.”

  “Great,” Johnson said. “Let me know once you’ve got confirmed ID on your stiffs. See you on the flip side.”

  Erin fired off the pictures to Levine. Then, finally, she shut down her computer and pushed back from her desk. Rolf immediately sprang to his feet, tail wagging. He’d had a good nap and was ready for action.

  “Lieutenant?” she called.

  Webb held up a hand. He was on the phone with some agency or other. After a moment, he put the phone down and looked at her.

  “I’m gonna bounce,” she said. “I got possible IDs on four of our victims. I’ll put them up on the board on the way out.”

  “See you tomorrow,” Webb said. “Bright and early.”

  Then she and Rolf were free and clear, leaving the Major Crimes office behind. Erin had her phone up before she’d even gotten downstairs, calling Carlyle.

  “Evening, darling,” he said.

  “Where are you?” she asked. She couldn’t hear any of the usual background noise that would’ve indicated he was sitting in his usual spot at the bar.

  “I’m up in my office, taking care of a few small matters. Is your business concluded for the night?”

  “Yeah. Is yours?”

  “Nothing that can’t wait for tomorrow.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but it is tomorrow.”

  He laughed. “Fair enough. Shall we say, it can wait until I’ve slept on it.”

  “Planning on going to sleep?”

  “Unless you’ve a better plan.”

  Erin smiled as she walked to her car. “I might.”

  “May I call on you in a short while?”

  “Sure thing. I just have to get home, run Rolf around the block, and get cleaned up. I smell like a cookout.”

  “I’ll be there in, shall we say, forty minutes?”

  “Better make it an hour. I have to wash my dog.”

  “I still smell like charcoal,” Erin said.

  Carlyle kissed her neck just below her ear. “It’s not as bad as you’re thinking,” he murmured. “The dirt we’ve got on ourselves is always more obvious to us than to everyone else.”