Massacre

by Steven Henry

  They stared at each other, both breathing hard. Erin wanted to punch him in the face, to shake some sense into him, to scream at him.

  “So am I,” she said, suddenly feeling very tired. “You picked a hell of a time to play white knight.”

  “I’d no choice, Erin. Why did you arrest her?”

  “You know why.”

  “Anything she might have done, she was doing to protect this city.”

  “We arrest vigilantes. If goddamn Batman showed up in New York, we’d put him behind bars.”

  “That’s beside the point. Were you looking for her today?”

  “No. I came to the Corner to talk to you.”

  “Here I am. What is it you’re wanting?”

  Erin shook her head. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this.”

  His face softened a little. “I know, and for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

  “Liam knew something,” she said. “And they killed him for it.”

  “I agree he’s likely involved,” Carlyle said quietly. “The lad was already nervous. It’s curious, though. He agreed to meet with you. Then, when you showed up, he left almost at once.”

  “I guess I asked him the wrong question,” she said, thinking back. “I asked him who had a reason to go after the Lucarellis. Then he freaked.”

  Carlyle nodded and said nothing.

  “He knew the answer to that,” she said softly. “That was why he got mad at you. But the only reason he would’ve been mad was if…”

  She looked into Carlyle’s face. He was putting up a careful, expressionless façade. That, by itself, answered the question she knew she couldn't ask him.

  “Siobhan will be waiting for you,” she said.

  He straightened his jacket and adjusted his necktie. He no longer looked angry, but he was distant, cautious.

  “I apologize for troubling you, Erin. I’ll be leaving now.”

  She felt like a wall had sprung up between them, like those sheets of bulletproof glass between the telephones in prison visiting rooms. She wanted to touch him, but couldn’t think how to reach him.

  “I’ll see you later,” she said, unconvincingly.

  “You know where I’ll be,” he replied.

  Chapter 8

  Erin and Rolf stepped out of the elevator into Major Crimes. Webb and Vic were at the whiteboard, conferring. They looked up in surprise.

  “Get rid of the lowlifes?” Vic asked.

  She ignored the question. “Liam McIntyre was behind the restaurant hit,” she said.

  “You sure about that?” Webb asked.

  “Either he did it, or someone thinks he did,” she replied.

  “Carlyle tell you that?” Vic asked with an edge of contempt.

  “No,” she said. “He very specifically didn’t tell me that.”

  “Which means he thinks McIntyre was involved, but doesn’t want to rat out his buddies,” Webb said, understanding. “So what was the hit on McIntyre? Retaliation by the Lucarellis?”

  “Could be,” Erin said. “They wouldn’t have to know for sure. If they even thought McIntyre was involved, they might’ve moved on him.”

  “Were they tailing him, you think?” Vic asked. “They didn’t just get lucky and run into him.”

  “Drugs,” Erin said thoughtfully.

  “What about them?” Webb asked.

  “This whole thing was about drugs.”

  “Yeah, we know,” Vic said. “In other news, Manhattan’s an island. You wanna buy a bridge?”

  “I mean, it was business, not personal,” she said.

  “No Godfather impressions,” Webb warned Vic, who gave him a look of artificial innocence.

  “Rojas was meeting with Conti to do a drug deal,” Erin explained. “What if the hit was to break up the deal?”

  “I think we agree that’s what happened,” Webb said. “We’ve been over this. That’s why they got shot.”

  “But Rojas isn’t dead,” she said.

  “Not confirmed dead,” Webb corrected.

  “Let’s assume, just for a second, he’s still alive,” she said. “Suppose he’s on his way into the meeting, but the shooting starts before he gets inside. He gets away. Now he’s got a load of product to unload, but his deal fell through, his local contacts are dead, and he’s lost the guys he brought with him. He’s got to do something fast, or he’ll have to answer to his bosses down in Colombia. Then suppose he hears from this Irish guy who says he can move some drugs.”

  “So Rojas murders the guy who threw him a lifeline?” Vic was skeptical.

  “Not right away,” Erin said. “Maybe he does the deal first. McIntyre was hopped up on something when I saw him. I wonder what the Homicide boys will find when they run his bloodwork. A few milligrams of Colombian pure, I’m guessing.”

  “Then what? Why kill McIntyre?” Web rubbed his chin.

  She shrugged. “Paranoia. Suspicion. Or just snipping off a loose end. Liam didn’t strike me as the most trustworthy, balanced guy in the world. If I were in his line, I wouldn’t count on him. I’m guessing the whole thing looked just a little too convenient to a guy like Rojas.”

  “Pretty stupid of McIntyre,” Vic said. “Whack a guy’s associates, then do a deal with him right after?”

  “Risky,” Webb said. “Which might explain why he’s on a slab right now. It’s a decent theory, O’Reilly. Problem is, it’s—”

  “Thin,” Erin and Vic chorused.

  Webb gave them a sour look. “Am I that predictable?”

  “Thought you might say that,” Vic said.

  “But you’re right,” Erin said. “We need proof.”

  “Fortunately, McIntyre’s been murdered, which means we can get a warrant for his home and place of business,” Webb said. “I’ll put in the paperwork. You two, find out where he hangs out. If he got high before your meeting, he may have some stuff at home, even if his main stash is somewhere else.”

  “The Irish aren’t gonna like you for this,” Vic said to Erin.

  “Really? That’s a shame. Their approval was so very important to me.”

  She kept her tone light, but he was right. Evan O’Malley wasn’t likely to take kindly to an investigation into his drug business.

  Liam’s home address was on Nassau Street, on the fourth floor of an old brick building with a boarded-up diner on the ground floor. Erin, Vic, and Rolf showed up with their warrant. Lawton and Crawford from Homicide met them there. Webb had stayed behind at the precinct to continue coordinating the efforts of the alphabet soup of government agencies.

  “I guess it’s true,” Vic said, looking over the run-down apartment building. “Crime doesn’t pay.”

  “There’s plenty of money in drugs,” Erin said. “Liam just put a lot of it right back up his own nose.”

  The building’s superintendent was nowhere to be found, but Lawton had Liam’s keys. While he jingled them around, trying to find the right one for the outer door, Crawford unwrapped a piece of chewing gum.

  “The wife says it’s better for me than cigarettes,” he said, popping the stick into his mouth and chewing morosely. “But it’s not the same.”

  “Your wife’s right,” Erin said.

  “You smoke?” Crawford asked with a hint of hope.

  “Sorry, no.”

  “I was a little surprised to hear from you,” he went on. “Who’s got jurisdiction over this mess, anyway?”

  “Technically, you guys,” Vic said. “We’re just being good neighbors, helping you out.”

  “We figure anyone’s inside?”

  “Nope.”

  “But you’re wearing vests,” Crawford observed. “Even the dog.”

  “I’ve kicked in a lot of doors,” Vic said. “Every now and then, someone shoots at me. How come you didn’t tac up?”

  “Guy lived alone,” Crawford said. “No reason to think anyone’s home. Besides,” he added, looking down at himself, “I don’t fit into my vest so good anymore. I blame the nicotine
withdrawal. I just keep putting on weight.”

  “I blame the street hot dogs,” Lawton said over his shoulder.

  “If you guys don’t have vests, we’re going in first,” Erin said. She’d seen one fellow officer die from an unlucky bullet and didn’t want to see another go the same way.

  “Fine by me,” Lawton said. “Here’s the key.”

  They went up the stairs single file, Vic in the lead, Erin and Rolf behind him, Lawton and Crawford bringing up the rear. Vic and Erin had their sidearms in hand, just in case. The stairway was narrow and smelled like cigarettes and mold. Plaster was peeling from the corner of the doorframe.

  Vic paused. He glanced at Erin and cocked his head at the door, pointing silently toward it. She saw what he’d seen. The door was slightly ajar.

  She nodded and wrapped her hands tighter around the grip of her Glock.

  Vic kicked the door open and shouted, “NYPD! Hands in the air!”

  That was as far as he got. There was a sound like a giant piece of cloth being ripped down the middle. Chunks of plaster and splinters of wood exploded into the hallway. Vic hurled himself backward, stumbling and spinning against the wall on the opposite side of the door from Erin.

  The cloth-tearing sound happened again, in a shorter burst this time. Erin watched bullet holes punch through the wall, each one leaving a puff of plaster and brick dust in the air.

  Some detached, clinical part of Erin’s brain told her they had a shooter inside Liam’s apartment, armed with an automatic weapon, probably a submachine-gun. It sounded just like the weapon that had killed Liam. Vic was still on his feet and didn’t look like he’d been hit, which was good. Stepping into that doorway was probably suicidal. He was about four feet away from her and might as well be on the far side of the East River.

  “Holy shit,” Lawton said in a quiet, conversational tone, like he was commenting on the weather.

  “Call for backup,” Erin snapped at him.

  “You in there!” Vic yelled. “This is the police! Drop the gun before someone gets hurt!”

  The shooter’s answer was another long burst of gunfire, sprayed indiscriminately through the door and into the wall. Erin dropped into a crouch, which turned out to be a good idea. Two sizable holes were punched through the wall more or less where she’d been standing. Rolf barked sharply, standing tense and ready, but there was no way she was going to send him head-on at the gunman.

  Vic made eye contact with her and she knew what he was going to do. She swallowed and got ready to cover him.

  The gunfire paused for a second and Vic made his move. He ducked low, leaned around the doorframe, and fired three shots from his pistol. “Cover!” he shouted. Then he lunged into the room, keeping low.

  Erin followed up, moving to the other side of the doorway and thrusting the barrel of her Glock around the door. She caught a quick glimpse of movement in the corner of her eye and pivoted just in time to see a man fling himself out the window. He didn’t bother to open it first, he just went, one arm in front of his face, straight through the plate glass.

  Vic stood in the middle of the room, pistol dangling from one hand, mouth hanging open. Erin and Rolf had time to take two steps into the apartment before they heard the thud of the man hitting the ground, four floors down.

  “Did he just do a Peter Pan?” Vic wondered aloud.

  “Yeah,” Erin said. She was already on her way out of the room. She squeezed passed Lawton and Crawford on the stairs. Lawton was talking to Dispatch. Crawford just looked confused.

  “Where you going?” he asked as she rushed back the way they’d come.

  “And that’s why we wear vests!” she snapped, not bothering to explain herself. She took the steps two at a time, Rolf flowing down the stairs right beside her. They raced out the door and around toward the alley. Erin was expecting to find a dead body, or at best a guy with two broken legs. What she saw instead made her shake her head in silent admiration. The luckiest criminal in Manhattan had fallen four stories, blind, into an open dumpster filled with bags of something soft enough not to smash him to pulp.

  She saw the torn trash bags and scattered litter where he’d landed and hauled himself out. He was obviously still able to move; there was no sign of the gunman himself. But she did see something almost as good. He hadn’t made it completely unscathed. A smear of wet blood marked the side of the dumpster.

  “Rolf!” Erin said.

  The Shepherd immediately snapped to attention, ready for orders. She pointed to the blood and gave him his German “search” command.

  “Such!”

  The blood was still warm and the trail was very fresh. A single sniff was all it took for the K-9 to lock on to the scent. Then he was off and running. Erin kept him on leash. She didn’t want him to get too far ahead, especially since she hadn’t seen a gun in her quick scan of the dumpster. That meant her guy was probably still armed.

  “Erin! That way!”

  The shout came down from above, like an angel calling an Old Testament prophet. Or, in this case, like a Russian-American detective yelling out a fourth-story window. She glanced up and saw Vic leaning out over the alley, pointing the same way Rolf was pulling.

  “In pursuit!” she called back. “We got the scent!”

  “I’ll call backup and secure the scene!” he replied. “Go get him!”

  She’d half expected him to leap out the window and join her. It was gratifying to see Vic displaying common sense.

  Rolf forged ahead, nostrils flaring, tail wagging, having the time of his life. He knew what was at stake: his favorite chew-toy as a reward. All he had to do was what he’d done a thousand times in training. He hustled around a corner toward the street. Erin just hoped the guy didn’t have a car waiting for him. Rolf couldn’t track a car.

  But the dog didn’t get all the way to the street. He stopped at a manhole cover, snuffled at it, and scratched with his front claws.

  “Good boy,” Erin said, crouching beside him. She could see the flakes of rust where the cover had been jimmied open and another smear of blood on the lip of the lid. She knew where the guy had gone.

  But it was a tricky tactical problem. Either he’d kept running, or he was waiting at the bottom of the shaft with a gun in his hand. If she opened the hatch, she might get her head blown off. If she didn’t, he might get away.

  This was exactly the sort of situation a flashbang grenade would be perfect for. Unfortunately, after a few too many accidents, the NYPD didn’t use them anymore. Erin had her sidearm and backup piece and that was it.

  While she considered her options, a squad car pulled up outside the alley, less than ten yards from her. A pair of uniforms jumped out, probably in answer to Vic’s call. They must’ve been right at the corner. Erin was wearing a vest that said POLICE in big white letters, but she held up her shield just in case.

  “What’s up, Detective?” one of the officers asked.

  “Got a 10-34S,” she said, giving the code for an assault in which shots had been fired. “Perp did a rabbit, I’m pretty sure he’s down here.” She toed the manhole cover.

  “Let’s go get him!” the other officer said. He was a freckle-faced kid, fresh out of the academy by the look of him.

  “He still got the gun?” the older officer asked, more practical and less adventurous.

  “I think so,” Erin said.

  “There’s three of us, Sarge,” the rookie insisted. “Plus the dog. We got this.”

  The veteran gave him a look. “And there’s gonna be three of us going home at the end of the shift, kid. Plus the dog. I’m not gonna tell your mama her boy got capped on my watch. Stay away from that hole.”

  The kid looked disappointed but obeyed.

  Erin put her mouth close to the manhole. She was pretty sure the heavy iron would stop a .45 slug. “Hey, you down there!” she shouted.

  No answer.

  “We know you’re there!” she called. “This is the NYPD! Where do you think you�
��re going to go? We’ve got thirty-five thousand officers we can call up. You can give up, or we can come get you. If we get you, and we will, you’re likely to get shot. So far you haven’t tagged any cops. But if you hit one of us, we’re going to get mad. Let’s end this day on a good note for everyone.”

  “Chinga tu madre.”

  The reply was faint but audible, and very impolite. Erin didn’t speak much Spanish, but she understood that much. She also had a pretty good guess who the guy was, based on his language of choice.

  “Diego Rojas,” she said. “Give it up. It’s over.”

  “You want me, perra, you come get me.”

  “Listen, buddy,” she shot back. “You’re hurt. You’re stuck there. If you could run, you’d already be gone. I’ve got all day. Hell, I’ve got all week. It’s going to get pretty cold and dark down there. You need medical attention. Give it up. I promise you’ll get a doctor.”

  More officers were arriving on scene. Erin stood up from the manhole as the Patrol sergeant approached.

  “What do you think?” he asked in an undertone.

  “He took a swan dive from the fourth floor,” she whispered back. “He’s lucky he wasn’t killed. No way is he running. He’s hurt bad. You see his blood there?”

  “Gotcha,” the other officer said. “I’ll call HNT.”

  Erin nodded. This was definitely a job for the Hostage Negotiation Team. There weren’t any hostages, of course, but they were the guys to bring in to talk down a barricaded suspect. The Patrol sergeant keyed his radio and called Dispatch with the request.

  “Copy,” Dispatch replied. “Negotiator is en route. ETA fifteen minutes.”

  “We’ll set up a perimeter,” the sergeant said.

  “Let’s get some storm sewer plans,” Erin suggested. “Set some officers at choke points?”

  “Copy that,” the sergeant said. He barked orders to the other uniforms. They quickly got organized, two pairs of patrolmen going to the nearest other sewer access points and locking down the site.

  Erin was content to let their target marinate in the sewer. A little softening up would make him easier to take in. She pulled Rolf’s rubber Kong ball out of her jacket pocket and tossed it to him. The K-9 snatched it out of the air, plopped to his belly, and started happily gnawing. He’d done a good job and knew it. All was right in Rolf’s world.