by Deek Rhew
Jon shook his head. “I can see your law classes are paying off, but what you’ve learned out there doesn’t apply here. As I told you, we are above the law. I’m afraid you’re going to miss a few more lessons before this is done. A process has been started, and there are no shortcuts, no quick paths through it. Please, just relax and let me guide you.”
“I don’t need guidance. What I need are answers. Who were those guys? Who are you, for that matter? You haven’t exactly explained that. Tell me, Jon, who exactly do you work for and what do you want?”
He shook his head again. “It doesn’t work like that. I’m asking the questions. If you cooperate, maybe I’ll answer what I can. If you don’t,” he paused, “we will be here a very long time.” The underlying threat hung in the air.
Good Cop seemed to have left on a bus for parts unknown. And Bad Cop’s mood had gone sour. Dread returned in all its syrupy thickness.
“Okay, now that we’ve cleared that up, are you sure I can’t get you something?” Good Cop suddenly returned with a sarcastic smile.
She shook her head.
“Fine.” He closed the file with the damning pictures in it, folded his hands on the desk and looked at her. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You are going to explain everything that went down this afternoon. Start at the beginning and do not leave anything out. Do I make myself clear?”
For a moment Monica held herself tall, but soon she slouched in her chair like an amateur boxer who had just gone three rounds with the champ...and lost. Badly. She nodded.
“Good. Whenever you are ready.”
Monica took a deep breath and began. “I went to the library because I have a huge Criminal Law midterm coming up...”
2
Earlier that day
Monica sat in one of a thousand seats in an auditorium NYU Law called a classroom. The instructor, his gloomy voice amplified by the microphone headset he wore, looked no bigger than a Ken doll from this distance. He had somehow turned the required Criminal Law class—a subject Monica had always found interesting—into a depressing saga of oppression and despair. Among the students and faculty, the graying, squat teacher had been given the nickname Professor Doom because he tended to deliver his lectures as if they foretold the end of the world.
Whatever. She didn’t have to like her instructors, just needed to get through their classes.
Just when she thought her brain would implode from boredom, Professor Doom wrapped up the monologue by reminding them about the midterm next week. “And remember,” he said, holding up a finger to emphasize his point, “it’s worth a full third of your final grade.” A collective groan went up from the audience.
Not seeing the point of attending when she could read the material online, Monica hadn’t been to class in almost two weeks. But Dr. Doom liked to throw in a few lecture-only, exam-worthy tidbits during his dreary pontifications, so she made it a habit of attending the class right before a test. Her next shift at the coffee shop wasn’t until tomorrow, and since she had no more classes that day, she could use the free time to study.
Her full-ride scholarship didn’t include living expenses or books, and her job only just covered her meager expenses. She’d managed to sweet-talk Tom Phillips, a fellow first-year with too much money and too many raging hormones, for use of the spare room in his apartment. But if she went there, she’d never be able to concentrate. He almost always had at least half a dozen friends over, drinking and talking too loudly. She couldn’t complain though, since the lack of rent fit perfectly into her tiny budget.
On occasion, she would let Tom lure her into his bed, but only to keep her sexual frustration at bay and the rust off her lady parts. Though she suspected he wanted more, Monica had her entire life for the whole relationship thing, so she kept him at arm’s length most of the time.
The school’s library had little to do with academia and more about friends getting together to catch up on the latest gossip—far, far more interesting than understanding the finer points of blameworthiness as a precondition for criminal liability. So Monica loaded her backpack and hiked almost two miles to the huge New York Public Library where she could get lost in the anonymity.
The walk seeped the tension from her shoulders and cleared her mind. Compared to her little Southern California hometown of Alabaster Cove, New York had a lot more texture and gritty layer upon gritty layer of big-city flavor. The crisp air put a tangy chill in her cheeks. The gray skies drizzled a thin November mist, and by the time she passed the huge, concrete lion sentries guarding the front steps of the library, her mind had cleared.
Monica hated the open-table layout of the reading room, so she had long ago found a secluded aisle among the last rows of dusty books. She slid to the floor and cracked the first book—an in-depth review on the criminal code and interpreting statutes—and lost herself in the text.
On the other side of the shelving unit, footsteps echoed among the tomes. She waited for the wandering intruder to find what they sought and move on. They lingered, though they did not seem interested in disturbing her peace and quiet. So she turned her attention back to the work at hand. Just as Monica became reacquainted with insanity and intoxication defenses, more light footsteps approached, and yet another intruder started talking with her unknown interloper.
Monica rolled her eyes and sighed. Really? Inside voices, people! She tried to tune them out. Library conversations should be soft and covert, no more than mere whispering. People could be so oblivious. The two clearly thought they were alone, but they just needed to look past the wall of Shakespeare and Marlowe to know they had company.
Morons.
“So, did you take care of the problem?” a man who sounded like Joe Pesci asked.
Focus, girl! Test looming. One-third of your grade. Professor Doom. But try as she might, she found herself drawn to the conversation.
“Yes,” came the reply. This voice had a smoky rasp, tinged with a slight accent, Latino maybe. “No need to worry. Lenny has been—how shall I put it?—permanently silenced, unless of course he learns how to breathe without a head and through three feet of concrete.”
Ummm... Holy shit! There is no way this is for real. Tom. It had to be him. He knew she came here and, at any second, planned to jump out. “Fooled ya! Ha! You totally believed it!”
But Tom couldn’t convincingly pretend to be a pancake if a piano fell on him. A reasonable imitation of Joe Pesci? That seemed way out of his league.
Trusting her intuition, Monica slouched down until she lay on the floor. She survived because she listened to her gut, and it said to not make a sound. Most people who had been through what she had would have hunkered down, frozen, trying to stay as invisible as possible. But Monica persevered where others perished. She glanced down the long corridor, but no one browsed the aisle in either direction. She could scream for help, but if these guys were half as bad as they seemed, she would spend her whole life waiting for her turn under the blade and in the concrete. What could she do?
Suddenly she knew. Her smart phone, one of the few splurges she allowed herself, lay in her satchel next to Tom’s apartment keys. Careful not to let her jittery fingers rattle the keys, she retrieved it. Monica had been taking notes for years from fast-talking professors and often recorded the lectures. Her fingers clicked and swiped the familiar pattern that started the dictation app. She sat up enough to slip the little marvel of technology on top of a particularly tall book on the bottom shelf, then froze as a shadow passed her hand.
“Good,” the Joe voice said.
Monica breathed a sigh of relief. Joe had shifted his leg but still seemed unaware of her presence.
He continued, “Lenny’s been getting greedy. He and his boys have been shorting orders, delivering sub-par product, and cutting into our profits. I’m a patient, generous man, but if I allowed this to continue, it would ruin my reputation. Did you receive the final delivery before his untimely demise?”
<
br /> “Yes,” the accented voice said, “and the product has been delivered, just as requested. They are waiting for word from you before sending it out. Here.”
Monica chanced pressing her eye to a gap between books. Two men occupied the narrow space on the opposite side of the shelving unit. A bald-headed man with his back to her handed a thick white envelope to the one who must be the Joe Pesci sound-alike.
“Joe” opened it, thumbing through a thick stack of hundred dollar bills, closed it back up, and tucked it in his jacket pocket.
Oh. My. God. This is for real. Her heart beat so hard in her ears she could no longer understand the conversation. She could only see the back of Baldy’s head, though when he turned, she thought she glimpsed a scar running from his left ear down to his jaw. She had an unobstructed view of the other man, though. He had a short, solid body and dark hair cut in a no-nonsense style. Nothing to note in the looks department until she saw his eyes: black, and as cold and soulless as a shark’s. They sent a chill up her spine.
But his voice… It made the hair on her neck stand up. He sounded like Mr. Pesci but spoke with an icy authority. Do not cross me, the tone said. Ever. This personality didn’t jive with the jovial little man she had come to know from movie comedies. This man was a heartless, merciless machine, about as far from bumbling as possible. How she could possibly know that, she wasn’t sure. But, as always, Monica trusted her gut.
Joe continued, “Let Frankie know it’s done. We can move the product to the distributors in a couple of weeks once we’re sure Lenny isn’t missed.”
“The guy was such an incompetent, meddling asshole. I don’t think anyone’ll go looking for him. And if someone did find out it was us, no one would care,” Baldy said.
“Don’t be an idiot. How many times do I have to tell you about being careful? I do not want this coming back on us. People come to our organization because they trust our brand and our ethics. You know that. Incompetent or not, if word got out that we removed the head of the biggest supplier in New York, it could seriously hurt our reputation.”
Baldy chuckled. “Removed the head. Literally. Funny, boss.”
Those black, soulless eyes fixed on the underling. Ice chilled her soul as Monica stared into their frozen depths. “It’s time to go. The spooks have been watching, and I don’t want anyone to see us together. Wait five minutes then get out of here before someone spots you.”
Baldy nodded, and Joe walked away. He turned around, and Monica jerked back from the gap. Had the mobster seen her?
When he didn’t say anything, her heart slowed a little, though its rhythm remained far above its normal cadence. The killer waited a few minutes, set something on the shelf, then turned and strolled away as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
Monica let out her breath and tried to calm her still-galloping heart. Had she really just seen what she thought she had? She hit stop on her phone and played back part of what she’d recorded. “I don’t think anyone will go looking for him...” She clicked stop.
Oh, shit. She had become a witness.
Now the big question: What did she plan to do about it?
Nothing! You do not want to be involved in this! Do not go to the police. What did you see, really? Nothing. Nothing at all. None of it made any sense or meant anything.
Besides, would the police even believe her? Every day, millions of nut jobs in this city screamed about conspiracy theories and government cover-ups. No one would listen. Just another crazy looking for attention. But the recording... Did that matter? Would it give her credibility? With each question, her doubts compounded.
She didn’t know the answers, but she did know she wanted out of the library as fast as possible. With trembling hands, she shoved her books and notes into her bag helter-skelter, tucked the phone in her pants pocket, and stood. Before leaving, she reached through the shelf and picked up the book Baldy had left behind. The Untouchables. How ironic.
Monica’s eyes scanned the reading room as she moved out of the rows of books, looking for Baldy and Joe, but she saw no sign of them. She moved quickly past the tables thick with people reading, toward the door leading to the massive stone hallways. She had almost made it when a man at a workstation she had just passed stood.
He fell in step beside her, gripped her by the arm, and whispered, “Come with me.” He pushed her in front of him, guiding her, naughty-three-year-old-like, towards the exit. You’re gonna get it when we get home.
Stunned, Monica let him lead her away.
Just before they reached the door, she tried to pull out of his grasp, but he held her arm in an iron grip. “Don’t...” he started to say, but the survivor took over, breaking her paralysis. With all her might, Monica swung her free elbow back into the man’s solar plexus. He stood a head taller and arched forward in response to being sucker punched. She thrust her weight up and back, and when the back of her head connected with the center of the man’s face, his nose broke with a satisfactory crunch.
Monica tore her arm free and swung around, kneeing the unprepared man in the groin. She didn’t weigh a lot, but she put all of her energy behind it. He doubled over, grunting in pain, rewarding her for her efforts.
In an adrenaline-driven sprint, she bolted for the door. She would hug her best friend, Angel, for making her take that self-defense class before heading off to NYU. Jesus, how many times would that girl save her?
Monica had just reached the exit when the man caught up to her again. He spun her around and slammed her into the wall, holding both of her arms this time. Fear and anger mingled as he stepped into her personal space, preventing further attacks, and whispered, “Are you trying to get yourself killed? If you are interested in living, knock it the hell off and come with me.” His voice, strained thanks to his injured testicles, carried the weight of someone used to being in charge.
He wore his jet-black hair clipped crew-cut short; sharp blue eyes stared unwavering into hers. A thin stream of blood trickled from his nose to his mouth and dribbled onto the front of his gray hoodie, but he did nothing to stop it. “Do I have your undivided attention?”
His words crushed Monica’s brief feelings of victory. She gritted her teeth and nodded.
“Good, now let’s go.” He opened the door and ushered her out. Instead of leading her down the walkway towards the front entrance where hundreds of people milled about, he dragged her into an office on the other side of the hall. Across the small space, he ushered her out a side entrance to a deserted alleyway.
Oh my god! Dead. I am dead. Do something! Her eyes darted about, looking for an escape. She had missed her chance to get away. No way would he underestimate her again.
He led her down the steps, around the corner, and toward the inevitable large black SUV. She had to do something, but he had left her almost no options.
Almost.
Her body tensed as he relaxed his grip ever so much while reaching to open the rear door of the death wagon. In one swift move, Monica dropped her purse and backpack, yanked her arm free, and bolted.
An Olympic sprinter spurred on by the blast of the starter’s pistol couldn’t have taken off faster. She just might escape. That thought had barely broken the surface of her mind when a building of a man stepped out from behind the SUV. She saw the obstacle too late to avoid it and collided with what may as well have been a concrete wall. The huge, unyielding man had the chest and shoulders of a linebacker and a face chiseled out of granite.
When she hit him, she bounced, sprawling onto her backside, stunned. Before she could regain her wits, the huge man reached down, picked her up, and gently set her in the rear seat of the SUV. He then buckled her belt.
“I’m not a toddler,” she informed him, embarrassed yet indignant.
“Just stay put.” His voice rumbled like rock plates deep in the Earth.
With that done, he glanced at Crew Cut’s bleeding nose. Crew Cut glared back at him. The big man’s lips cur
led into the slightest of grins as he shook his head and closed her door. Monica might be about to die, but at least she got in a lick of her own, and Granite knew it.
3
Jon hadn’t interrupted Monica’s monologue but instead took notes on a large yellow legal pad. When she finished, he set his pen down, leaned back in his chair, and flipped through the pages with his neat handwriting scrawled across the surface.
She waited, letting the silence spin out.
“So, you are living with this Tom Phillips?”
“Yes.”
“And he does not charge you rent?”
“No.”
“I see.” He scribbled something else on the pad. “This is in exchange for sexual favors?”
She leered at him. “Favors for him or favors for me?”
Jon looked at her over the top of his glasses. “Favors for him, Ms. Sable. Does he let you stay there in exchange for sex?”
“You cannot be serious.”
“You have been arrested for drugs and murder. What I’m trying to determine is if we add prostitution to the list of your admirable qualities.”
She leaned in, her hands folded on the table. “I think Tom is in love with me in his own schoolboy sort of way. One of the ways he displays this affection is by letting me stay with him free of charge. We have sex because we are young and horny. Please be sure to add that under your Admirable Qualities category, Mr. Smith. Do you need me to spell it for you? H, o, r…”
“Thank you. I’ve got it.”
To her satisfaction, he wrote young and horny at the bottom of the page. He continued to review his notes while she watched him in silence. “So you went to the library to study for a Criminal Law midterm?”
“Yes. It’s best to study up on a subject when preparing for a major exam. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Jon ignored the question. “So you are reading, and Mr. Pesci just strolls up to the other side of the bookshelf and starts babbling about someone he’s killed?”
