Vendetta

by Nancy Holder

“Yes.”

  “So you can resume the investigation into Easy Pickin’s. I want you both to go over there now.”

  Tess bit back the first word that occurred to her because she was raised better than that and said, “You got it, Cap. On my way.”

  Then she called Vincent.

  * * *

  Gabe was lost.

  Correction: Gabe had lost.

  It was snowing, and he just couldn’t go any farther. He hadn’t had any real sleep in days; he had nearly been killed, then left in the snow for half the night. He thought he might have a concussion. He was completely done.

  He was in the middle of a forest on a tiny road that barely registered on any mapping system. The car kept weaving as he nodded off and he was afraid he was going to hit a tree. He had to surrender and get some rest.

  It was bitterly cold out but he couldn’t risk running the engine. He piled all his extra clothes over himself, wishing for a blanket, and closed his eyes. The explosion replayed in his mind, and the tear gas, and Celeste. The images shifted in prisms like a kaleidoscope and he felt ill from exhaustion.

  I’m probably going to die if I do this.

  Just ten minutes.

  He set his watch.

  * * *

  No way, Cat thought, as she glanced through the window of Easy Pickin’s. Tess was emerging from her car just as Captain Ward pushed through the front door. He saw Cat and gave her a nod.

  “Captain Ward,” Cat whispered, “what are you doing here?”

  The captain gave a wave to the cashier, a bearded man who looked like a gangbanger, and gestured for Cat to wait with him while Tess entered the store. Tess drew up short when she saw their boss and Cat shrugged and gave her head a little shake.

  Captain Ward gestured for both of them to follow him past a row of “private viewing booths”—blech—and they trooped into a storage room stacked with cardboard boxes and a mannequin dressed in leather bondage gear.

  “You’ll thank me later,” Captain Ward said. “I’m a witness. You are not in contact with your father. You are here with me. By the way, the store owners have agreed to cooperate and you two are going to interview Ralph out there and probably do a search of this storage room. And I’ll be here the entire time.”

  Cat tensed. “Is something happening? Have they found my father?”

  “We’re here together. Your phone’s put away,” he said flatly. Tess nodded at him; after years of working together, Cat knew how to read Tess’s subtlest gestures: Tess was freaking out. She had yet to tell Cat what she’d found in the locker and now here they were with a babysitter.

  Cat’s phone rang, and Ward shook his head.

  “Don’t answer it.”

  “But, sir,” she began.

  “No,” he said. Then he looked at her full on. “Chandler, I’m protecting your career. I may not have appeared to support you in the interview room, but I do have your back.” Cat slid a glance at Tess. The wheels were turning, and Tess cleared her throat. She said to Cat, “Drug case.”

  “You’re sure?” Cat said, and Tess nodded.

  “We’re getting it from all sides,” she said. “And if we could get our witness some fulltime protection…”

  Cat followed. Tess wanted to free up J.T. and Vincent so they could deal with whatever she had found in the locker. Cat just hoped Captain Ward would still have their backs after they laid out the case for him.

  “Okay,” Cat said.

  Tess faced Captain Ward, and Cat positioned herself next to Tess, to show solidarity. “Sir, we have reason to believe that Special Agent Robertson is running a drug ring. We have a victim we believe was falsely imprisoned at Rikers, and we have a family member who is willing to testify. We did not bring this to you sooner because of the precinct’s connection to the DeMarco case, and we were afraid that if we exposed what we knew while were working with Robertson and Gonzales, we would endanger not only ourselves but our witness and the victim.”

  His shock was impressive. His anger, even more so. He narrowed his eyes and clamped his jaw and said, “Run it down for me. Fast.”

  * * *

  Half an hour.

  Gabe wiped the muzziness from his face as he processed that he had slept through his beeping alarm for twenty minutes. The interior of the car was frigid. He saw his breath in the glow of his phone.

  As dangerous as it had been, he was grateful for the extra rest. He wasn’t refreshed, but he was functional, which was the best he could hope for at this point. He unwrapped a granola bar and made himself eat it. As he chewed, he examined the APB site for more Reynolds sightings, preparing to note them on his phone’s mapping function.

  Both of the previous responses had notes appended to them. One said False sighting. The other, Inconclusive. So was he on a wild goose chase in the middle of an ice forest?

  Or are they feeding us false data?

  At the same time, his phone signaled that he had an incoming message. He punched open his message window. There was nothing there. Then the signal booster made a strange sound, like electrical pulses on a competing channel. Perplexed, he flipped to his message screen again.

  A string of gibberish had appeared in the text box, numbers and letters and emoticons… but mixed within the garbage were what appeared to be mapping coordinates: latitude and longitude.

  Am I intercepting something?

  He checked the map. If he applied the numbers as coordinates, then whoever was transmitting was at an inn thirty miles due west of his position. Had the signal booster made this data capture possible? Keeping it connected to his phone, he gave the object a cursory examination. He mentally replayed the few seconds Celeste had had his phone. Had she done something to it?

  He had just survived one trap. Was he so eager to rush into another?

  * * *

  Tess’s goody bag.

  Vincent found it just where Tess said she would leave it—in a trashcan close to his houseboat at the 79th Street Boat Basin. He inhaled a world of scents, including Angelo’s, and nodded to himself as he closed it back up and called J.T.

  * * *

  J.T. recognized Cat’s ringtone and picked up.

  He said, “I was wondering when someone would ca—”

  “Hi, J.T,” Cat cut in. “Okay, here’s the deal. I’ve filled in my captain and he’s willing to place our witness in protective custody. We can meet you both at that abandoned subway station on Worth. He understands why we have kept this off the grid and he guarantees he will not pursue any legal action against you.”

  “Against me?” J.T. said. His other line beeped. “Hold on.” He took the call.

  “J.T., it’s Vincent. I want to park Nico with you. Tess left me some evidence and—”

  “This is so perfect it’s scary,” J.T. said. “Cat’s on my other line telling me to bring ‘our witness’ to an abandoned subway station. Worth. She and Tess have told Captain Ward about the drug thing and he’s taking Nico into protective custody.”

  “You’re right. It is kind of scary and kind of perfect,” Vincent said. “I’m in. I’ll bring Nico to you and then I follow you in, protect you. Worth is a good choice. It’s dark.”

  “But what if Nico says something to Ward about you?” J.T. asked. “What if he, like, IDs you? He knows where you live. He knows we know each other.”

  Vincent hesitated. “We can ask him not to. Cat and Tess can say he’s wrong if he tries to blow my cover. And if worse comes to worst… I run.”

  J.T grimaced. “I’m all for saving lives, but this is a huge risk, Vincent.”

  “And some things are worth the risk. You’ve risked your life for me for over a decade.”

  “And I thought it would have gotten easier by now, not harder,” J.T. riposted. But he knew they really had no other choice, now that the status quo had changed. “All right. I’ll be here.”

  * * *

  The abandoned subway station reminded Vincent of the Canal Street station, where he had saved Catherine
from a speeding subway train after Special Agent McCleary and his goons had ambushed her. He hoped this wouldn’t be a replay of that day.

  He kept to the shadows, certain that Catherine knew he was watching over Nico as Captain Ward took custody of him. He saw the way her gaze lasered into the darkness, searching for him. He tried to send her a text message but they were underground. After he was sure the handoff was complete, and Cat, Tess, and J.T were safe, he went above ground and resent it.

  Then he headed for the old man’s shed, which Tess had described to him. He found it, but the old man wasn’t there, and it appeared that his little hovel had been ransacked. The food and sleeping bag Tess had mentioned were gone. His pennywhistle was cracked in half and lying on the frozen ground.

  Vincent smelled Angelo and Paul Dickinson everywhere. The Angelo-smell that lingered here was of an Angelo on insulin. He isolated the Dickinson scent from the items Tess had collected from his locker. They mingled on a set of three photographs tacked to the wall.

  He caught his breath.

  The first photograph featured a slightly younger version of Angelo DeMarco, and of a pretty, red-haired girl:

  Tori.

  He swallowed hard. Angelo and Tori were sprawled in a grungy room that looked like it was in an old warehouse or factory, and there were stacks of paperback books behind them. Angelo was holding a guitar and Tori appeared to be singing. Her head was thrown back and she was laughing. She had not laughed very often when they had been together. On the back, someone had written torimacto. According to Cat, that was Angelo’s nickname for Tori.

  In the second picture, Tori was posing at the head of a stone corridor with sharp hooks and chains dangling overhead. She was holding her nose and pointing to the hooks. She was pantomiming that something smelly was dangling from the barbs. Meat? Was this a slaughterhouse, maybe a packing plant?

  He turned the picture over. There was a scribbled set of numbers. 1293.

  The third picture showed Angelo standing by himself, standing outside a large factory with a falling down sign that read sant meat packing. On this one, Lantus was written on the back. Lantus was the name brand of a synthetic insulin for type-one diabetics.

  Like Angelo.

  Vincent looked inside Tess’s sack again and found a couple of empty plastic freezer bags. Attempting not to add any more of his own fingerprints to the photographs, he slipped the three pictures into a plastic bag.

  He did some Internet searching on his smart phone. Then he texted Catherine again:

  Tracking. Santangelo meat packing plant. 1293 Egret.

  It wasn’t dark out yet. He would have to be carful. Head down, Vincent headed out.

  * * *

  Fisherman’s Inn wasn’t an inn at all. It was a cheap motel that had never seen better days and never would see them. A white panel van was parked not in the lot but about twenty feet down a snow-encrusted path. Aside from the dead desk clerk and the sentry stationed at the front door of room 103, Gabe was the only person within fifty feet of the motel.

  Except for Bob Reynolds, who was tied to a chair inside room 103.

  Gotcha, Gabe thought, as he moved around a pine tree and drew his Beretta.

  A branch cracked behind him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  After Captain Ward, Tess, and Cat returned from Worth Street, Pamy approached the group with a sticky note and held it out toward Cat. Captain Ward intercepted the little square of yellow and said, “Who is Shannon Richardson? Oh.” He read the note. “Detective Chandler, ADA Lowan borrowed my car. Left a msg that something’s wrong w/it? I tried to call him but his phone makes this weird clicking noise. Can you ask him to call me?”

  “Thanks, Pamy,” Cat said. Obviously the woman didn’t know that Cat and Gabe weren’t on speaking terms. Cat did think it very strange that Gabe had borrowed her car, and hadn’t even had the good graces to—

  Reynolds. Gabe’s gone after him.

  One look at Tess, and Cat knew that she was thinking the same thing. Cat said, “Well, Captain, we’re closing in on end of shift and I’m wondering if you plan to maintain surveillance on me?”

  “We are bringing you a beautiful drug case,” Tess reminded him. “You have our witness in protective custody. How is he, by the way?”

  “You are bringing me the possibility of a drug case. So far all I have is hearsay evidence,” he countered. “And… he’s scared.”

  “Tess, please call our union rep for me right now,” Cat said.

  “You got it, partner.” Tess pulled out her phone.

  “I’m doing this to protect you,” Captain Ward said.

  Oh, my God, he sounds just like Gabe. And my father. Maybe they’re working together.

  Her lips parted. Maybe they were.

  “Cat? Are you okay?” Tess said.

  Stress and exhaustion and suspicion tugged at her. But shooting straight through it all were her priorities: Keep Vincent safe, find Angelo DeMarco alive.

  “Place the call,” Cat said, and Captain Ward raised his hands in the air as if she were holding him at gunpoint.

  “Okay. Backing off,” he said. “If you get any emails that incriminate you—”

  “That appear to incriminate her,” Tess said.

  “File your paperwork,” he snapped, and walked away.

  Once he was out of earshot, Tess said, “Oh, my God, is Gabe MIA? What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know.” Cat pulled out her burner phone. “Tess, Vincent sent me a message. I think he’s found where Angelo’s being held.” She texted him back on our way but the message was undelivered.

  Then Tess’s phone rang. “It’s J.T.,” she said. She put the phone to her ear. “Yeah, hi, babe, what? Oh, my God, are you all right? I’ll be right there.”

  She was a blur of movement as she grabbed her purse, hat, and gloves. “Someone roughed him up,” Tess said. “He’s at his place.”

  “What? Who?”

  “Two guesses,” Tess said. “Agents Ass and Hat.”

  “Go,” Cat urged her. “I’ll catch up with Vincent.”

  Tess was halfway to the door. “Call me.”

  “Same. Let me know how he is.”

  Tess had just made it out the door when Captain Ward planted himself in front of Cat. “Where did Detective Vargas go just now?”

  “A C.I. she’s been developing just called in,” Cat improvised. “He’s afraid he’s been made and he wants an assist.”

  He pursed his lips and raised his brows, the perfect picture of skepticism. “And you stayed behind to do the paperwork.”

  She took a breath. “Yes.”

  “Good. Because I’m staying late tonight. So I’ll be here when you finish it.”

  * * *

  He’s here, Vincent thought. I can smell him.

  Most illnesses brought with them odors that a beast could detect—part of a predator’s arsenal was its ability to cull a sick animal from the herd—but doctors also learned that some diseases carried with them a detectable smell. Diabetes was one of these. And Vincent caught that scent now, in the air.

  But it was the scent of a diabetic on insulin, which was different.

  The compassionate doctor inside Vincent rejoiced. Whatever else was going on, Angelo DeMarco probably wasn’t puking his guts out, or in a diabetic coma. Someone had shown him mercy by increasing the shelf life of their captive.

  So Paul and any co-conspirators—Vincent could tell there were other people in the vicinity—had not followed through on their threat to murder Angelo. He would be dead by now if they hadn’t dosed him.

  But that was just one of many things that didn’t add up. The inertia of ransom demands, the awkward drop and retrieval… a scarcity of leads and then a set of “clues” so obvious that they might as well as written the address of the Santangelo Meat Packing Plant, abandoned since the 1930s, in neon. Not to put too fine a point on it but this whole situation smelled. He had begun to think it was a smoke screen for Robertson and Gon
zales’ drug activities, but he couldn’t figure out exactly how.

  That was why he had ditched the car on the outskirts of the gutted factory district of Washington Heights—block after block of derelict buildings that reminded him of the training grounds where he and his buddies in Special Forces had run a hundred simulated ops until they could complete their missions without “dying.”

  The warehouses on the next block were in even worse shape, featuring rows of broken windowpanes and blasted-out loading doors. Beer bottles, cans, paper napkins and trash were mixed into the snow like buried treasures.

  He felt his burner phone vibrate. It could only be Tess, J.T., or Cat. He pulled it out and read a text from Catherine: there soon.

  He texted back, No. Stay away.

  He jogged in the shadows. The sun was just going down, slanting on crumbled toward and silos. He heard the sibilant whoosh of tires on asphalt. Four blocks behind him, a car moved very slowly down the street. Its lights were off. Vincent ducked behind a rusted-out mailbox and held his breath. A sentry on patrol? Had he been spotted?

  A thick whirl of snow splotched the top of his head, startling him. It was followed by another. And another. Wind blew snow like ocean waves and then fresh snow drifted down from the sky, weaving itself into the tapestry of odors that told him stories about the ramshackle, forlorn wasteland.

  And then the car smell became a diesel smell became a diabetic smell, and he dodged behind a concrete wall beside the mailbox lined with broken glass, walking in a crouch as fast as he could go as the car rolled past him.

  The car turned left onto another street. Vincent had to cross the street to keep up, and he wondered if it was a ploy to flush him out of the darkness. They might have infrared trackers on. If so, they probably already knew where he was. He selected the darkest section of the street, the angle of the weak sunlight obscured by the jagged roof of what appeared to be some kind of storage elevator, and blurred across the street. Hopefully anyone who was manning surveillance would assume they had a glitch and lose interest. Maybe they would continue to point at where they had last seen a dark orange human shape, focusing on where he had been, not on where he was.