Allegiance (Joe Logan Book 4)

by Michael Kerr

  “I phoned Arnie from Arizona a while back. He looked something up for me and told me to drop by if I made it back here. I decided to head this way, and here I am. How is he?”

  “Still in a coma. They’ve done tests and say that there’s still brain activity. I’m counting on him pulling through.”

  “If he can he will, Margie. He’s as tough as leather. But you need to stay away from the hospital. Someone out there wanted Arnie dead, thought that he was, and then searched your house for whatever they think he has. It’s my guess that they’ll target you now.”

  “Why me?” Margie said. “He didn’t talk about the job. I don’t know anything.”

  “They don’t know that. I need to enter your house and search it, and then pick you up from wherever you are and find a safe place for you to stay.”

  “Who’re they, Logan?”

  “I don’t know, yet. But I’ll find out and make it right.”

  Margie gave him the address of her brother and his wife, where she was staying with them in Melrose, close to the Yankee Stadium in South Bronx, and told him to be careful, and to put Della back on. She knew from past times that Logan was someone that got the job done, whatever it was. She doubted that being a civilian had changed him. He had been what Arnie said was ‘an all-round solid guy’.

  Margie and Della spoke for another minute, and then ended the call.

  “Margie says to give you the spare house key that I’ve got,” Della said. “Is there anything that I can do to help?”

  Logan shook his head when Della got the key from a drawer in one of the wall-mounted kitchen cupboards and handed it to him. “No,” he said. “Just keep a low profile, and if anyone calls by, don’t mention me.”

  “Okay. Will you be staying in the city?”

  “No. This was just going to be a visit for a couple of days. When I know that Arnie and Margie are safe I’ll be moving on.”

  “Where to?”

  He hiked his shoulders. “I never know till I arrive.”

  “Don’t you ever feel the need to settle down?”

  “No. I guess I try to kid myself that not much matters to me, apart from the sense of freedom I enjoy. I come and go as I please, just passing through with a rucksack on my back and a clear conscience. I’m a simple man, best left alone to go my own way.”

  “It sounds a lonely existence, Joe. I didn’t know how bad being alone could be until Ray died. I think I almost hated him for a while, as if it was his fault that he got cancer and left me at such a young age.”

  Logan said nothing. He had long ago decided that life was like cards being dealt out of a casino shoe: winning and losing hands. You never knew which you had until you’d played them. And the house always came out on top in the end.

  “I don’t suppose you want to stay here, instead of paying for a hotel?” Della said.

  He shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, but no. I intend to find out what went down, and deal with whoever is responsible for Arnie being shot. That will probably mean I’ll be in the firing line. I wouldn’t want you in it with me.”

  There was nothing else to say. Della hugged Logan, and then he left by the kitchen door to let himself into Arnie’s house.

  There was black residue from where CSI techs had dusted for prints. The place was a mess. Whoever had broken in had not been there to steal, but had been searching for something. It had to be information that Arnie had, and so it would be on a stick or disk.

  Logan went upstairs, reached up and twisted the catch that held the hatch to the loft in place. Lowered the aluminum ladders, went up and switched on the light, which was a bare bulb hanging on a cable from a beam. He smiled. Arnie had always been ultra careful. Anything that he considered too important to risk being taken was up here, hidden in a large space under the boarded floor. And as far as Logan knew, he was the only person that knew about it. He remembered Arnie telling him that if he ever got killed on duty, or even died of natural causes, then there would be items that would need to be disposed of or dealt with.

  Taking a small Gerber lock knife from a pocket of his fleece, Logan levered the thick section of chipboard up and leaned it against the bare brick wall behind it.

  There were three manila document wallets, an old plastic cassette tape case, a Glock 17 semiautomatic pistol, spare mag and box of ammo in the hidey-hole. Inside the case were half a dozen flash drives. He took everything, left the loft as he had found it and went back downstairs. A large canvas shopping bag was looped by its handles over an ironing board in a corner. He put the paperwork and case in it, then checked the Glock and tucked it in the back of his pants before leaving the house and going back to Della’s to return the key.

  “You found something that will help?” she quizzed.

  “I don’t know, yet. There are files and memory sticks.”

  “Do you have a laptop?”

  “No.”

  “You could use my computer.”

  “That would leave a trail. I’ll buy a cheap laptop, see what I’ve got, then take the hard drive out and destroy it.”

  “Can’t be too careful, eh?”

  “That’s right. If Arnie was shot because of something I’ve found, then someone wants it badly enough to kill for it.”

  “What will you do, take it to the police?”

  Logan shook his head. “Not till I know what it is.”

  “You didn’t come by car,” Della said. “You’ll need one. Ray’s old Ford is in the garage. My brother uses it when his is in the shop, and he’s kept it in good order. Take it.”

  “I’d have to change the plate, and there’s no guarantee that you’d get the car back.”

  “I hardly ever drive anywhere, Joe. I keep meaning to get rid of it. It’s one of a hundred things that I haven’t got round to doing yet. I feel like a swimmer out of her depth, treading water, not able to swim against the current. Does that make sense?”

  “What is, is,” Logan said. “You’ll wake up one morning and be able to make a fresh start. Life goes on. The dead don’t give a shit, so to let part of you die with them doesn’t make a lot of sense. Ray would have wanted you to enjoy your life.”

  Logan got another hug, and a damp patch on his fleece from the tears that ran from Della’s eyes.

  He climbed in the car and reached under the seat to pull the bar up and push backwards until he was as far from the foot pedals as possible. He had long legs that car manufacturers didn’t cater for. Being as sure as he could be that no one was watching, he drove out of the unlit garage and Della pulled the door down.

  Leaving the old Taurus on the second floor of a parking garage a block from the hotel, Logan used the stairs down to the street. He had stopped a couple of times on the way back, once to grab a bite to eat, and then to buy a cheap, refurbished laptop in a store by the name of Almost New.

  It was late when he finished up going through hard copy files and then the flash drives. A lot of the information was out of date and of no real significance. Arnie had details of a few unresolved cold cases that he had worked. He was like a pit-bull; never let go of a case. Homicides never got taken off the books, and Arnie was always digging, looking for new evidence and hoping that he could find something to bring perps to book.

  It was on the third stick he opened that Logan found a file of something current that could feasibly be connected to recent events. There was a name underlined in bold print: Patrick Fallon, and the names of three other people underneath it; Max Dalton, Jack Trask and Milo Searle. There was also circumstantial supposition that Fallon was responsible for the murders of at least three city officials, but no details that could be considered as proof. Another name listed was Benny. There was no surname, but there was a Brooklyn address next to it, and CI in brackets. So Arnie had a confidential informant. That was as good a place to start as any, after he had paid Margie a visit. All cases were the same, in that you had to find a lead, and then follow it back to whatever it led.

  CHAPTER FOUR />
  Max Dalton contacted Dustin (Dusty) Quaid by way of a burner cell phone. He needed two people whacked and one taken for interrogation, and considered Quaid to be the man for the job. As Max, Dusty had been a Navy SEAL and still lived by the mottos; ‘Ready to Lead, Ready to Follow, Never Quit’, ‘The only easy day was yesterday’, and ‘Don’t bother running, you will only die tired’.

  “I’ve got some urgent business that needs taken care of,” Max said. “Are you in a position to take the job?”

  “Affirmative,” Dusty said. Neither man used their names.

  “Meet me at the usual place and I’ll give you the details.”

  “I’m on my way,” Dusty said and ended the call. He enjoyed working for Dalton. The guy had been there, done it, and so had his respect. There was a bond of brotherhood between men like them, borne of knowing that in life or death situations they could count on each other implicitly.

  Dusty smiled as he slipped on his old soft leather Jackass shoulder rig that held his nine millimeter pistol, and then donned his almost matching leather blouson. He left his apartment in mid Manhattan, took the elevator down to the basement parking garage and climbed into his second car, a Bronze Nissan Sport Sedan, and hit the street, heading for the Bakehouse Bistro & Bar on Horatio Street in Greenwich Village, tucked away near the river; a perfect place to meet and eat and talk the talk.

  Max arrived a few minutes after Dusty, took a seat opposite him at a corner table and reached across to shake his hand. They ordered drinks, and the noise of other customers and background music was perfect for them to talk quietly, to plan abduction and death.

  Max handed Dusty an envelope with names and addresses, and told him what he wanted doing.

  “I’ll start by having the cop’s wife lifted,” Dusty said. “As for this Benny Cole, if he didn’t drown in the river we’ll find him. The awkward one is Newman. If he’s in a coma he’ll be in intensive care with round-the-clock protection.”

  “Do what you can,” Max said. “There’s no immediate threat to my employer, so we’re not on a countdown. These are just loose ends that need tying up. Newman may have some information that could prove embarrassing if it got out. I need to plug the dam before it breaks.”

  After leaving the bistro, Dusty made a couple of calls, then drove back to his apartment. He used ex-forces men that were known to him. They were pros that treated every job as a mission.

  Logan parked the Taurus in a space between two other vehicles on the street in Melrose where Margie was staying with her brother Tony and his wife Ellen. He sat in the darkness and watched and waited. Didn’t suppose that Margie was in any real danger, but always looked at the worst case scenario and prepared for it. If there was a contract on Arnie, then it could only be related to an investigation, official or otherwise, that he had been probably close to resolving.

  Walking leisurely up the sidewalk with his hands in his fleece’s pockets and holding the Glock with a round in the chamber ready to go, Logan did not see anything untoward; no figures sat in a darkened vehicle watching the house. He reached the corner and turned back to do another check before entering the front yard and knocking at the door.

  Two pixilated figures appeared behind the frosted, double glazed window set into the upper half of the door, and a female voice asked, “Who’s there?”

  “Logan,” he said. “Margie’s expecting me.”

  The door was opened by a thin, almost anorexic-looking woman with short, straight gray hair. At her shoulder was a fat, balding guy with a suspicious expression on his face. They both stepped back to make way for him to enter.

  Margie appeared behind them in the hallway. “Hi, Logan,” she said, rushing toward him. “It’s been a while. This is Tony and Ellen”

  Logan said nothing, as on tiptoe Margie stretched up, put her hands on his shoulders and gave him a peck on the cheek as he simultaneously ducked his head to make it possible. He was six-four and Margie was five-one. Do the math.

  “Arnie?” Logan said.

  Margie shook her head. “No change. I just got off the phone. I need to be with him.”

  Logan gave her a hard look. “Bad idea. I want you to come with me.”

  “But I―”

  “No buts, Margie. Arnie is well protected, you aren’t. I found some stuff at your house that could be the reason he was targeted. Whoever wants him dead will come for you,” Logan said, not sure that he was right, but with a gut feeling that he was.

  “What did you find?”

  “Some paperwork and flash drives. Have you ever heard Arnie mention someone by the name of Patrick Fallon?”

  Margie shook her head.

  “How about Jack Trask, Max Dalton, Milo Searle, or someone called Benny?”

  “No, those names don’t ring any bells. Arnie left the job at the front door when he came home. He didn’t…”

  “Didn’t what?” Logan said as she paused and her forehead creased in a frown.

  “The first name you mentioned,” Margie said. “A couple of weeks ago I remember that Arnie was watching Fox News, and when a guy was being interviewed, he said, ‘that piece of shit is heading for a fall’. I asked him what he meant, but he wouldn’t go into it. I’m sure the guy’s name was Fallon.”

  That was enough for Logan. He was on the right track. As a rule of thumb he discounted coincidence. He accepted that twists of fate were part of the big picture, but did not allow them to interfere with facts and his gut feeling. Instinct. You needed to take heed of it; it could save your life.

  “Get what you need and let’s go,” Logan said.

  “Where do you plan on taking her?” Tony said. “I need to know how to get in touch.”

  “No, you don’t,” Logan said. “What you need to do is take a short vacation, starting now. Someone will be trying to trace Margie. They’ll turn up here, and you wouldn’t want to be here when they do.”

  “I can look after myself,” Tony said.

  Logan wanted to smile, but didn’t. Just said, “Margie, remind your brother that Arnie is fighting for his life in Bellevue, and that he was an armed, experienced cop.”

  “He’s right,” Margie said, looking from Tony to Ellen and back again. “I shouldn’t have come here. You need to go away until Logan says it’s safe to come home.”

  “Okay, Sis,” Tony said. “I’ll make arrangements and be out of here in the morning. Call me when whatever is happening is dealt with.”

  It was less than ten minutes later when Logan and Margie left by the rear door and cautiously made their way back to the Taurus.

  “What’s the plan?” Margie said as Logan headed towards Port Morris to pick up the 278, cross the East River and drive through Queens to Brooklyn.

  “Arnie had a CI ‒ a confidential informant ‒ by the name of Benny. I have an address. He may be able to tell me what Arnie was working on.”

  “Why not just go to the police?” Margie said. “And give them whatever you found at the house.”

  “I’ll call in with it tomorrow, when I know a lot more than I do now. They’re restricted by procedure and due process, I’m not.”

  Frankie Baker and Lennox Washington climbed out of the stolen Chevy panel truck and walked up the path to the front door of the house without hesitation. This was a private home on a street in a residential area of mainly blue collar workers. Their job was simple; they had been told that the brother of a woman they had been sent to abduct lived here. If the woman was here, fine. If not, her brother would most likely know where she was.

  Frankie was a lot more than just a little uptight. He’d quit smoking two weeks ago and it was the hardest thing he’d ever done. He was eating more junk food, and when he wasn’t he was chewing gum until his jaws ached. His temper was short, and he needed to unload it.

  Lennox was as cool as Eddie Murphy used to be. He’d taken a snort or two of nose candy before leaving his converted loft on 163rd Street, and he was mellow. Being amped-up on snow was out of this world. He wa
s full of confidence and knew that he was invincible. Everything seemed clearer and better when he was high. He was Yang to Frankie’s Yin. They worked well together, but he was the more positive of the team; as bright as the sun, whereas Frankie was more like the dark side of the moon, negative and always imagining pitfalls that did not exist.

  Lennox rapped the glass with his knuckles. Watched as the shape of a guy moved down the lit hallway, and smiled as the door was opened.

  “Yes, who are you?” Tony said to the black man, whom he thought looked vaguely like Mike Tyson, and had the same build as the ex-boxer.

  “Friends of Margie,” Lennox said. “Is she here?”

  Tony attempted to close the door, but the muscle power behind the hand that pushed it back was overwhelming. And the heel of the same hand struck him in the chest with what he imagined to be the force of a mule’s kick, knocking him over like a ninepin. He struggled to breathe as he lay on his back and the two strangers entered the house.

  Frankie closed the door. Chewed furiously on the now tasteless wad of gum, and then kicked the fallen man in the side with enough force to crack two ribs and probably rupture his spleen. The loud groan of pain from the man instantly brightened his outlook and was almost as rewarding as a deep drag off a cigarette.

  “Stop it!” Ellen shouted from the door to the living room. “Leave him alone, you bastards.”

  Lennox chuckled; a rumbling hu-hu-hu. The scrawny bitch was staring at him as if he was a fuckin’ Martian. Funny how intimidation and violence got peoples’ attention far quicker than talking ever did.

  Frankie got hold of Tony’s shirt collar and dragged him into the living room, and Ellen actually stepped aside to let him pass.

  “Sit down on the floor, woman,” Lennox said to her. “And don’t move or speak unless I tell you to.”

  Ellen wanted to ignore him and just lash out with her hands and feet, but could see the menace in his dark unblinking eyes, so did as she was told.

  “I asked you a question,” Lennox said to Tony, who was lying on his back and trying to take shallow breaths to ease the pain in his side. “I’ll ask you once more, and if I don’t believe what you tell me, your wife will be the one that gets hurt. Where is Margie Newman?”