by Steven Henry
“You asking for one?” Webb asked. “I don’t think you need legal counsel. You’re not worth it.”
Knox shot a look Erin’s way, and even before he opened his mouth, she realized why Webb had brought her into the room. It wasn’t just as a learning experience. She could’ve learned as much from the observation room next door. The Lieutenant was deliberately provoking Knox, knowing a violent, arrogant young man was more likely to slip up in the presence of a woman who’d smacked him down. Knox would want to impress her, display his plumage like an underworld peacock.
“Then what the hell am I doing here?” Knox snapped.
“You assaulted a police officer… at least, you tried to,” Webb said.
“Hey, I never did nothing to her,” Knox retorted.
“You don’t have to be competent,” Webb said. “Taking the swing was enough to place you in violation of New York’s Penal Code, Section 120.08. O’Reilly, would you enlighten our guest as to this section of the code?”
Like any patrol officer, Erin knew that part of the state’s code by heart. “Assault on a peace officer, police officer, fireman, or emergency services personnel,” she recited.
“I never touched you!” he protested.
“That’s because I tossed you on your ass,” she said, smiling with artificial sweetness.
“You did some kind of sneaky judo move when I came at you!” he said. “In a fair fight I’d knock your teeth out!”
“Okay,” Webb said. “You’ve just confessed to a Class C violent felony. That’s worth a maximum of… what, O’Reilly?”
“Up to fifteen years.”
“Right. Fifteen years,” Webb said. He made direct eye contact with Knox for the first time in the conversation. “So maybe I was wrong, Mr. Knox. Maybe you’re worth our time after all.”
Knox was sitting up straight now, and Erin saw sweat beading on his forehead. “Hey now,” he said. “I didn’t hurt her.”
“That’s good,” Webb said, his voice becoming soothing, the voice of a concerned man with nothing but the best intentions. “And I may be able to help you dig yourself out of the hole you’re in. But for me to help you, you have to help me.”
“What do you want, asshole?” Knox demanded, trying to cover his fear with defiance. It didn’t work. Erin didn’t need a nose like Rolf’s to sense the fear radiating out of this guy. He was all bluff and brag, no real courage.
Webb ignored the insult. “I want to know about William O’Connell.”
“Fourth-Place Billy?” Knox blinked. “What for?”
“Why do you call him that?” Webb asked.
Knox laughed nervously. “He likes horse-racing,” he explained. “But he’s no good at picking winners.”
“Of course,” Webb said. “Do you play the ponies, Damien?”
“No way, man. Good way to lose all your money.”
Webb nodded understandingly. “Poor Billy lost a lot, didn’t he?”
Knox nodded along with the detective, relieved at the innocuous turn to the conversation.
“He owed money to a bunch of guys,” Webb went on. “One of them was Frankie Fingers.”
“So? Lotsa guys owe Frankie.”
“Yeah, Frankie’s in on a lot of action,” Webb said.
“What about it?” Knox challenged. “Yeah, guys get in to Frankie for a few large. He lets ‘em run up a little credit line.”
“How’s he do his collections?” Webb said. “When that credit line runs out?”
“Gary and me help him out sometimes,” Knox said, referring to Thug Number Two, Gary Morgan. “So does Billy.”
Erin was having trouble following the thread of Webb’s thinking, but this revelation caught her attention. William O’Connell hadn’t just owed money to Fergus, he’d been working for him.
Webb must have been as surprised as she was, but he didn’t show it. “Yeah,” the lieutenant said. “He’d go around to talk to them when they got too far behind, flash his piece, make sure they got the message?”
“Yeah,” Knox agreed.
“Slap them around a little to put some sense into them?” Webb suggested.
“Nah, Billy was no good for that,” Knox said. “You ever see the guy? Any muscle work, you’d want Gary or me.”
Erin couldn’t believe what she was hearing. There was a hardened criminal in front of her, confessing to more and more crimes, all for what? To recover his image after being beaten up by a woman half his size. She’d always considered her small stature and gender as disadvantages in her profession, but she was re-evaluating that conclusion.
“So if the debtor won’t pay up when Billy comes calling, Frankie sends you in to take care of business,” Webb said, taking care not to mention that O’Connell was in no condition to make further collection calls. “Good idea. You look like a guy who knows how to convince people.”
Absurdly pleased, Knox preened a little in his seat. “Nobody wants to mess with me,” he said.
“I expect you get paid pretty well for that work,” Webb said.
“We get a percentage,” Knox said. “It’s a commission, like.”
“Does Billy make the same percentage?”
“Nah,” Knox said. “He’s working off debt.”
Webb nodded. “How much does he owe Frankie?”
Knox shrugged. “Dunno. I don’t keep track of that shit.”
Webb stood up. “Thanks, Damien. I appreciate the help. If you can keep this good attitude, I think we can work something out with the D.A. I’ve got some other things to take care of, so why don’t you just relax a little. You a coffee drinker?”
“It any good?” Knox asked.
“It’s police coffee, so it tastes like shit, but it’s strong,” Webb said with a friendly smile.
“Sure, why not?”
“I’ll have a cup brought in,” Webb said.
Damien sat back in his chair as the lieutenant motioned Erin to the door with a sideways tilt of his head.
*
“Morgan next?” Erin asked, once they were in the hallway.
Webb nodded. “Let’s do this. You and me, just like before. Jones, Neshenko, you can observe again. Anyone have any questions? You clear on what we’re doing?”
“We’re looking for corroboration,” Jones said.
“Exactly,” Webb said. “We get him to support what Knox just said, we see if anything else pops, then we see what we can squeeze out of Fergus. But we need to be flexible. If another avenue opens up, we’ll take that and see where it leads.”
When they looked through the one-way glass at Gary Morgan, Erin saw the differences between him and Knox right away. Knox had tried to be cool, pretending that getting beaten up and arrested was something that happened to him all the time. Morgan looked terrible. His face was pale, his eyes hollow. He hunched over the table in the interrogation room, holding his stomach. Erin wondered just how hard Vic had hit him, and hoped the guy wasn’t seriously injured. He’d seemed fine earlier, when they’d brought him in. Now she could see sweat running down his face.
“We need a different approach here,” Webb said. “How’s he look to you?”
“Like hell,” she said.
“Yeah,” Webb said. “Neshenko, what’d you do to him?”
“A couple to the gut, one on the back when he folded over,” Vic said with a shrug. “He’s fine.”
“Remind me never to get in a fistfight with you,” Jones said.
“Okay,” Webb said. “Here we go.” He opened the door and went in, Erin on his heels.
“Gary Morgan, I’m Lieutenant Webb, NYPD,” the lieutenant said. “This is Detective O’Reilly. We need to talk to you. We’d like to help you, and we hope you can help us.”
The prisoner’s eyes darted back and forth between the two of them. “I need protection, man,” he said.
It wasn’t what either of them was expecting. Erin felt her mouth open, with no idea what was going to come out. Webb, more used to interrogations, just raised an
eyebrow. “From what?” he asked, his voice giving nothing away.
“They’re gonna kill us,” Morgan said.
Erin realized that the man wasn’t in pain, at least nothing serious. He was scared.
Webb leaned forward, his face earnest. “We can protect you,” he said. “But to do that, I need you to tell me who’s coming after you.”
“The same guys who got Billy,” Morgan said.
“You heard what happened to Billy?” Webb asked.
“Yeah,” Morgan nodded emphatically. “I got a call from a guy, he told me Billy got whacked this morning.”
“You discuss this with Frankie and Damien?” Webb asked.
“Nah, man, I was about to when that bitch and her partner busted in.”
“So you and Billy were in it together,” Webb said, giving no indication of what “it” was, letting Morgan fill in the blanks himself.
“It’s crazy, man,” Morgan said. “We weren’t into anything heavy. Nothing you’d think a guy would get killed for. Crazy, like, out of their minds.”
Webb leaned even further forward. “Who’s crazy enough to blow up Billy?” he pressed.
“Cars, man,” Morgan whispered, and for a second Erin had no idea what he was talking about. Then she remembered the nickname.
“Cars Carlyle,” she said aloud.
Morgan nodded again. “Yeah, him! Dude’s quiet and calm, like, but he’s nuts. I heard he killed a guy in a barfight once, just beat his head in with a chair leg, for nothing! And he blows shit up, too, with this homemade shit he makes, like, in his basement!”
“He’s got a bomb lab in his basement?” Webb asked, his expression polite skepticism.
“Well, maybe not the basement,” Morgan said. “But he makes bombs! And he’s out to get everybody on Frankie’s crew!”
“What for?” Webb asked.
“I don’t know!” Morgan almost screamed it out. “Maybe he wants Frankie’s book. Maybe Frankie just pissed him off. Ask Frankie. You gotta help me, man!”
To the surprise and embarrassment of both detectives, Morgan began to cry, snuffling and dribbling snot. Webb glanced at Erin. She shrugged. Webb stood up.
“Thanks for the information, Gary,” he said, his tone compassionate. “We’ll look into Carlyle. And don’t worry. Nobody’s going to blow you up, as long as you’re here with us. I’ll have them bring in some coffee. Just sit tight for a bit. I’ll be back.”
*
In the hallway again, the detectives congregated. Webb leaned back against the wall and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What the hell is going on?” he muttered.
“Turf war?” Vic guessed.
“Civil war in the O’Malleys,” Erin suggested. “Carlyle and Fergus both run sports books. Maybe Frankie was crowding Carlyle’s territory, like Vic’s thinking, and Carlyle hit one of his collection guys.”
“You think that means he’s planning to take out the others, too?” Webb asked.
She thought it over. “No, I don’t,” she said. “It wouldn’t make sense. O’Connell doesn’t exactly seem like the toughest guy in the Irish mob. If you were going to take down this crew, why start with him and put the others on guard?”
Jones nodded. “Especially if you’re using bombs,” she said. “Why not bomb the bar where these guys hang out instead? Take them all out at once.”
“Is it enough for a warrant on Carlyle?” Vic asked, cocking his head at the interrogation room’s door. “What he said?”
Webb shook his head. “No, way too thin. He doesn’t even have a good reason why Carlyle would try a hit. He’s heard Carlyle’s a scary S.O.B., but it all sounds like street gossip and trash talk. He’s never seen Carlyle’s bomb shop, if it even exists.”
“What if we lean on Fergus? He might have something,” Jones said.
“Yeah, we’ll try,” Webb said. “Jones, you’re with me on this one. O’Reilly, you and Neshenko watch.”
“Sir…” Erin began, then stopped.
“Something wrong, Detective?” Webb asked with a raised eyebrow and an expression of mild interest.
“No, sir,” she said, bottling up her irritation. She’d wanted to protest being sidelined for this interrogation, the most important one of the three, but she’d remembered she was the least experienced detective on the squad. You didn’t pinch-hit with a rookie when the game was on the line; you went with your proven sluggers.
*
“Does it bother you?” Erin asked Vic. She stood beside him in the observation room, staring through the glass at Franklin Fergus. Webb and Jones were conferring outside, getting ready to get the ball rolling.
“What?” Vic asked.
“Getting benched.”
Vic shrugged. “We can’t all go in there. I’ll get my turn. Hey, I got to beat down a scumbag, so it’s not a bad day for me.”
“You,” she said, “are a brutality lawsuit waiting to happen.”
He shrugged again. “I followed the rules. Morgan hit me before I put him on the floor. Anyway, these guys are assholes. You think they’re going to sue the department? For what? They didn’t even break anything.”
Erin shook her head. “Vic, you’ve got to watch yourself. You can’t go beating up all the thugs you meet.”
“Hey, if I see Rodney King, I’ll cut him some slack,” Vic said. Then, seeing that she didn’t smile, he spread his hands. “Come on, Erin. You were there. Frankie ran for it, these two jailbirds jumped in front of us. I might’ve chucked the one guy a little hard, but he’ll be fine. He got up fast enough, till you dropped him again. We didn’t start this.”
She sighed. “Yeah, you’re right this time, and I admit it, that was pretty satisfying.”
“Quiet,” Vic said. “The show’s starting.”
Webb and Jones had entered. Frankie Fergus sat in his chair, looking as comfortable as a guy could who’d been dragged off a fire escape by a German Shepherd.
Webb didn’t waste any time. He waded in right away. “Listen up, Frankie,” he snapped. He walked up to the table, planted his hands on the tabletop, and put his face as close to Fergus as possible. “Your guys are getting whacked out there. Fourth-Place Billy was the first to go, and Morgan thinks he’s next. What do you think?”
Erin was watching her commanding officer, trying to pick up whatever she could from his body language for future usage, so she almost missed Frankie’s reaction. The thug had pretty good self-control compared with his underlings, but his eyes went wide, his jaw tightened, and every muscle in his arms and shoulders tensed. He didn’t say anything, but Webb had his full attention.
“Oh, you didn’t know about Billy?” Webb asked. He hadn’t missed the signs of surprise, either. “Look, Frankie, I know you’re making gambling book. But I’m with Major Crimes, not Vice. I don’t give a damn if you’re running numbers. But when someone’s blowing your people up, that’s my business. So if you want to sit there and do that whole silent interrogation bit, fine by me, but I’ll be standing over here sizing up your ass for my size twelve boot.”
Erin saw something strange. As Webb was talking, Fergus relaxed. He’d regained his equilibrium, or else something the Lieutenant had said had calmed him down. The momentum in the room shifted toward the guy in the chair.
“Who’s Fourth-Place Billy?” Fergus asked, his face showing childish innocence.
“You know damn well who he is,” Webb said. “And I’ve got two guys who’ve already told me he works for you. So cut the crap.”
“Oh, right, that Billy,” Fergus said. “Geez, somebody killed him? That’s terrible!”
Webb hit the table with his fist and glared at the other man. “That’s right, keep jerking me around,” he growled. “See what happens.”
Jones stepped forward. She’d been standing by the door, watching the confrontation. Now she laid a hand on Webb’s elbow. “Sir, please,” she said.
Webb stood back, breathing heavily, scowling at Fergus. Jones sat down opposite the prisoner and began
talking in a quiet, reasonable tone.
“Mr. Fergus, I’m sorry about this,” she said. “Lieutenant Webb is upset because he’s worried more people are going to get hurt. The bomb that killed Billy could easily have done a lot more damage. His wife could have been in the car, too. Or the bomb could have malfunctioned and gone off late, on a crowded street. I need your help, Mr. Fergus.”
“I don’t help cops,” he said, folding his arms.
“I need you to help yourself,” Jones said. “Billy was your guy. Anyone who went after him is going to be looking at you as the next good target. You’re a big guy with the Irish. You know all the major players. You must have some idea who’s moving in on you. Solve your problem, and let’s get this guy taken care of before he puts another bomb somewhere… like under your bar.”
Fergus stared at her for a long moment. “I’ve never seen a cop with blue hair before,” he finally said. “They let you wear it like that?”
She smiled. “I used to work the gang unit,” she said. “It helped me blend in.”
“Really?” he said, giving her a once-over. “Aren’t you a little small for that kind of work?”
“The last guy I busted said the same thing, right before I slapped the cuffs on him.”
Fergus grinned. “That so? Damn, girl.”
“I know how the game works,” she said. “So what do you say?”
“Okay, listen, you didn’t hear this from me,” he said. “But you want to look close at Cars Carlyle. And that’s all I’ve got to say.”
*
“Well, that was interesting,” Webb said. The detectives had gone back upstairs to Major Crimes. Rolf welcomed Erin with a businesslike sniff and wag of his tail, then settled back down beside her desk.
“So where are we, sir?” Vic asked.
The lieutenant shrugged. He went to the whiteboard against the wall and wrote MORTON CARLYLE under the heading SUSPECTS.
“I don’t know, sir,” Erin said.
“What don’t you know, O’Reilly?” Webb demanded. “His name is all over this thing. O’Connell owed him money. O’Connell worked for a competitor of his in the Irish Mob. He’s a bomb-maker, for God’s sake.”
“Yeah, but Skip Taylor said the bomb wasn’t placed by a pro,” she said. “There’s something we’re missing here.”
