Marshall's Law

by Ben Sanders

  Avery didn’t answer. He held his fork flat at the midpoint and waggled it.

  Cohen said, ‘What’s Asaro saying? Tony, I mean.’

  Avery shrugged. ‘Nothing. He doesn’t want to talk.’

  ‘Not easy ordering a hit from prison.’

  ‘No, well. It’s not a perfect system.’

  ‘He been getting many calls?’

  ‘Only from his lawyer.’

  ‘What about visits?’

  Avery said, ‘Same again. He sees his legal guys and that’s it.’

  ‘So have you asked Tony straight up whether he knows anything about lawmen being abducted down in Santa Fe? Or where his daughter might be?’

  ‘He doesn’t want to talk. You put him in an interview room and it’s just dead air.’

  Cohen nodded. ‘Maybe I can change his policy. See if he knows anything about murder for bounty.’

  Avery slid his plate aside. He looked like he might ball his napkin, but he folded it twice and trapped it under his paired cutlery. He said, ‘You’re not going to cause me any grief while you’re here, are you?’

  Cohen shook his head. ‘All about deniability. Just got to tell everyone you ate breakfast at home.’

  He settled the bill and rode the elevator up to his room, locked himself in, and sat in the chair by the bed for a moment, thinking about next moves. He thumbed a brochure without seeing it, and then checked his phone. There were two missed calls from Karen Kaminski, his backup the day of the kidnapping. He pushed redial.

  When she picked up she said, ‘Hey. I came in early and Loretta called—’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘—and said you’re in New York.’

  Cohen closed his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose and said, ‘Only temporarily.’

  ‘Why are you up there?’

  He opened his eyes. ‘Why are you not convalescing?’

  She said, ‘I’m doing office work. And you got a message, actually: personnel at NYPD got back to you on a query, said you asked if they had a Lana working Brooklyn South Narcotics or something?’

  ‘Yeah. What’ve they got?’

  She said, ‘First tell me why you’re in New York.’

  Cohen said, ‘Trying to find who grabbed me.’

  ‘Based on what?’

  He didn’t answer straightaway. He could have a pleasant little holiday here and forget the whole ordeal. Stock up on hotel-branded stationery and go home full of Best Western buffet. At least it’d make Loretta rest easy. He said, ‘Based on not much. But I might have a start if you tell me what the message is.’

  She said, ‘They had a Detective Lana Greer assigned to their Organized Crime Control Bureau, ’09 to ’11; after that she got moved to the Fifth Precinct. As of now, she’s no longer a cop.’

  ‘They have an address on file?’

  She gave him an address and phone number. ‘This some kind of lead, is it?’ Like asking if he believed in Santa Claus.

  ‘I don’t know. We’ll see. If you’re in the office, though, can you do me a favour? Find out who Tony Asaro’s attorney is.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘I was going to take a drive and interview Tony, but I might hit up the lawyer instead. Ask if he knows anything about contract killings. And if you’re short on things to do—’

  ‘I’m not—’

  ‘All right, well, if you find yourself twiddling your thumbs, go through all that info on the boy I shot, see if you can find a link to Tony Asaro. They know he’s got New York roots, but I want to find if there’s a Tony angle as well.’

  ‘People have been working that already.’

  ‘Yeah, and no one’s having any joy, so there’s nothing wrong with a fresh set of eyes.’

  She said, ‘You going to tell Warren where you are, or you want me to do it?’

  Cohen said, ‘If you could let him know, that’d be wonderful.’

  ‘I can hear him already. It’ll be something like: we don’t need any more goddamned bodies.’

  Cohen said, ‘Bodies are OK, long as it’s me doing the counting.’

  Perry

  He woke up seeing his roof in a new light, cracks in the plaster like all those better roads he could have followed. His cheek was still numb, but there was a dull ache starting now where the needle had gone in. He rolled over and watched the phone onthe nightstand. He didn’t want to get out of bed in case Ludo called and Marie caught it on the downstairs line. She’d give the man an earful, demand to know what was happening. He’d come in the kitchen door last night so she wouldn’t hear, but she must have stayed awake for him, asking where he’d been as soon as he stepped in the bedroom.

  He could hear her downstairs now, trying to get the boys fed and out the door. Someone asking where Dad was, and Marie’s reply inaudible. Something quiet and tactful, like Dad’s not feeling well. It was one of those habits his absence had created, the way the kids used Marie as a go-between. Hardly ever would they just come and talk to him. Everything now was just cursory. They’d say hello easily enough, but they wouldn’t ask why you’re still in bed.

  Lying there waiting for Ludo, he couldn’t shake the dread of something going wrong. It wasn’t first-job jitters, it was more like claustrophobia, or so he imagined, a straitjacket fear of being trapped with no exit. It took him back to his teens, his inauguration really, the day Uncle Tyler robbed the bank and Perry drove getaway. The memories were still clear: the predeparture buildup, sitting in the driver’s seat of the Plymouth with the passenger door open, the engine running rich and the gas fumes filling the cabin. It was the arrival, though, that was strangest, parking behind the bank, Tyler pulling down his woolen mask and saying, ‘Won’t be long.’ As if he was going in to cash a check or something.

  It turned out those were Tyler’s last words to him, and they took on new meaning when Perry heard gunfire, and then a police siren almost immediately.

  Sitting at the wheel in a flood of teenage panic, Perry was sure he was done for too, a lifetime of prison ahead of him. But in a fluke of cool logic, he managed to flip his luck entirely. No one told him he hadn’t done the right thing.

  He felt like he was revisiting that day now, his job for Dexter Vine a figurative return to the gas-reek of the Plymouth. But this time around, there was no nimble trick to change his fortune.

  The phone on the nightstand rang. He sat up out of bed and answered.

  Ludo said, ‘How’s the face?’

  He paused before answering. Out the window he could see a black Lexus parked a little ways up the street. It was the same car he’d seen at Dexter’s last night, and it made him think the situation was even worse than he’d thought. But he wiped drool off his numb lip and said, ‘I’ll cope.’

  Ludo said, ‘Good. I’ll see you in thirty. We’re going Marshall-hunting.’

  FOURTEEN

  Marshall

  It was nine A.M. before someone showed up. He’d been expecting Henry Lee, maybe one of his backup guys if he had any, but the footsteps were high heels moving fast, and a moment later a woman in a suit walked past, towing a little wheeled suitcase. He had his keys ready so he could make a show of searching through them if he had to, but she didn’t appear to notice him. She climbed into a Maserati coupé a few cars past the Caddy and then drove away, squealing the tyres as she hit the ramp.

  He stood there leaning on his column, and after twenty minutes, he heard more footsteps. No high heels this time. It was a guy of about forty, medium build, trying to upsize with a big jacket and a big walk. Marshall picked up his cup, an overhand grip around the rim, held it at his side as he moved quietly forward. He stepped out into the vehicle lane as the guy sidled in next to the Escalade. Easiest thing to do would be to come up behind him, hit him while his back was turned, but Marshall figured that given they’d never met, he should at least try to err on the side of pacifism. So as the guy clicked the locks and opened the driver’s door, Marshall said, ‘Where’s Henry?’

  It sounded c
onversational, and there was still a good ten feet between them, but the guy got an oh-shit look in his eye and reached behind him to the small of his back. It was a nice configuration, though: the Caddy and the open door formed a tight little corral with the adjacent vehicle, nowhere to go except back the way he came. Marshall flicked his wrist and tossed the coffee in his face, only two inches of tepid liquid but the guy still flinched, and that slight pause was enough for Marshall to close the gap and slam him backward. The impact flung the door wide, smashed the edge against the neighbouring car. The alarm screeched, shrill and piercing, awful off the concrete.

  The guy’s hand was trapped behind him now, and Marshall kneed him in the groin, wrapped an arm around his throat as he sagged, coat muffling the protests. He placed the flat of his hand against the guy’s neck, pushed it into the crook of his arm, cinching the carotid. A few seconds’ thrashing before the guy went slack, and Marshall lowered him to the ground, removed the pistol from the back of his jeans.

  The gun was a nine-mil Beretta, scratched and tarnished, black tape on the grips. Marshall put it in his belt at the small of his back and frisked the guy quickly, took his wallet, phone, and keys. Then he picked up his empty cup and closed the door of the Caddy, used the remote to lock it. When the guy came to five seconds later, Marshall was waiting patiently behind the car, cup in one hand, the other in his pocket.

  He beckoned the guy out with a flick of his head. ‘Let’s go.’

  The man was groggy, slow finding his balance, one hand on the Caddy to steady himself. The screech of the alarm probably didn’t help.

  Marshall stood in the traffic lane and glanced around—still no one else on this level. He beckoned the guy out ahead of him with the Starbucks cup. ‘You fainted but you’ll be OK. I’m looking after your gun. Walk or I’ll shoot you.’

  He pushed the guy ahead of him to the end of the row, tough going with that groin injury, the man stopping every few steps to double over and hug his midriff. They made a left, heading for the elevators, and Marshall took the guy’s phone from his pocket.

  ‘Stop looking back at me. Keep walking, or I’ll shoot you.’

  He put the phone to his ear as one of the doormen approached at a run, Marshall shouting for his fake caller to speak up, someone’s alarm had gone off. The doorman went down the Caddy’s row in search of the noise, and Marshall grabbed his new acquaintance by the collar and stopped him dead.

  The guy turned with raised hands. ‘Look, there’s no money here. You’re wasting your time.’ A little wheezy.

  Marshall said, ‘I don’t want money. Put your hands down.’

  The guy put his hands down.

  ‘I just want to talk to him. We could’ve done it the easy way, but you tried to pull on me.’

  ‘Yeah, well, like. Whyn’t you just go to the desk?’

  ‘Henry doesn’t want to see me.’

  The guy wiped coffee out of his face, smoothed his hair. ‘Look, I’m just the driver. I don’t want any crazy shit or anything.’

  ‘Good. Neither do I. I just want to talk to him.’

  The guy doubled over again, hands between his thighs. He looked up at Marshall. ‘You want to go up and see him?’

  Marshall nodded. ‘You’re coming with me.’

  The guy ran a hand through his hair. ‘Ah, shit. OK, just.’

  Marshall said, ‘What?’

  The guy pinched his nose. ‘All right. Whatever.’ He managed to coax himself upright again, gritting his teeth as if they’d been walking for days. Marshall followed him toward the elevators, down another few rows, past lots of Manhattan money: a Bentley, a Ferrari, a Mustang. No shortage of gloss. The guy was limping slightly, favouring one leg, or maybe one testicle. He pushed the up arrow when they got there and said, ‘We gotta call. If we’re going up, I mean. It’s a security thing. There’s like an alert if we scan our thing in the elevator, and he freaks out if you don’t call as well.’

  ‘You have keys to get in?’

  The guy nodded, leaned back against the wall, legs half-bent. ‘Yeah. Well, you do. On the truck ring. But you can’t just go in without calling. They’ll fucking shoot us.’

  Marshall said, ‘Who’s they?’

  ‘Henry and Carl. Carl’s one of his guys.’

  Marshall thought about that, watching him carefully, but the sick, scared expression didn’t change. He handed over the phone. ‘All right. Call him.’

  The guy typed in his code and called someone on speed dial, hand in his hair and eyes closed. The elevator dinged open. Marshall put his arm in the door to hold it.

  The guy said, ‘Hey. It’s Frankie. I just gotta come back up for something. Yeah, cool. All right. Nah, it’s just a car alarm.’

  He clicked off. ‘Good to go. They won’t kill us now.’

  They stepped into the elevator. Surgery-bright, with soft Beethoven. The man named Frankie pushed 14.

  ‘You gotta scan the thing. On the key.’

  Marshall dug the keys out of his pocket. There was a grey plastic fob on the ring. He held it up to a black box on the button panel, and a light changed from red to green. They ascended. Marshall drew the gun and checked the load. A dull brass shell looking back from the breech. He set the safety and slipped the pistol in his belt at the small of his back.

  The elevator stopped on 8 to make a pickup, but other than that they had a clear run. Frankie got out unbidden on 14, and Marshall followed him along the corridor—thick beige carpets, impressionist paintings every now and again. European scenes of people fishing in lakes by cottages. Some kind of vine pattern along the architraves.

  Marshall said, ‘Stop.’

  Frankie stopped, turned around. There was no one else in the corridor.

  Marshall said, ‘Where were you taking the car?’

  ‘Brooklyn. Brownsville.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I dunno. ’Cause Henry’s got a place there. Look, this isn’t my main gig. I just do it ’cause alimony’s like, you know, shit, and Henry said he could help me out.’

  ‘So you drive for him?’

  ‘Yeah. Kind of.’

  ‘What number’s the apartment?’

  ‘Fifty-two. It’s just along here.’

  Marshall tossed him the keys. ‘All you have to do is unlock it and walk in. Think you can do that?’

  Frankie didn’t answer, just turned around and continued along the hallway, Marshall following. He stood close behind the guy when they reached 52, just off his left shoulder. He leaned back a little to check the hallway was clear, and then removed the gun from his belt and held it at his side in his right hand, the Starbucks cup in his left.

  He whispered, ‘Unlock it, push the door open, and stroll in. If you pull that off, there’s no reason you won’t live a long and happy life.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘So do it. Actually.’ He dangled the cup in front of the guy’s face. ‘Hold this.’

  Frankie took the cup, sorted through the keys. He inserted one in the lock, turned the handle, pushed open the door, just as Marshall took a short step back and swung through with a left uppercut.

  The blow was a good one. Plenty of hip motion in the windup, and it caught Frankie tight in beneath the ribs, right in the kidney. Frankie cried out and arched back, and Marshall grabbed him around the neck and levelled the gun across his right shoulder. Frankie had his eyes shut, gasping from the punch, but Marshall toed the door open and pushed him ahead into the apartment.

  The décor was very Henry Lee: white paint on the walls, white leather furniture in the living area beyond the short hallway. The man himself was in a white bathrobe, crouched behind an armchair with a revolver steadied on the backrest.

  He said, ‘Frankie, Chrissake. Come on.’

  Frankie sucked air. ‘He came up behind me while I was getting in the car.’

  Marshall knocked the door closed with his heel. ‘Drop it, Henry. I just want to talk.’

  ‘Frankie, God. Whyn’t you let him come in f
irst?’

  ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘Ah, Jesus.’

  Marshall kept his aim on Henry. There were two doors on his left, one of them ajar. A child was crying somewhere, off to his right.

  Henry said, ‘It’s all right, sweetheart, just be quiet now. Daddy’ll be there in a minute.’ He pinched his nose. ‘Frankie. This is not your best work.’

  ‘What? You think I want to stand around like this?’

  Marshall said, ‘Put it down, Henry. I don’t want anyone hurt.’

  Frankie said, ‘Fuck you, what about me?’

  Henry raised a hand. ‘OK, OK. I’m putting it down.’

  He held the gun with his index finger, letting it dangle by the trigger guard. It was a six-inch Colt Python. He bent his knees carefully like a ballet parody and set the pistol down on the armchair. ‘I don’t know, Frankie. All I can say is, I can see why you’re a driver and not a Navy SEAL. It’s OK, sweetheart. Stop crying.’

  Frankie said, ‘Can you let me go now?’

  Marshall said, ‘Tell the guy behind the door on my left to put his gun down and walk out with his hands up.’

  Henry said, ‘There’s no one else here.’

  ‘Ow, Henry, shit, he’s hurting me.’

  Marshall said, ‘Tell him to come out.’

  ‘There’s no one else here.’

  Frankie started to gurgle. The kid was still snivelling somewhere.

  Henry put his hands on his hips and looked at the ceiling, made a rubbery sound with his lips as he let his breath out. ‘Ah, shit. Yeah, Carl, come out. Just take it slow.’

  The gap in the door widened, and a shotgun was slid out butt-first across the floor. A pair of hands appeared by the frame, palms toward Marshall, and then a young guy in a hoodie and jeans stepped out into the hallway. He went and stood over beside Henry, arms outstretched, like getting ready to hug him. He wore a gold necklace with a padlock on it, and a black bandanna slanted beneath a Yankees cap.

  Marshall said, ‘Move away from the chair. I don’t want anyone going for the gun.’

  Henry put his hands together like a prayer, backed up a step. ‘All right. Just take it easy. Don’t need any blood in my living room.’