Malachai gave him a confident look. “G wouldn’t talk to five-oh any more than you or me would. If they got him, he’ll stay cool. If he needs us, he’ll call.”
“What about his package?” Katrina said.
Both men looked at her. Marcus waited to answer until Malachai glanced in his direction. “He delivered it right before he got snatched up.”
Malachai stood. “Good. No harm, no foul. Let’s roll outta here.”
Frank’s fingers danced along the denim covering his thighs. He wore baggy jeans, loose around his hips, with the waistband of his boxers showing, and white sneakers with the tongues curling outward, just like the yos did on the street. He also wore an unbuttoned black shirt over a turtleneck, light enough to keep him from melting into a puddle of nervous perspiration but bulky enough to conceal the Glock tucked into the front of his jeans. He wore a black knit cap, sunglasses, and a fake mustache he had purchased at a costume store in Manhattan, just in case the security camera he failed to avoid captured his image. Anyone who passed close to him might notice that he had removed the lenses from the shades and had darkened his eyelids and the flesh around his eyes black.
Rap music escaped from a piss yellow Escalade parked near the building’s parking garage elevator. He could not see the driver, but he knew who sat in the front seat: Laird Black, aka Six Pack, Prince Malachai’s driver and bodyguard. Black had served eighteen months on Rikers Island and another twelve upstate in Sing Sing for shooting a man five times in the chest. The man had survived, then disappeared under mysterious circumstances.
“The wheelman’s waiting,” Frank whispered into the miniature radio clipped to his shirt collar.
“Copy that,” Gary said, his voice tinny over the receiver in Frank’s ear.
Frank stood in the cool shadow of a white cinder-block wall, his back pressed against another wall, with a clear view of the parking garage elevator. A wide column hid his body. Removing the sunglasses, he unrolled the knit cap into a ski mask with eyeholes but no opening for his mouth. Then he pulled on a pair of tight black leather racing gloves. No one who saw him would assume he was Caucasian.
With his hand resting on the Glock’s grip, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Christ, he needed to do a line. But Gary had forbidden it. Hypocrite. Gary liked to indulge just as much as Frank did, but Frank didn’t repress his habit just because he carried a shield. Fuck that. He worked hard, he played hard, and he lived hard. If it came down to it, he intended to die hard, too. Come on. Come on. Come on. He didn’t mind moonlighting as Papa Joe’s hit man; he just hated waiting. Let’s do this already and get high.
The light next to the elevator glowed white.
“Someone’s coming,” he said into the radio transmitter.
“I’m in position,” Gary said.
The elevator door opened, and Frank saw three people inside: Prince Malachai, dressed head to toe in white; Marcus Jones, his right hand; and a stunning woman who immediately caught Frank’s attention. In her high-heeled boots, she stood almost as tall as Marcus. She wore her straightened hair long, so that it framed her high cheekbones, and her makeup shaded her wide eyes. Frank almost regretted that he had to kill her.
Marcus held the elevator door open with one hand, gesturing for Malachai and his companion to wait. Six Pack climbed out of the Escalade and opened the passenger door. The elevator’s occupants filed toward the waiting vehicle, and the elevator door closed behind them. As Malachai guided the woman toward the door Six Pack held open, Marcus opened the other front door.
With his Glock in hand, Frank walked straight toward the column separating them, then stepped around it, revealing himself as he raised the gun sideways in one hand like a gangsta. He saw realization spread across Marcus’s features.
“Gun!” Marcus said.
Malachai looked to his right at the short man wearing the ski mask. Panic sped his heart rate, and with no thought for his own safety, he shoved Katrina inside the Escalade and slammed the door behind her. An instant later, a round struck the bulletproof window. Even as he heard the semiautomatic gunfire, hot metal grazed his left cheekbone.
Son of a bitch!
By the time he turned around, Marcus and Six Pack were returning fire. The window of a Mercedes behind the gunman shattered, and a car alarm filled the underground space in protest. The gunman continued firing, and Six Pack took a shot in his left shoulder. Marcus’s shots struck their attacker in the chest, propelling him backwards.
The gunman fired again, this time striking Six Pack in the chest. As the driver crumpled to the ground, blood spilling over his fingers and across the cement, Malachai dropped to the ground and rolled under the Escalade. Hearing Katrina’s screams inside the vehicle, he emerged on the other side of the SUV, below Marcus, who continued shooting. Malachai rapped on the window to show Katrina that he was okay.
If only I had a piece, he thought.
Then another SUV sped into the garage, tires squealing, and lurched to a stop between the gunman and Marcus and Malachai. The vehicle’s passenger window was down, and the driver fired his own weapon in the drug dealers’ direction.
“Get down!” Marcus said, and Malachai ducked for cover with him.
Malachai heard echoing footsteps and a car door slam; then the vehicle took off.
“You okay?” Marcus said.
“Yeah.” Malachai looked down at the blood and grime covering him. “But these clothes are garbage now.” He touched the gash on his cheek.
“You just got grazed,” Marcus said.
“Payback is a bitch.” And her name is Katrina.
Marcus circled the front of the SUV with Malachai right behind him. Six Pack lay on the ground, sucking air through a punctured lung.
“Motherfucker,” Malachai said.
Marcus reached inside the Escalade and popped the hatch. “Let’s get him in the truck. We can’t leave him here.”
Malachai nodded. We can’t take him to a doctor, either.
Both men hauled Six Pack to his feet, which caused the wounded soldier to cry out. Katrina got out on the far side, where Malachai and Marcus had made their stand. As they guided their comrade to the open hatch, Katrina passed them.
“Who the hell were they?” Marcus said.
“I don’t know, but that driver was a white dude.”
“Cops?”
“Joe’s got more than one on his payroll.”
“That explains it. Little runt was wearing a vest. I know I hit him in the chest.”
They loaded Six Pack into the back and closed the hatch.
“That’s it for this truck, too,” Marcus said. “He’s going to bleed all over the interior.” He rounded the Escalade, slid behind the wheel, and closed the door.
Seeing Katrina standing where the gunman had been, Malachai said, “Come on. We gotta get outta here before five-oh shows up.”
“Just a minute,” Katrina said, crouching low to the ground.
Malachai advanced on her. “I said, come on. We don’t have time for you to play CSI.” He saw her dabbing at blood on the cement with the fabric of her dress. “What are you doing? That dress set me back a G!”
Rising, Katrina offered him a knowing smile. “You’ll thank me later.”
FOURTEEN
When Jake entered his office, he found a note awaiting him on the reception desk.
Devouring the salad in his office and washing it down with a Diet Coke, he still could not believe that Laurel had erased the excruciating pain he had felt all day simply by massaging him. Not erased. Absorbed. Her abilities disturbed him, and he had to wonder if she would prove to be an ally or yet another threat to his existence. She reminded him somehow of Kira Thorn, the deadliest woman he had ever met.
Waiting for Edgar to arrive, he cleaned and loaded his Glocks, Beretta, and blue steel .38 revolver. A buzzing sound caused him to look up at the security monitors. On one screen he saw Edgar standing outside the front doors. Reaching for the controls
on the side of his desk, Jake pressed a switch and unlocked the doors. He watched Edgar cross the narrow lobby and summon an elevator. Once Edgar had boarded the elevator, Jake set his guns inside his side desk drawer, locked it, and then made his way through the suite to the front door, which he held open.
Edgar exited the elevator with a serious look on his face.
Uh-oh, Jake thought. The thought that NYPD would one day uncover some morsel of evidence that would prove he had executed the Cipher nagged him on a regular basis. He found it hard to imagine anything more humiliating than being handcuffed by his friend after they had worked so many cases together. He doubted Edgar would find that scenario very appealing, either. “Why so glum?”
“What’s there to smile about? The economy’s in the toilet, unemployment is skyrocketing, inflation’s up, crime’s up, and our remaining uniforms are threatening to strike over the layoffs.”
“And you’re in love.”
Entering the suite, Edgar did not see the line of salt across the threshold on the floor. “That, too. You don’t look bad for a guy who’s lucky to have climbed out of his car alive.”
Jake closed the door. As he twisted the locks, he heard Edgar’s footsteps crossing the reception area. “I have an uncanny knack for survival.”
He found him in the kitchen, rummaging through the refrigerator.
“You need to stock beer for your guests.”
“This is a place of business, not a bed-and-breakfast. I don’t have guests.”
Edgar removed a soda, popped the can’s tab, and took a gulp. “Let’s talk shop.”
Jake gestured to the next room. “You know your way around here. After you.”
Inside the office, Edgar sat down in the chair facing the desk rather than on the sofa against the wall.
He does mean business, Jake thought as he sat behind his desk. “What brings you to my little corner of the island?”
Edgar picked up the replica Maltese Falcon statue that he had given Jake when Jake had obtained his PI’s license. He weighed the heavy stone reproduction in his hand, then set it down. “Carmen Rodriguez.”
Jake felt an involuntary twitch in his left eye. “What about her?” But his mind was already busy making connections. Edgar was here on business, and his business was homicide.
“She’s dead.”
Guilt compounded the shock Jake experienced. He hadn’t even called Carmen to tell her he planned to take the case free of charge.
“So is her grandson Victor.”
A second shock wave ripped through his gut. “Murdered?”
Edgar nodded. “And dismembered.”
Synapses fired in Jake’s brain. The Machete Massacres. “Jesus …”
“We found your business card in their apartment, so I went down to One PP and requisitioned the reports on your stunt last night. I know Carmen Rodriguez hired you to find out if her older grandson is slinging, and you were nosing around when you got yourself into trouble.”
“You ought to be a detective.”
“This was obviously a drug-related massacre. I’ve put out an APB for Louis Rodriguez, but no one’s been able to find him. What can you tell me about him?”
Jake held Edgar’s gaze. He wanted to spill his guts about everything he knew and everything that had happened to him, but he knew that Edgar would never believe him. Who could blame him? Still, he had an idea. “I was planning to stake him out tonight. Why don’t you come with me?”
Edgar narrowed his eyes. “Because I’m not a PI, and you’re not a cop.”
“But we both want to see the right thing done, right?”
“Right. So why don’t you just tell me where you planned to look for this kid, and I’ll be on my way?”
“There’s something I’d rather show you in person than try to explain.”
“I thought you were Mr. Independent Operator now. Why do you suddenly want backup?”
“Because my wheels got totaled. Come on. Let’s get the band back together. If anything happens, I promise to let you handle everything.”
“Then it really will be just like old times.”
“Oh, shit, I’m hit!”
Frank had rolled up his T-shirt, revealing the Kevlar vest beneath it.
A single round had burrowed through the Velcro strap connecting the front and back portions of the vest and had found its way into his left armpit. Blood flowed from the wound, and chunks of gore-drenched deodorant dangled from his hair.
“Okay,” Gary said as he sped onto the Roosevelt Island Bridge that would take them back to Astoria. “Take it off, so we can find out how bad it is.”
Frank peeled off his button-down shirt, but when he tried to unfasten the Velcro with his left hand, pain shot through his arm. “It fucking hurts!”
Gary glanced in the mirror. “We can’t stop here. We’ll be busted for sure. Just sit tight until we get to Queens.”
“Son of a bitch! I should have killed that asshole.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Because I was hurting for blow, Frank thought. “Marcus saw me approach the vehicle. I got off the first shot but not before he warned Six Pack and Malachai.” He snorted an ugly-sounding guffaw. “At least I got Six Pack. That’s one mope who won’t be walking the streets anymore.”
Gary eyed the pink sun setting on the far side of the city. “No sirens yet. At least we got away with it.”
Frank slugged the glove compartment with his right fist. “Goddamn it! Joe’s going to have our asses!”
“Relax. We’ll get another crack at Malachai.”
“No way. You should have seen the look of fear on his face. He turned white. No way he’s going to be where we can find him again.”
“How do you feel now?”
“My back is on fire.”
“The bullet must have exited there and got stuck in the back of your vest.”
“I need some blow to dull the pain.”
“Later.”
Edgar parked his Plymouth on Montclair, and he and Jake sat drinking coffee as they observed the corner of Caton and the sun disappeared behind Flatbush Avenue. Jake felt nervous returning to the location where three zombie drug dealers and four zombie hit men had tried to extinguish his life less than twenty-four hours earlier.
When Edgar sees what’s going on with his own eyes, he’ll have to help me, he thought.
Unfortunately, he saw no signs of any dealers, living or dead.
“This where the Rodriguez kid slings?” Edgar said, his voice exhibiting skepticism.
“Yeah.” Jake sipped his coffee. “I came out here last night after I dropped Dawn off at her apartment.”
“I thought you said you didn’t know if the kid was slinging or not?”
“I lied. He was here, with two other little hoppers. I got out to speak to him, and the corner boss pulled a gun on me. I got back in my car, and an SUV full of urban guerillas tried to wipe me off the face of the earth.”
“So you led them straight to One PP and got your car killed.”
“Something like that.”
“And now you’ve brought me to the scene of the crime, so I can get killed.”
“Relax.” Jake nodded at the windshield. “You see any hoppers out there?”
“You must have scared them off with your heroic antics.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you.”
“What becomes you, Jake?”
Jake rolled his eyes. “Oh, Christ. I suddenly remember why I resigned from the force.”
“You resigned because of me?”
“Well, not entirely, but your constant nagging was definitely a contributing factor.”
“Is that so? Because I bailed your white ass out of trouble more times than I can—”
“Oh, he’s got to go and play the race card.”
“You know what I miss about being cooped up in a car with you like this? Nothing.”
Jake burst into laughter, and so did Edgar.
“Motherfucke
r,” they said at the same time.
“Dawn seems like a class act,” Jake said when they had both settled down.
“You better believe it.”
“You gonna let her get away?”
“I don’t think so.”
Jake raised his eyebrows. “Really?”
Edgar shrugged. “Hey, I’m getting old. Maybe I’m ready to settle down.”
“Son, you are old. It’s past time for you to settle down.”
“Yeah, well, you’re catching up to me. I know you’ve got feelings to work out, but maybe you should take a good look at Maria.”
“I have looked. I like what I see. I’m just not ready to get back in the game yet.”
Edgar narrowed his eyes, and Jake saw the scraggly hooker he had seen the night before approaching them.
“What is that?” Edgar said.
The hooker wore cowboy boots, short shorts, and a button-down red shirt tied below her breasts. She resembled a skeleton with a layer of dead skin stretched tight over her bones.
She looks even worse than she did last night, Jake thought.
“Scarecrows, scarecrows everywhere.”
“I think she heard you,” Jake said as the emaciated hooker veered toward them. She’s one of them. Or she will be soon.
The hooker stopped outside Edgar’s window and ran her gray tongue over cracked lips. Edgar shook his head, and she sauntered off.
“Jesus,” he said. “Are we doing anything here?”
Jake considered the question. “No. He isn’t going to show.” None of them are. “I have another idea. Let’s go back into the city.”
“I didn’t like doing Six Pack like that,” Malachai said, sitting on the sofa in Katrina’s apartment.
“You did the right thing,” Marcus said, sitting beside him. “We couldn’t take him to the hospital. The brother was gonna die. You just ended his suffering.”
You mean he just covered his own ass, Katrina thought as she crossed the room. They had driven the Escalade to a junkyard, where Malachai had taken Marcus’s handgun and capped Six Pack. Katrina had felt nothing watching Malachai’s lieutenant perish. They’re all expendable. Even Malachai.
Desperate Souls Page 13
