Ramone put his hands up, desperate to deescalate the situation. “Sir, please. I’m really sorry. What can I do to make this right?”
“This is fucking ridiculous! I don’t care if he is a cop, I’m the governor’s son. When I get back to my firm, I’m going to sue you. I’m going to sue that bastard. And his little pianist friend over there!”
Her heart stopped completely and then quadrupled it in cut-time.
She grabbed her purse and coat and jumped to her feet. Her heels carried her past the entourage still stirring trouble. They didn’t notice her, but Ramone tried to flag her down with chunky fingers – likely so she could apologize. However, she ignored him like she had regal privilege to do so and bowled over a waiter with a large tray of dirty dishes.
CRASH!
But even that didn’t stop her. She sailed through the glass doors, leaving everyone astonished.
4
Carter Richards looked up from his black, fruity-dry porter as the door to the dark pub opened for the twenty-first time since he’d arrived. Yeah. He’d been counting. At last, the rogue he’d been waiting for stepped through those greased wood panels. He glanced at his Breitling watch – Columbia Law grad present from the folks – and expended an annoyed sigh.
Being a fast-rising assistant DA in the New York County District Attorney’s Office didn’t lend itself to vast amounts of free time, but there were a few reasons for which he cleared his demanding schedule. And one of them was on approach. More often than not the sight of Zach caused the habitual ‘what now’ question to scroll across his mind. But a friend closer than a brother was hard to come by. Even if he was loaded down with a courthouse full of crap.
“About time,” Carter muttered, once the arrival had ordered at the bar and came close enough to hear. “You stiffed me at the scene. Again. I don’t know why I ever bothered getting you this job.”
“It’s been eight years. Time to let it go, don’t you think?” Zach replied as he calmly slid into the oxblood booth opposite Carter. Where before he had been so cozily shadowed, he was now at least half exposed by the light of the Tiffany pendant lamp above their table. “But thanks for that, by the way. I’m living the dream.”
Carter shot Zach an older brother kind of look and then chased it with a swig. As he set down the stein, hard, he saw plainly the condition of Zach’s powerful, albeit destroyed hands. “That from earlier?”
Zach’s eyes glazed over. “Mostly.”
Carter cocked his brow and studied his long-time friend. Same age, different aces. Twisting his lawyerly lips, he sat back and put an arm across the back of his side of the booth. “Heard your grandmother sold the Victorian.”
Zach winced. “She told you?”
“Uh, no. James did.” Carter eyed him. “You haven’t called her, have you?”
Zach dropped his gaze. “I was busy.”
“But you had time to see your dad.”
Zach ran a thumb along the edge of the rough-hewn wood. “Can we talk about something else?”
Carter shifted and sighed. “Alright.” He picked up his iPhone and scrolled through a new message. “File your report yet?”
“Come on,” Zach groaned, throwing his head back. “You’re killing me.”
Carter rolled his eyes. “You know, some cops actually prefer to do it while it’s fresh.” Setting the phone down, he gripped the handle of his beer. “No report, no indictment, Z. I’m not doing your homework anymore.” Downing the last vestiges of his third tonight, he set the empty 16-ounce glass down and glanced at Zach who had a strange far-off look about him. The corner of Carter’s mouth lifted ruefully. “The Professor was barely conscious, by the way.”
Zach merely shrugged. “He’ll be fine in a couple a days.”
Carter took a breath and exhaled roughly, checking his watch again. “Don’t get me wrong. One less maniac on the streets and all.” He frowned at a text he received and started tapping off a reply as he spoke. “But he’s not your link to the Red Fisher.”
“What about the fact that I picked him up in one of his establishments?”
Carter’s shoulders drooped. “A mounted bass doesn’t constitute hard evidence.” He gesticulated in frustration, iPhone clenched in one fist. “Based on everything we’ve dug up, no one with a criminal rap has any direct connection to the Czech and that goes double for your catch of the day. And supposing you’re right that Rybar Cervenka is the Red Fisher, that means he now knows who you are, has your face” – he stabbed a finger at Zach – “captured on his security cameras, which, let me tell ya, were all over the property.” Deflating a bit, he picked up his empty glass absently before setting it down again and continuing on his soap box. “And furthermore, I find it hard to believe that such a well-respected socialite is the head of a notorious Eurasian syndicate. But if Cervenka is, I’m willing to bet he’s got all our connections fleshed out already.”
“Oh come on,” Zach protested, talking over Carter. “You’re just being paranoid.”
“Paranoid?! You kidding me? We know how guys like this operate. They show no restraint, they’ve no convictions –”
“So stay out of it,” Zach retorted. “I’ll do it myself.”
Carter snorted mirthlessly. “It’s like I’m talking to a brick.” He paused and quieted. “I just want you to step a little lighter.”
Just then, Zach’s lager arrived via a waitress – a pretty young thing. Easy to love if petite, busty, and blonde were all the desired ingredients.
“Anything else I can get you?” she asked, focus lingering on Zach.
“We’re fine. Thanks,” Carter supplied. Zach didn’t even bother looking.
“Alright, then.” She fluttered their check onto the table. “Here you go, boys.”
Zach made to withdraw his wallet, but Carter waved him off. “It’s on me,” he said, handing off his MasterCard like a cigarette.
She smiled, gaze lingering on Zach. “Be right back.” Her ponytail of honey-colored hair swished as she sailed away.
Carter’s gaze followed her. “She’s into you.”
“I don’t have time.”
“You have nothing but time. That’s why I’m getting ulcers.”
Zach picked up the stein and raised it towards Carter. “Well maybe you should quit drinking.”
Carter hit the solid table with a fist. “Damn it! That swaggering bullshit doesn’t work with me.” He stabbed a finger at Zach. “Just accept the fact that someone gives a damn about you, and –” Groaning, he sat back and shook his head in defeat. “Ah forget it, just drink your damn beer.”
Complying, Zach took a swig of the biting, cold brew and felt it snake all the way down his esophagus. It both cooled and warmed, settling comfortably in his gut. His broad shoulders released a smidgen of their tension – just enough for his neck to catch a break.
When he sat back, he found Carter’s eyes on him and read a world of knowing amusement in them.
“Better?” Carter inquired.
In answer, Zach drank lustily, taking several long gulps until there was only a shallow burnt amber pool at the bottom. Then, he gripped the handle of his stein tightly, thinking. “Cervenka’s been smuggling narcotics into this country, paying for them with illegal arms that he’s getting from who knows where. And that shithole today? Where do you think those girls came from?”
“Oh, so now you wanna tack on human trafficking, too? If no one else has been able to figure out who the Red Fisher is or find any legitimate dirt on Cervenka, what makes you think you can?”
Zach glared. “With or without you, I am going to continue investigating him.”
Nodding as if he knew this already, Carter exhaled in defeat. “I’ll think about it. But not tonight, huh? I’ve got a hearing in the morning. Need to go over my opening statement. Though I gotta say… it’s my best yet.” He grinned and rapped his fist on the table before scooting out of the booth.
A vague smile tugged at Zach’s mouth. Carter’s usual
braggart confidence was in full swing – entertaining at the very least.
Carter shrugged into his tan trenchcoat, smile still in place. “You gonna be okay?”
“I don’t need a babysitter, Carter.”
“You need something.” He adjusted his collar over his navy Ralph Lauren suit. “Happy birthday, man.”
Zach barely smirked and dropped his gaze. “Thanks,” he said quietly. Carter gripped his beefy shoulder encouragingly and left.
Alone, Zach just stared vacantly at the empty seat, thoughts beginning to attack already. But a moment later, his phone buzzed with a text, beating away the demons. Hoping to God it wasn’t his dad, he took it out.
Sender: Unknown.
Message: Black Orpheus Shipping. Harlem River. Container 23-875-1c.
His body tingled. Warily, he looked around, senses on high-alert. Ready to lunge out of the gate, he stood and trekked out, morbid eagerness to his step. No reason in leaving a perfectly good tip waiting.
5
Shelley exited the echoic chamber of her building’s stairwell and ambled towards apartment 2C, key in hand. Unlocking the door, she hesitated in the hallway for a moment, neither inclined nor disinclined to enter. The tepid, half-hearted air that lazed across the threshold didn’t help. It was familiar, but that was all. A cold comfort.
She stepped inside and shut the door, oblivious to the grungy state of her living quarters. It had been in a mess for a while now, but she’d become numb to the disorder, not caring enough to do anything about it. If the apartment wanted to look like an indolent street beggar, far be it from her to get on a platform about it.
Moral decay aside, however, it was really quite an attractive, spacious, two-bedroom flat. Amazing for an Upper West Side residence, especially since she wasn’t the one footing the bill. Polished, wooden floors, an entire wall of windows, and an open kitchen with modern appliances and honey oak cupboards. French doors in the back of the living room led out to a small but cozy balcony where she enjoyed sitting with a good book in warmer seasons.
The first thing Shelley noticed was that a number of items were strewn from the entryway to the sofa. Book bag, purse, shoes, keys… Surprise, surprise. Ashleigh was home.
As if on cue, blonde and petite Ashleigh Greene emerged from her room to the right of the kitchen. “Hey, Shell. How come you’re home so early?” she asked in her perky voice, kneeling down to sift through all the paraphernalia on the floor.
“I quit,” she replied, with a nervous but dull edge to her tone.
Ashleigh looked up sharply. “What happened?”
Pensive and listless, Shelley didn’t answer as she sludged over to the counter and set her keys down. “You headed out?”
“Mm hm. Wanna come? Erik’ll be there. And you can meet Carrie.”
“Ugh. No thanks.”
“So what? Did your dad find out or something? Or was it James? I thought you said it was easy money. A place nobody would recognize you.”
“Governor Larson’s youngest son was there.”
“Ew, Kevin?” Ashleigh scrunched her face. “Oh my God, he’s like a walking STD.” She shuddered. “So what did he do? Hit on you?”
Shelley groaned. “Ugh, never mind. I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“By the way, have you seen my old pink iPod?” Ashleigh didn’t wait for an answer. “There’s this song on it that Carrie wants for the reception, and I told her I’d bring it – Oh wait!” She held up the discovered device and dropped it in her purse along with her keys and iPhone. Standing up, she shook her glossy bangs out of her face and looked at Shelley. “So did you say you were coming?” She eyed her roommate’s chic attire. “Super cute dress.”
“No, Ash.”
Ashleigh tilted her head and pouted, stroking Shelley’s long tresses like she was a pretty dog. “What’s really wrong? The job? I’m sure your dad could get you another –”
“That’s not the point!”
“Shel-ley,” Ashleigh whined. “I want you to have fun with us like you used to. You know, Melissa’s coming in early. We should all do something. Maybe go up to the cabin in the Catskills.”
Shelley dropped her elbows onto the counter and grimaced, burying her face in her hands. Thus, her “I don’t know” came out muffled and rather pathetic.
“Oh please, don’t tell me you’re reconsidering the wedding. If you don’t go, it’ll be way worse than if you did.” Shelley said nothing, and so Ashleigh sighed, but a text came and she chippered right away. “Oh awesome, Tanner’s going to be there.” Even as she typed out a reply, she explained, “He’s this super-hot Harvard Law student, and he’s totally into me.” She bit her lip and let out a minor squeal as she hit send. “Okay. How do I look?” She stuck out her chest, purse dangling from her elbow, waiting for inspection.
Shelley peeked through her fingers and gave her a once-over and straightened up to fix Ashleigh’s tight shirt. “Perfect. Now be careful. Don’t sleep with him. And try to come home before three. Okay?”
Ashleigh beamed naughtily – a Chihuahua on espresso. “I can promise two out of three.”
Shelley groaned. Ashleigh gave her an affectionate peck on the cheek and then whirled out the door like a cheerleader tornado, leaving the apartment to choke on her perky aftermath.
As soon as she was alone, Shelley dumped herself onto the couch by the wall of windows. She shifted her frame until she was reclining on the tan microfiber couch, staring blankly at her empty environs, the depressing silence screaming in her ears.
Steeped in emptiness, Shelley drifted off into an exhausted slumber. A man in a leather jacket with feral blue eyes seeped into her waking dreams, and for a vague, incoherent moment she thought she knew exactly who he was.
6
Voices kept drifting in and out of focus, but he’d grasped enough to know the men were speaking some Slavic or Eastern European dialect. No telling what they were up to. But a peek around the corner revealed weapons in air-tight cases. It looked like they were taking inventory. Between the rows of giant metal containers, a black Suburban snoozed, out of plain sight.
Zach crouched behind a sea green metal crate; the shimmering mantle of the river flowed steadily to the right of him. Hot breath unfurled from his mouth meeting the cold air and foggy darkness. He’d ditched his jacket, his badge, wallet, cell phone, and anything else that might make noise. But his gun, he wouldn’t part with. It wasn’t his off-duty Glock 22, however. It was his personal firearm – a modified .357 Colt with custom sights and a slightly extended barrel for the longer range shots.
He felt safer with it.
Although, now that he was feet away from assault rifles and the like, his semiautomatic wouldn’t buy him much.
Thus, he’d been staying hidden in the shadows. But the temptation of seizing such a stockpile of illegal weaponry nearly overpowered him.
The dock lights sheened and danced atop the river’s surface but didn’t penetrate the bed of ink. The smell was several bouquets shy of appreciable. He could almost taste the bitter toxicity as drops splattered on his face, flicked by the overzealous, childish wind – the wind that kept him from hearing what went on.
Snap!
Zach’s head spun to his left. He peered into the darkness but didn’t see anything. Just glittering black, faint lights on the foggy horizon, and the outline of a giant sleeping crane.
Slightly unnerved, he came to a slow, stealthy stand, gripping his gun, legs buzzing.
The wind died down again, and he realized they’d stopped talking. He tensed. Either they were done or…
Zach eased around the corner of the container towards the exposing beams, towards the Suburban. Taut silence hung in the air. Blood pumped into his ears despite his cocksureness.
He pressed his back up against the wall of the crate, felt its icy cool seep into his back, chilling his marrow. He craned his ears.
Some scuffling along the cracked pavement. Then nothing. Wind. Water. Whining of a dista
nt siren which evaporated with the next querulous gust.
It was quiet enough to feel his own heart beating – steady, strong, but louder than before.
Drawing a cold breath, he peeked around the edge of the crate. No one. But the SUV’s doors were open wide. Making certain the coast was clear, he jogged on swift, silent feet, legs slicing through the dense air. He reached the back of the vehicle and crouched low.
Listening. Waiting. Ignoring his thundering pulse which told him he was a fool.
His head stuck out two inches past the bumper to peer at the open container up ahead and to the left. The cases were all there, neatly stacked. Begging him to take a closer look. Just a quick peek. Serial number, model number, manufacturer. Anything to help him figure out where they’d come from, keep tabs on them if they surfaced on the black market.
As a last nod to caution, he scanned the area before standing and creeping alongside the Suburban. But the moment he passed the long black vehicle and stood in the clear, he knew he’d made a big mistake.
Crosshairs. He could feel them.
Adrenaline slammed through him as he charged for the nearest opening between the ten-foot tall crates.
Ping! Ping! Ping!
The bullets missed him by a narrow inch. Though, he felt their impact as if they had hit him instead of glancing off the rippled metal. His breath came fast. But he was running in the wrong direction now. Away from his car.
He weaved into the next opening.
His ears pricked. Running feet pounding the pavement.
Coming from where? Down both aisles to either side.
Feeling along the cold metal wall, his hand came across rungs. Tucking his gun into the back of his jeans, he started climbing. Fast. He gripped the rusty beams. One hand over the other. He slipped on the fifth rung but caught himself, clambering to the top just as both sets of footsteps converged upon the exact spot he’d been.
He lay flat, belly first. The cold metal saturated his core. The men circled the crate, didn’t find him, and then spoke to each other in a smattering of nearly-silent Russian.
Crime & Counterpoint Page 3
