GRAVE WALKER_A gripping noir thriller

by PT Reade

  TWENTY-SIX

  Once again, I’d thrown myself into a battle that wasn’t mine for reasons I didn’t understand. Now I was outnumbered, outgunned and out of luck.

  I’ve been legitimately scared for my life on three different occasions during my career, instances where I knew that I was going to meet my Maker within the next handful of seconds. I marked a fourth such moment as I stood in front of Rey, Walker, and the armed goons behind them. I tried my best to calculate a way out of this. I could shoot Walker in the knee and duck as he went to the ground, using him as a distraction. That might buy me enough time to get another two shots off. But after that, it would be anyone’s guess.

  “Blume,” Rey said holding his hands out. “Put the gun away. This isn’t what you think it is.”

  “Yeah?” I asked. “Why don’t you tell me what I’m supposed to think it is?”

  “Look, it’s impressive that you figured out something was going down,” Rey said. “But you’re in over your head here.”

  Story of my life. I thought.

  I said nothing at first. I dared a glance beyond the armed thugs and saw two tables that were covered in scattered electrical equipment. A few laptops sat among them, along with cell phones and what looked like a small router.

  “That man,” I said finally, nodding towards Sam Walker. “He’s bad news. Even the Lem family–”

  “Know nothing,” Walker said, fixing me with a hard look.

  “Listen, Blume,” Rey said. “This is an epic case of you being in the wrong place at the wrong time. If you ever trusted me in the past, I’m asking you to trust me now. I know what it must seem like because I know the things you’ve been seeing and hearing over the last few days.”

  “You’d be surprised what I’ve seen,” I retorted as my gun started to tremble out front.

  I still wasn’t convinced. I’d been gone for a year, and that was more than enough time for a man to change his tune. And even if I could find it in me to completely trust Rey, the fact that he was in the company of Sam Walker brought it all crashing down.

  “Look,” Rey said. “I’m going to ask these guys to lower their guns.” He glanced quickly around the room and nodded to the men. When they lowered their guns without question, a small bit of relief started rising in me. “You can keep your gun raised if you want,” Rey went on, “but you have no enemies here.”

  I’d never been the best judge of character when it came to friends and partners, but there was hope and something close to honesty in Rey’s eyes when the others lowered their guns. He seemed genuine.

  Maybe he was right. Maybe there was more going on here. Either way, I wasn’t going to find out by getting shot.

  Less than an hour.

  Slowly, I lowered my Glock. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll bite. What is going on?”

  Rey visibly relaxed. He placed a hand on Walker’s shoulder and smiled. “Thomas Blume, I’d like you to meet Charlie…known in some circles as Samuel Walker.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said with irritation in my voice. I didn’t like being left out on the joke.

  The man I knew as Walker stepped casually over and produced a badge from his pocket. “Charles Simms,” he said with a deep and calm voice. “DEA.”

  “Charlie’s with the agency,” Rey explained. “He’s been working undercover for nearly three years. His sole purpose, our sole purpose, is to bring down Victor Lem’s operation. And so far, he’s gained quite the reputation.”

  Simms (or Walker…I still wasn’t sure) placed the billfold back in his pants pocket. He flashed a wide smile that seemed at odds with the reputation of the man I’d heard so much about and extended a palm. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said. “I’m sorry we had to meet this way.”

  “Likewise,” I said, shaking his hand. I still felt a little pissed at being left out of the loop, but at least now things made more sense. Rey’s strange behavior at least had a good reason. “Wait,” I said, turning to the man in front. “You said ‘our sole purpose?’”

  “This entire warehouse has been something of an operating base for the DEA over the last couple of years,” Simms explained. “Detective Sanchez here has secretly been working as a liaison for the NYPD, helping us bring down Victor Lem’s drug operations on the East Coast.”

  “And doing a damned good job, if I say so myself,” Rey chimed in. “Even Kinsey has no idea. We think there are some cops being paid off to keep Victor in the loop so we are keeping this little operation on the down-low. A tight crew, just the people you see here.”

  As the situation started to make sense I realized something else. “You’re working with Mickey too aren’t you? You’re helping him bring down daddy’s empire.”

  Simms and Rey glanced at each other uneasily. Clearly this was information they didn’t want shared.

  “Yes, but this is strictly confidential. I’ve maintained my cover as Sam Walker—offering to bring down his father’s business from the inside. It’s a working cover, so I’m letting it stick. Which, I guess, is why I’m glad you found out about this. I was antsy…thinking you’d crack that case and blow my cover.”

  “Well, you know Mickey Lem has photographs of the two of you together, right?”

  “He’s a smart one, that Mikhail,” Simms said. “But really, that means nothing. If anything, it works in our favor. He sees Walker as one of his own. If Rey is doing business with him, with me—then it all adds to the cover story.”

  “And Manny,” I said, turning to Rey as the pieces fell together. “Your brother…you said he was working for the DEA down in Florida, right?”

  “He is,” Rey said. “Manny was the one who set this partnership up. He asked for my help, and you know what it’s like. You do what you can for family.”

  “Yeah, I know what that’s like. Who are these guys?” I asked, nodding towards the others in the room.

  “Insurance, really,” Rey said. “DEA, FBI, a couple of tactical advisors. This operation has been going on for quite some time.”

  A few chuckles spread through the room. I realized they might not find it so funny when they found their unconscious buddy downstairs. For now, I skipped that subject.

  “Forgive me for being a little upset,” I said, coming to a startling realization, “but you knew I was chasing after the wrong person on Darcey’s case this whole time. You were just going to let me keep twisting in the wind?”

  “That has been… unfortunate. We couldn’t look into that much for fear of the operation collapsing. We also have another person working for us you see. Do you remember Darcey’s sister?”

  I felt like someone had stabbed me in the chest. I did my best to keep my composure. I nodded and said, “Zoe.”

  “That’s her,” Rey said. “She’s been helping us as an informant on the inside. But we haven’t heard from her in a few days, and we’re starting to get concerned.”

  This web of deceit was growing bigger by the second. Clearly this whole operation was about bringing down Victor Lem’s criminal empire, and they didn’t care who they recruited to do it. Somehow in the midst of all this my ex-girlfriend had lost her life, but why?

  Walker wasn’t the killer. Rey and Zoe were both working with the DEA to bring down Victor’s operation. So who else had access to Darcey?

  My mind wrestled with the jigsaw of new information.

  If Zoe were working for the DEA, why didn’t she tell me? If she wanted answers to her sister’s death, then why didn’t she mention any of this?

  One of the agents had returned to his computer, but I saw his eyes were red, and he was rubbing at them. Under his breath he muttered, “Damned contacts.”

  It seemed too small, so insignificant, but somewhere in the darkness of my head, inspiration struck. A light turned on, and the truth hit me.

  People change.

  I thought of Zoe’s red eyes and how she had been caught off-guard when I had mentioned Mikhail Lem to her on the phone. I thought of her surprise at seeing m
e in Darcey’s apartment that time. I thought of everything that had happened over the last few days.

  “Son of a bitch,” I cried out loud as it all came into focus.

  “What is it, Blume?” Rey asked.

  “I need to get to Mikhail Lem’s place right now,” I said, striding to the exit. “I know who the killer is.”

  “What, who?” Rey called out after me. But I didn’t reply, my mind was already racing ahead.

  Zoe didn’t tell me she was working with the DEA, she didn’t tell me about any of this… because she didn’t know.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Mickey’s two goons had gone to great lengths to make sure I didn’t know where the boss was operating from. Unfortunately for them, I knew this city well (or maybe they just weren’t too bright). When they’d taken me to his place, I’d spied the retro décor and the unusual layout of the building. The actual name had been a little harder, as I’d only seen a few letters; ‘SEA’. Luckily for me, I’d lived in New York most of my life, and I was familiar with most of the cultural hot-spots—not the least of which was the Chelsea Hotel.

  Situated in West Side Manhattan, the building was a stylish throwback to the Victorian Gothic era of the late 1800’s, and its red-brick exterior and cast iron balconies had made it a prime filming location for a number of film and TV productions. But it wasn’t the appearance that made it so special; rather it was the remarkable clientele the Chelsea Hotel had entertained over the years.

  Bob Dylan, Arthur C Clarke, Patti Smith; all and more had resided in the legendary rooms at some point.

  The Chelsea was also the place where Nancy Spungen—girlfriend of Sex Pistols legend Sid Vicious—was found stabbed to death. All things considered, the place had a colorful record, one that was about to get even more interesting.

  I was in my car and the hotel was twenty minutes away, given traffic. It took about half of that before I realized the idea of barreling into Mickey Lem’s base of operations might be a bad idea.

  I was working on the assumption that Mickey and Zoe had spoken after I left his house or, rather, after I mentioned him to Zoe. It seemed more realistic that she’d go to him. If he felt pressured in any way by my visit or any news she had shared with him, it made no sense for him to leave the relative safety and comfort of his house.

  With a creeping sense of danger in my gut, I thought better of it and called Rey. He answered quickly and sounded panicked.

  “What’s going on man? Any chance you’re doing something smart?” he asked.

  “Zero. Look…I need you to figure out a way to get backup to a location. It’s the Chelsea Hotel, West 23rd.”

  Rey was quiet for a moment, and I heard him talking to someone else on the radio. Eventually he came back on the line. “I don’t know what you got yourself into, Blume—officers are already at the location, responding to gunfire.”

  “What, how?”

  “I don’t know, buddy, but it sounds bad. Just hold tight, don’t do anything stupid. We’ll be there soon.”

  I glanced at my watch. Don’t do anything stupid.

  Why change the habit of a lifetime?

  ***

  The rain finally came. It started just before I screeched to a stop at the hotel. At first it was gentle, small spots peppering the windshield, but within minutes it was heavier, soaking everything in sight. Thunder boomed overhead. As I climbed from my car, I was instantly drenched.

  Apparently something was already going on. A lone squad car was parked askew near the lobby entrance and its colored lights bathed the downpour in hues of blue and red. The officers were nowhere to be seen.

  Again the storm boomed, two sharp cracks cutting through the torrent above. Only this sounded hollow and sharp. Not thunder.

  Gunfire.

  Drawing my own weapon, I bolted across the sidewalk for the hotel lobby. A scream sounded somewhere within as I ducked through the glass doors into the plush interior.

  Suddenly my mind couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing. It was raining… indoors. The whole center of the hotel had water falling, as if a rogue cloud had found its way inside.

  I cautiously stepped deeper into the hotel and looked up through the stairwell to the skylight twenty stories above. Sure enough, the glass that usually brought the only source of natural light to the middle of the building had now shattered, showering everything below in water.

  How the—?

  The retort of a gunshot again echoed sharply through the building, and I realized it must have been a stray bullet that broke the glass. A firefight was underway somewhere above.

  ***

  My memory wasn’t great at the best of times and the booze didn’t help either, but I couldn’t forget the service elevator I had been ushered into the last time I had entered this building. Taking the main guest elevator would be suicide, the cops or whoever else was here would be expecting that, and I’d be shot on sight.

  Instead I dashed past the reception desk and the cowering staff beneath it.

  “Police are on the way, just hold tight. It’ll be over soon,” I shouted as I ran past, half trying to convince myself it was true.

  I ducked into the staff entrance, through a laundry room and down a narrow hallway, finally emptying out into a service entrance.

  There.

  Sure enough, there was the shabby elevator I had taken before. But this time there was another man here, and I knew he wasn’t a guest at the hotel.

  The sports jacket. The stern look on his bruised face. The enormous handgun.

  The goon from the cemetery.

  If he was guarding the elevator, that meant Victor Lem’s men were likely involved in the fracas upstairs. But there was no time to find another route. I had to reach the top floor. Fast.

  I drew my gun and closed on the thug, just as he turned and spotted me.

  “You!” he stammered with a Russian accent.

  He pulled his hand-cannon up just as I fired my own.

  “Yeah, me,” I said as my Glock fired.

  But the sudden movement threw the accuracy off. The shot grazed the thug on the arm and he grunted with no more frustration than one would at a mosquito bite. His monstrous gun fired in return, but I’d already pivoted to get closer to the man.

  He brought the weapon down like a club, but I caught it over my shoulder and snapped his firing arm down against the joint. I heard a pop as his elbow dislocated. The huge gun dropped to the floor, but the fight wasn’t over.

  Not to be deterred, the goon brought his other fist in a hard punch to my chin. The strike felt like a freight train, and I struggled to stay conscious as we wrestled for control of the remaining gun; mine.

  I strained against the man for several seconds before realizing the futility. The guy was big. He was stronger than I was and despite the dislocated elbow and flesh wound, I knew he was likely to overpower me and finish me off with my own weapon. So I went for the only move I had.

  I took a half step back, ducked, and then launched myself upwards, driving my fist directly into his throat. He stumbled back coughing, and when he did, I went down with him. But I had been expecting this. Right away, I swung my right leg around hard, kicking at his head. My foot connected, and I heard a sickening crack as his jaw broke. Eyes rolled back and the man slumped, unconscious.

  Untangling myself from the mess of limbs, I re-secured my Glock and tossed the thug’s handgun down a nearby garbage chute, just in case he woke up.

  Thirty seconds later I was riding the service elevator up to Mickey Lem’s apartment for the second time. The gunfire and shouts I heard told me that this visit wouldn’t end in sandwiches and pleasant conversation.

  ***

  I stepped out into hell. The top floor of the hotel was a war zone as rain poured in from above. From what I could tell, Victor’s goons were trying to get into Mickey’s apartment. But the man in the pin-stripe shirt was holding them off with sporadic gunfire from inside. The location of his companion in the black tee
shirt was anyone’s guess.

  The two uniformed cops who had abandoned their car outside were pinned along the soaking stairwell trading fire with Victor’s men as they tried and failed to bring the situation under control. One was shouting for backup into his radio, the other looked like he was scared as hell.

  What a mess.

  The only consolation for me was that none of the men had noticed me as I stepped from the service elevator and pinned myself against the wall at the far end of the floor. I freed my gun and was considering my options when one of Victor’s thugs, carrying a snub-nosed machine gun, bolted around the corner. He was surprised to see me there but not enough to leave me alive. He raised his gun to fire, but I already had my own in motion and fired off two rounds, dropping the man to the floor.

  I was in deep now, there was no going back.

  Creeping to the corner where he had just come from, I peered around. Gunshots were still sounding, but I had managed to emerge right behind Victor’s men unnoticed. Three of them were using an upturned table for cover, holding the police at bay and sending potshots into Mickey’s apartment.

  There was no way I could sneak past them. I double-checked my gun and took a breath before stepping boldly around the corner.

  “Drop it!” I shouted at the men.

  They immediately froze, uncertain of who or what had flanked them. I held them close in my sights, making sure they knew I was serious.

  “Drop the guns on the floor,” I repeated.

  The men, outmaneuvered, hesitated for a moment before placing their guns on the ground.

  “Officers,” I called out. “I need you here. It’s safe. You, in the apartment. Hold your fire—it’s over.” I prayed Mickey’s guard would see sense, and I was relieved when silence sounded from the end of the hallway.

  “Now gentlemen,” I addressed the three Russian mobsters crouched in front of me. “Those nice officers are going to take you in for a few questions. Don’t try anything stupid, and you’ll avoid a trip to the morgue. Da?”