by Jason Pinter
“New York, huh?”
“Yeah, the big city. In fact, I’m inside a building right now, on 80th Street and East End. Big brown thing, looks abandoned. I’m on the third floor. They gutted the apartments so the space is open. I’m just sitting here. The view of the water is really stunning. I’m glad I came here, Dad, because this is something I would have never gotten the chance to see if I let my genetics decide my fate.”
“Well, that’s just marvelous,” Henry’s father said, sarcasm dripping.
“Yeah, it is. Anyway, there’s this thing everyone thinks I stole. Well, I didn’t steal it, but I did find it. I’m looking at it right now and I can understand why people want it. And if anyone wants it, they’d know where I am.”
“Don’t hold your breath waiting for me.”
“I won’t, Dad. I won’t.”
Mauser heard a click and then a dial tone.
“Jesus,” Denton said. “Kid just told us where he is.”
Mauser scratched his chin.
“Could be a trap,” Denton said. “Kid might be waiting with an AK or something. Shit, and he has the package of drugs he stole from the Guzmans.” Mauser looked at him. They both knew the improbability of Parker being armed. Denton patted down his pants, again quite vigorously.
“They really driving you nuts, huh?” Mauser said.
“You have no idea.”
They took the FDR exit, threading past motorists doing the speed limit. It was after midnight and the streets of New York were still packed. Unbelievable.
They got off at 96th Street, turned left and headed toward East End Avenue. Mauser could see what Parker was talking about; the river looked absolutely beautiful. Dark blue, the surface glittering like a million silver dollars were resting at the bottom. A cold fear ran through Mauser’s body, but he couldn’t quite place it. The hunt was almost over. John’s death so close to being avenged. Parker was waiting for them, the taste sour like metal in his mouth.
“I don’t want the NYPD there until we’ve had our shot,” Mauser said. “I want a fifteen-minute lead time. Call Louis, tell them we need backup at 14:30. That’ll give us some time. I don’t want Parker in custody until we’ve seen him first.”
“They’re not gonna want to wait, Joe. They want blood as bad as you do.”
“Tell Carruthers he doesn’t have a fucking choice,” Mauser spat.
“It’ll only do so much good,” Denton said. “They’ll come whether we tell them to or not. This is NYPD jurisdiction now. Louis is keeping us in the loop.”
“So step on the goddamn gas and get us there faster.”
“You got it, Joe.” Denton dialed in the order. He heard Louis’s voice, accommodating. Denton clicked the phone off.
“We have fifteen minutes. They’ll have a small army ready at two-thirty, but not a moment sooner. Lou understood. Said if he were you he’d ask for fifteen minutes, too.”
Minutes, Mauser thought, were unnecessary. One moment was all he needed.
The car accelerated, the headlights blurring into one long illuminated strand. He looked at Denton, who smiled, spoke earnestly.
“Hey, I want my shot, too, Joe.” He grinned. “Getting Parker could be my big break.”
Mauser nodded as the car sped into the night, leaving only a cloud of exhaust in its wake.
39
Angelo “Blanket” Pineiro admired the room, one of the few times in recent memory he’d had time to fully soak it in. He listened closely when their man made contact, but he soon found his mind wandering. He scanned the gorgeous oil portraits of Michael’s family that lined the cherry-red walls, the lineage dating back multiple generations. There was something romantic about them, and Blanket hoped one day he’d be remembered like that, having lived a life worthy of such a painting. Surely he was on his way.
With its high windows, marble columns and authentic Persian rugs, Michael DiForio’s penthouse was truly a museum of modern art. Blanket watched the man himself, sitting in his Salerno leather chair, eyes staring up at the ceiling as if waiting for divine intervention. The voices over the phone were full of static, barely understandable. When the line went dead, Blanket waited for Michael’s response. He received only silence.
“You hear all that, Mike?” Blanket could almost see the gears turning in Michael DiForio’s head. No doubt the police would be at the scene in mere minutes, forget the fact that the goddamn loose cannon Barnes was nowhere to be found. Blanket knew Barnes as well as a man could know a ghost. The killer was a thoroughbred, unstoppable, and a hugely valuable asset when his blinders were on. But somewhere along the line he’d run off the tracks. To Barnes, recovering the package now seemed incidental, and that was the problem.
“Call the Ringer,” DiForio finally said, rising up and striding around the ornate wooden balustrade. “I want to give that asshole one last chance.”
Blanket could see the man’s knuckles were white from gripping the chair. He knew how badly Michael needed that package, how much time and money had been spent accumulating the treasures inside. If it fell into the wrong hands, it could set operations back years, maybe decades. Michael would lose his best—perhaps his only—chance to own this miserable city.
Fucking Gustofson. Guy’d been on his last legs when DiForio bailed him out with that assignment. Then the junkie fuck went and blew it all in spectacular fashion. For whatever reason, the middleman—Luis Guzman—never received the album. Now John Fredrickson was dead and a shit storm the size of the tri-state area looked ready to rain down at any moment.
“Boss, you want me to take some guys down to that building, try to find Parker?”
Michael shook his head, his eyes still closed. “By the time you get there, the building’ll be swarming with cops and Feds. If we just send Barnes, at least there’s a chance for him to slip in and slip out. Your crew? Like a bunch of retarded children trying to work a bulldozer.”
Blanket held his hands out, pleading.
“Mike, I don’t think Barnes still has his heart committed to, you know, the cause. I think he wants Parker dead, and I don’t think our package is on his list of priorities anymore.”
DiForio ran a hand through his hair. Blanket considered Michael’s thoughtfulness a source of pride for the whole organization. To have an impetuous leader was to have a leader without a plan, without a vision, and any organization led by that example was doomed to failure. And Michael, he always had a plan. This situation, though, couldn’t have been foreseen.
The plan should have been foolproof. The Guzmans had never missed a drop. Hans Gustofson was a rung away from the bottom and malleable. John Fredrickson was as loyal an employee as they got. Parker was the wild card they never could have anticipated. And in good wild-card fashion, he’d fucked everything up. A precision watch smashed into tiny bits by an invisible hammer.
Michael’s eyes suddenly locked on Blanket.
“Send four men to that building on East 80th. I want them to do everything possible to get to Parker before the cops do. And tell them to keep an eye out for Barnes. No telling what that man’s capable of.”
“You got it, Mike.” Blanket turned to leave.
“Wait, Angelo.”
Blanket spun around. “Yeah, Boss?”
“Make sure the four you send are expendable.”
40
The Crown Victoria pulled up to the corner of 80th and East End at 2:13 here were no spots, so Denton parked next to a hydrant. The streets were deathly quiet. They had seventeen minutes before the NYPD would bust everything open. The clock was ticking.
At first Mauser wondered if they’d be able to spot the building Parker was referring to, but it was obvious as soon as he stepped out of the car. A cavity in a mouthful of pearly whites, the tenement didn’t belong here. Like Parker himself.
The only entrance was through a wrought-iron gate, swung open just enough for one body to fit through at a time. Deep rivets had been dug into the ground. Clearly few people ever entered—or
left—the building.
Even in the faint light of the moon, Mauser could see the dark stains on the brick, the utter hopelessness of the building’s facade. Joe slipped his hand down to his holster, unbuckling his Glock. The metal felt cool, inviting, as though it had lain dormant for too long. He heard another snap, saw Denton’s hand move from his hip. Finally they were about to confront Henry Parker, and both of their safeties were off.
Mauser entered first. He moved slowly, inching across the cement, listening for any movement. The gate led to a small portico. Crouching by the stone steps, Mauser pointed at the door, nodded to Denton. Leonard raised his pistol for cover as Mauser approached.
Joe tried to breathe steadily, evenly, his heart like a hummingbird’s wings. When he reached the top step, Mauser looked back at Denton, then quickly peeked through a dirt-streaked window. He saw a tiny flicker of light at the top of a stairwell, but no sign of life.
Gently Mauser turned the doorknob, the wind whistling past his head. He met no resistance, and entered the darkened foyer. The air inside smelled stale. Joe slunk along the wall, his Glock raised, his pulse racing. Denton joined alongside him and they cautiously made their way to the stairwell.
The steps were worn, caked with dried mud and dirt. Crouching down, Mauser crept up the steps. Parker had said he was on the third floor, but that could have been a ruse. The kid could jump out at any moment, catch them by surprise. Mauser seriously doubted the kid was armed with anything more dangerous than a knife or a loose pipe. In the back of his mind, Mauser hoped he’d have the balls to fight.
The second-floor landing was dark. Light burst from the floor above, trickling down the staircase. Mauser cursed himself for not bringing a flashlight, but he didn’t have time to second-guess.
As he took the first step up, something soft brushed by his face. Stumbling back, he felt it again.
“The fuck!” Joe cried, tripping backward over Denton’s foot. A cluster of pigeons burst from the shadows, flying around the stairwell, beating their wings madly, feathers flying in the soft light. Mauser threw up his hand, tried to swat at them. “Goddamn it, get away!”
Denton joined in, both of them flailing about until there was silence. Joe wiped the sweat from his brow, looked at Denton, the man’s hair disheveled.
“So much for getting the drop,” he whispered.
They approached the third-floor landing. Globs of white littered the steps. They looked fresh. Bird shit. Wonderful. When he reached the third floor, Mauser swung his gun toward the light.
The room before them was empty. The only light came from a single bulb whose pull string had been yanked off. There was no sign of Parker.
Joe edged forward, forearms tensed, gun steady. The he saw it. In the center of the room, directly beneath the bulb, lay a photograph.
Mauser knelt down and picked it up. Suddenly his knees went slack, then he felt a hollowness in his stomach. His gun hand dropped. Joe recognized the man in the picture.
It was John Fredrickson.
His brother-in-law. Husband to his sister. In the photo Fredrickson held an envelope lined with cash. Handing him the envelope was a man Mauser recognized immediately.
Angelo Pineiro. “Blanket” Pineiro.
Joe stumbled back, the photo falling from his hand. Denton stepped forward, picked up the picture.
“Jesus,” he said flatly. “Is it real?”
“I think so,” Mauser said. Then he noticed a small black arrow on the bottom of the photo, pointing downward. Mauser flipped the picture over and saw two words scrawled on the back.
Fifth floor.
Mauser gripped the photo, felt it crinkle in his hand. Adrenaline pumped through him. John was on the take. Was it possible? And where the fuck did Parker get the picture? Anger boiled inside him, but now Mauser couldn’t focus it.
He bolted up the stairs, the birds on the stairwell below scared into a tizzy. Denton trailed behind him, but Joe Mauser could hear nothing, just the drumming in his head.
John…why?
When he reached the fifth floor, Mauser found the door was wide open. Parker was waiting for him. The moon cast a ghastly white gleam across the floor. Shadows danced in the corners. He squinted, thought he saw something move.
“Parker!” he yelled, gun erect, outstretched.
Denton strode up beside him, their heavy breathing merging into one. The room was quiet. The birds had stopped flying. Mauser stepped forward, the room blanketed in soft, impenetrable darkness.
“I have more.”
Mauser froze. The voice came from the corner of the room, by the window. All Joe could see was blackness. Raising his gun to chest level, Mauser stepped forward.
“If anything happens to me, the negatives go right to the press. Lower the gun. Then we can talk.”
“Joe,” Denton whispered. “He could be armed. Let’s just do him now before the cavalry arrives.”
Parker seemed to hear this, but his body didn’t respond. It was tense, rigid.
“There are more photos,” Parker said. “A lot more. They’re being guarded by a friend. If anything happens to me you’ll see them in the morning papers. All I’m asking is for you to lower the gun.”
John’s face in that photo. The money…
Without thinking, Mauser lowered his gun. He placed his hand on Denton’s wrist, forcing his gun down.
Out of the shadows stepped Henry Parker. He looked like a man who’d just run an entire marathon at full speed, his arms sinewy, shirt stained with dried sweat, hair unkempt. He could see blood seeping through Henry’s left pant leg from where he’d been shot. The young man breathed deeply. Joe could see dark rings under his eyes. Henry Parker looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and had been running from the devil the entire time. Which was probably the truth.
“You killed John,” Mauser said, stepping closer. Parker didn’t budge. “You killed a part of my family. You left a wife without a husband and two children without a father. You deserve to go straight to hell.” Mauser felt the blood harden in his veins, and slowly he raised the gun, aiming right at Henry Parker’s heart.
“John Fredrickson is dead,” Parker said. “But not because of me.”
“Fuck this shit,” Denton said, stepping forward, his gun raised, as well. “He killed John. Look at his eyes, he knows he did. If anyone deserves to die, Joe…”
Mauser looked into Parker’s eyes, the first time he’d seen them up close since St. Louis. Since Shelton Barnes.
That photo…
And somewhere, deep inside Henry Parker’s eyes, Joe Mauser saw the one thing he never thought he’d see.
Truth.
“Tell me what happened,” Joe said. “And don’t leave a thing out. And if I think you’re lying to me, I won’t think twice about shooting you in the face.”
Parker took a deep breath and spoke.
“It starts with Michael DiForio and Jimmy Saviano,” Henry said.
Mauser interjected. “Everyone knows about their war. It’s been brewing for years and nothing’s ever happened.”
“Until now,” Henry said. “Michael DiForio owns a good chunk of real estate in the city. More specifically, he owns the building at 2937 Broadway. Where John Fredrickson was killed.”
Parker took a breath, continued.
“DiForio figured an easy way to help his business, while exposing himself to limited liability, was to use indentured servants, couriers, to run his errands. Men without ties, without hope. If these couriers had records, and they were arrested or killed, the finger would point right back at them alone. No questions would be asked.”
A faint breeze drifted through the room, sending a shiver down Mauser’s spine.
“Come on, Joe, forget this kid, let’s take him now.” Mauser looked at Denton, who shut his mouth. He felt light-headed, his world turning upside down.
Nodding at Parker, Joe said, “Go on.”
“Michael DiForio’s associates would reach out to recent parolees. Me
n with no money and no job. They were offered housing on the cheap in exchange for their services. Picking up payments, running drugs, the works. And in return they got to stay out of crummy halfway homes and didn’t have to bag groceries for a living.” Parker swallowed. “Luis Guzman was one of those men. In fact, over the last five years, at least ten ex-convicts have lived in that very building, getting huge rent discounts in exchange for their—” Parker paused “—services.”
“I’m still not seeing it, Joe,” Denton said. “The fucking NYPD’s going to be here any minute and we’re fucking around with…”
“Shut the fuck up!” Mauser yelled. “Shut the fuck up! This is about my goddamn family!”
Denton looked like he’d been punched in the gut. He stepped back. Parker, clearly unnerved, tried to collect himself, his voice shaky.
“Another man DiForio employed was a photographer named Hans Gustofson. DiForio paid Gustofson to take some very incriminating photographs of very important people.
Photographs of cops and government officials. Just like the one he took of Officer Fredrickson.”
“John,” Mauser said. Parker nodded.
“Gustofson compiled a large album of these photos over the past two decades. They could have been used for any number of reasons—to blackmail city politicians, to gain better control over the cops already in his pocket, to find out which policemen were double-dipping and working for Saviano as well. Luis Guzman was a middleman. He was supposed to collect the photos from Gustofson and hold them for Fredrickson, who would deliver directly to DiForio. But the photos never made it to Luis Guzman.”
“Why not?” Mauser asked. He could feel sweat pouring down his skull, warm and sticky.
“Hans Gustofson was killed before he could deliver the photos. I know this because I found the body. And whoever killed Gustofson wanted those photos, but he’d hidden them well.”
“Jesus,” Mauser said.
“Unbelievable,” Denton added.
“Luis Guzman never received them because Gustofson was dead. Fredrickson, assuming Guzman was holding them for his own personal gain—possibly to resell to Saviano—attempted to beat it out of him. That’s when I came in.”
