The Alamo - John Milton #11 (John Milton Thrillers)

by Mark Dawson

  Milton could tell that there was no point in pressing him too hard. “You want me to go over it all again?” he said instead.

  “Not all of it,” Polanski said. “I’ve read your statement. There are just a few things I wanted to circle back on. That okay?”

  “It’s fine. Ask whatever you need.”

  “You saw the body?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “What do you think? It’s a restroom, Detective.”

  “And you were just passing through the station?”

  “I was coming back from the Giants game.”

  “Same as Freddy?” Polanski said.

  “Yes,” Milton said. “Have you spoken to him?”

  Polanski nodded. “This morning.”

  “Was his father there?”

  “Yes. I understand he took a swing at you.”

  Milton reached up to touch the bruise on his face. “It was nothing,” Milton said. “Was Freddy okay with his mother?”

  “As far as I know. She brought him home this morning when his old man got out of the drunk tank.”

  Milton probed gently, aware that he was asking the questions and that that wouldn’t last forever. “What did Freddy say?”

  The detective wrinkled his nose at the continuing stench. “Ah, fuck it,” he said, gesturing to Milton’s cigarette. “I will have one. Anything to take the smell away.”

  Milton took his pack from his pocket and gave it to Polanski. The detective took a cigarette and Milton lit it for him.

  “The kid,” Milton said, prompting as delicately as he could. “What did he say?”

  “Can’t tell you that,” Polanski rebuffed.

  “He had a rough night,” Milton said, still trying to nudge a little more out of him.

  “He did.”

  Milton could see that Polanski wasn’t going to give him anything else.

  “Look,” he said, “you heard what the boss said: this is coming off my lunch hour. I don’t want to rush you, but I need to get back. Do you have anything specific you want to ask me?”

  “Did you notice anyone coming out of the restroom before you went inside?”

  “No,” he said. “The station was quiet. And if you’re wondering whether I could’ve seen whoever it was who stabbed your victim, the men who killed him were probably already out of the station before I got there.”

  “So the kid found the body and just stayed there?”

  “He hid. I don’t think that’s unusual. He’s thirteen.”

  “I guess. Freddy tell you anything else?”

  Milton could see that Polanski’s curiosity had been piqued by something that Freddy had—or had not—said that morning. Had he mentioned that he had recognised one of the likely killers in the precinct last night? Milton hoped not, but there was nothing that he could do. He wasn’t prepared to mention it until he had a little more information, specifically about Polanski and whether or not he could be trusted.

  “Mr. Smith?” Polanski pressed.

  “No,” Milton said. “Freddy was frightened. We spoke about the football. He caught a ball that one of the players tossed into the crowd. That was the best thing that happened to him last night—it went downhill after that.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Polanski dropped the cigarette to the ground and trod on it. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a card. He took out a pen and scrawled something on the reverse.

  “Here,” he said, handing it to Milton.

  Milton looked down at the front of the card: Aleksander Polanski, Detective, Internal Affairs Bureau—Brooklyn North, 179 Wilson Avenue, Brooklyn. There was a telephone number and email. He flipped it over and saw that the detective had written down a second telephone number.

  “That’s my cell,” he explained. “If you remember anything about what happened, give me a call. All right? Day or night.”

  “I will.”

  “Thanks for the cigarette.”

  Polanski picked his way around the discarded trash and clumps of rotten food and made his way back down the alley toward Surf Avenue. Milton watched him go. He was a good judge of character, but he found it difficult to get a solid read off the detective. He was brusque and jaded, but that wasn’t unexpected given his line of work. A friend of Milton’s from long ago had ended up in the military police, and he had complained of the unpleasantness of investigating fellow soldiers, and the reputation that attached to men and women whose jobs required them to do that. He expected that it was just the same for cops who prosecuted other cops. That might explain Polanski’s surliness.

  The fact that Internal Affairs was involved in the investigation lent further credibility to what Freddy had said about recognising a cop as one of the two men he had seen outside the bathroom. Milton needed to know more about why Polanski was involved. He needed to know more about Polanski, too.

  He dropped his own cigarette to the ground and put it out with his toe. He looked at his watch: he had been outside for twenty minutes. Vadim was a bastard and would deduct more than that from his lunch. Milton went back inside, washed his hands in the bathroom, and went back to work.

  42

  Back in the kitchen, Vadim had given Milton two additional dishes to prepare: the solyanka soup and vareniki. The latter were small handmade dumplings, and he started by cracking a dozen eggs into a bowl, adding sour cream, and then whisking them together. He added flour and continued to whisk. Milton covered the dough with a bowl so that it could rest for an hour and had just gone to wash his hands when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He wiped his hands and took it out. He didn’t recognise the number.

  “Hello?”

  “Is that John?”

  “Hold on.”

  Milton recognised Manny Blanco’s voice. He tossed the dishcloth onto the counter and made his way to the open door that led into the alley where he had spoken to Polanski earlier.

  He closed the door and leaned against the wall. “I’m here,” he said. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I just wanted to say I was sorry.”

  “You don’t need to apologise. I’ve been there. It happens.”

  “Freddy said I hit you. Did I?”

  “You hardly touched me.”

  “Shit,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I feel like a total douche.”

  “Forget it.”

  There was a pause.

  “You still there?” Milton asked.

  “I can’t believe I fucked up so bad, man. That thing with Freddy? He told me what happened. He told me you helped him. And then I go and throw you out of the house. I am a total fucking screw-up.”

  The regret and shame were strong. Milton remembered what that felt like and knew where it might lead. He tried to nudge him away from it. “Did the police speak to him today?”

  “This morning,” Manny said.

  “Who was it?”

  “Two detectives. Mackintosh and Polanski. I wondered whether…” He stopped, the words trailing away.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m worried, John. I don’t want him getting caught up in something like this, but there’s nothing I can do to stop it. What if it goes to trial? What if he has to stand up and give evidence? How am I going to protect him then?”

  His voice was fraying; Milton could tell that Manny was close to losing it. “It might not come to that.”

  “What if it does?”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  Manny continued as if he hadn’t heard him. “I’m worrying myself stupid here.”

  “Are you at home?”

  “Yeah. We both are.”

  “Stay put. I’ll be over in half an hour.”

  Milton went back inside. Vadim was standing by his station.

  “What are you doing?” he blustered. “You have work!”

  “I’m sorry,” Milton said. “I’ve got to go.”

  Vadim gaped at him. “You c
an’t just go.”

  “I know. And I’m sorry. I might not be back for a day or two. You want to fire me, I can’t say I’d blame you.”

  Vadim’s face slowly reddened and, instead of stepping aside, he came forward until he was within an arm’s reach of Milton.

  “You come here asking for a job. I give you one. I don’t check your visa—”

  “And?”

  “And now you think you can just quit, leave me swinging like this? Take advantage of me? No way, man. No way.”

  Milton knew what was coming. Vadim telegraphed it: the bunched right fist, the slight shuffle forward with his right step to balance his weight more evenly, the clenched jaw.

  Milton didn’t react. He stood his ground. He looked straight into Vadim’s eyes. He knew the effect that would have: his eyes were pale blue and cold as ice, empty of feeling or empathy, but full of the promise of unshackled violence should that prove necessary.

  “Don’t be silly,” he said.

  A flicker of doubt passed across Vadim’s face. He took a step back; his arms fell loose at his sides, and his fists unclenched.

  Milton stared right through him.

  “You’re fired,” Vadim said.

  Milton took off his apron and handed it to him. “Thanks for the job.”

  He went to the locker room, grabbed his jacket, and made his way outside to his bike.

  43

  Livonia Avenue ran underneath the elevated section of track that took the train into New Lots Avenue station. Carter pulled over and parked next to number 923. Both sides of the street were given over to businesses, with this side home to a deli, Ace Dry Cleaners, State Car and Limo Services, a fried chicken joint and Shakira Nails and Hair. Next to the nail bar was Omar’s, a bodega that provided a front for the drug operation that ran out of the back room and second floor.

  Carter switched off the engine.

  “He better be grateful,” Shepard said.

  “Relax,” Carter said, placating his ex-partner as best he could. “He will be. But you go in there with attitude, you’re gonna change the atmosphere. You know what he’s like. So let’s chill, okay? Just take it easy.”

  Shepard was nervous. That was reasonable—it had been a crazy night. Taking González out the way they did had been risky, but, the way they had figured it last night, what choice did they have? If they had let him get on the train, they would have relinquished any control that they had left over the situation. And if he had made it to the safe house, that would have been game over, not just for Acosta, but for them, too. Internal Affairs would have had him, and who knew what he would have been able to tell them? Too much, that was for sure. No. They’d had no choice. They needed to act, and they had.

  Carter opened the door and stepped out into the cold. The block was a mixture of business and residential, with half of the businesses active and the other half boarded up. Acosta ran this part of his Brooklyn business out of the bodega. Carter had found it for him. Scouting for new locations for his empire was another of the services that he and Shepard provided.

  The store had been run by Pedro Omar, a Puerto Rican businessman with whom Carter had become friendly. Omar’s store was on a block of empty lots that had been targeted by the city for eminent domain takeover, no doubt so that more expensive apartments could be built for the hipster city workers who were beginning to make their way into the neighbourhood. Carter—who regularly drank and played cards in the back of the store—had put together a deal that helped Omar out. He had introduced Omar to Acosta and, instead of the fifty grand that the city was offering, they’d struck a deal that paid him seventy-five. Carter and Shepard got paid twice: once by Acosta for finding him a new place to sell his product and then again by Omar for giving him a more profitable exit out of his business.

  The store was perfect. There was a third-floor apartment across the street that Acosta had bought to store most of the product, reducing the risk of having a rival hit the bodega in an attempt to rip them off. Another bonus was the McDonald’s adjacent to the bodega; it had a large parking lot that always had spaces and was perfect for customers who were driving in to get their drugs.

  He paused at the door.

  “Ready?” he said to Shepard.

  Shepard nodded that he was.

  Carter opened the door and went inside.

  44

  The bodega was typical of the area: dilapidated but functional. It carried stock and had staff who kept it open between the hours of seven in the morning and ten at night. If it was to be an effective front, it had to look as if it was legitimate. Carter went inside first, nodding to the black kid who was manning the till. He worked corners for Acosta on the weekend and worked the till during the week; he recognised Carter and returned his nod of acknowledgement with a point of a finger toward the door at the back of the ground-floor space.

  Carter led the way. There were, in fact, two doors: one was wooden, insubstantial and thin, but it served as a means of hiding the two-inch-thick steel door that was at the other end of a short passage. The wooden door was unlocked, and Carter pulled it back and went inside. The passage beyond was secure, with the heavy door and the dome of a camera fixed to the ceiling. There was a buzzer on the wall and Carter pressed it. He looked up into the camera, knowing that he was being observed, and waited until the latch slid out of the strike plate and the door handle was pressed down. The door opened into the room beyond; Carter went inside.

  The room was half the size of the bodega. There was a long table with six chairs, a television and an expensive sound system, a leather couch and a refrigerator that was stocked with bottles of beer. There were four people in the room: a man and a woman sat at the table, taking money from large sports bags and counting the bills out into piles; a second man was leaning against the wall, drinking beer and watching a college football game on the TV; and a third man was stretched out on the couch, a joint held between his fingertips. Carter raised his hand to the man on the couch, and he returned the gesture.

  The man’s name was Carlos Acosta. He was wearing a purple suit and a purple shirt that was open at the collar. He wore shaded glasses with faint purple lenses and a purple cap was perched on his head. He had a blond goatee that stood out against his dark skin, and the hair visible beneath the cap was bleached a similar peroxide blond. He was slender; Carter had done a double-take the first time he had been introduced to him, guessing that he could only have weighed a hundred and twenty pounds. It was difficult to imagine how someone so physically insignificant could inspire such fear throughout the district and such loyalty from the pure-bred gangsters who worked for his operation.

  “Yo, yo,” Acosta said, unfolding himself from the couch and standing. He put out his arm and bumped fists with both Carter and Shepard.

  “How you doing, Carlos?”

  “Doing good. You two been busy?”

  Carter nodded. He swallowed on a dry throat.

  Acosta went over to the refrigerator. He took a beer and gave it to Shepard. “You’re not on duty yet, are you?” he said to Carter.

  “No,” Carter replied. “I start at four.”

  “Would it have made any difference?”

  “Nah,” Carter said, returning Acosta’s grin as he caught the bottle that Acosta tossed over to him.

  There was a bottle opener on the table. Carter looked at the piles of money as he reached down to take it. There had to be fifty or sixty grand there, at least, maybe even more. And that was just the money that would have been collected from the night before. Carter knew how the game worked: Acosta sent three of his best lieutenants out every night at midnight, and they would each visit the dealers who pushed product through Brooklyn and Manhattan. Then they would return, deposit the money here, and it would be counted and sent away to be washed through Acosta’s legitimate businesses: restaurants, a car rental place, and, until recently, José González’s car stereo shop.

  The operation was vulnerable once you knew how it worked. It
would have been easy enough to hit the lieutenants as they made their way back to the bodega with bags full of cash. Carter had considered it before he had become more familiar with Acosta, and had discounted it for the same reason everyone else discounted it: everyone knew what Acosta would do to anyone who ripped him off. It wouldn’t make any difference if whoever was responsible was a cop.

  “Anything you two wanna tell me?”

  Carter looked up. Acosta was watching them both.

  Shepard looked over at him. Carter’s throat felt as dry as sandpaper. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah. There is something.”

  “You gonna tell me what happened to González? Because I heard he wound up dead last night. Had his throat cut in the bathroom at Euclid station. You know anything about that?”

  “Yeah,” Carter said. He looked at the three others inside the room. “Alone?”

  Carter had no interest in talking about what they had done in front of the others. He didn’t know them as well as he knew Acosta, and he didn’t want them to have information that they could use to snitch on them to straight cops should they ever find themselves in need of an out.

  Acosta dismissed the others with a lazy wave of his hand. They got up and left, glowering at Carter and Shepard with distaste.

  Carter waited until the door was closed. “We killed him.”

  “Now why would you do something like that?”

  “He was a rat,” Shepard said. “He was on his way to sell us out.”

  “Yeah?” Acosta said. He turned to look at Carter. “That right, Bobby? He was a rat?”

  Carter swallowed again. He knew González and Acosta had grown up together in Crown Heights, and, at least until recently, they had been like brothers.

  “I got a call from my contact in Internal Affairs,” Shepard said. “They said they’d been putting the screws on González for weeks and they turned him. They said he was going in last night.”

  “They tell you he had evidence against you two dumb fucks, too?”

  Carter felt a hollowness in his gut.

  “You didn’t know I knew, did you?” Acosta said.