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

by Mark Dawson

  “So?”

  “I’ve been thinking around it all week, but I can’t get it out of my head.”

  “Someone in your office tipped the bad guys off?”

  He nodded. “The investigation has been kept under wraps. It’s just me on the case, no one else. And no one save us knew that we were running González.”

  Harris looked over at Haynes. “You been telling the bad guys?”

  “No, ma’am,” Haynes said with a smile.

  Harris steepled her fingers on the glass table. “So what are you two proposing?”

  “I heard you’re running an investigation into Acosta,” Haynes said.

  She smiled. “You heard that, did you?”

  “Is it true?”

  “We might be.”

  “So give Aleks an office and some resources here. He can come at him from a different angle. He gets you the cops, maybe you can flip them and then you get Acosta, too.”

  She turned to Polanski. “You think you can do that?”

  “The kid will go on record and identify the officer he saw. But, like I said, I need to get them somewhere safe.”

  “We can help with that,” she said.

  “If we could get that fixed, I’ll get him to go on the record. Then we put the officer under surveillance. Give me two guys. If I can get into him, maybe we roll him up and get the others.”

  “You won’t be able to follow him with two. I’ll give you four.”

  Polanski felt a shiver of anticipation. “Thank you,” he said.

  Harris reached for the coffee pot and refreshed all of their cups. “If you’re right,” she said, “if there is a rat in the bureau, we need to get you out of it without them knowing that you’re working for me. You got any ideas how we could do that?”

  “That’s easy. I’ve got vacation coming up. Two weeks. We’re supposed to be going to Hawaii. I could cancel it, move everything here and go at them hard.”

  “Two weeks?”

  He nodded.

  “That okay with you, Haynes?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then I think we can give you that.”

  “Is that a green light?” Haynes asked.

  “It is,” Harris said. “Do it. Go and get them.”

  82

  Polanski met Smith in Coney Island at noon, just as they had arranged. The snow had covered everything, erasing the separation between the promenade and the start of the beach, the demarcation indicated only by the railings, which were themselves covered by snow. The sky was grey and dark despite it only being noon; the forecast predicted more snow before the day was out. It seemed as if it would never end.

  Smith was leaning against the wall that separated Luna Park from the boardwalk. Polanski raised his hand and Smith pushed away from the wall and trudged through the snow to meet him. He had a half-smoked cigarette in his hand and blew a jet of smoke into the air before switching the cigarette to his left hand and putting out his right for Polanski to take. They shook.

  “Were you followed?” he asked.

  “No,” Polanski said. “But you were right. They were tailing me. They were at my house yesterday evening and this morning.”

  They set off to the east and Polanski explained what had happened since they had seen each other yesterday afternoon. He said that his wife had reported seeing an unusual car outside the house, and that the car had been there again when she looked outside this morning. He explained how he had sent his family away and how he had taken his concerns to Haynes.

  “You trust him?” Smith asked.

  “I’ve known him for a long time. I do.”

  He went on to explain that he and Haynes had concluded that the only way to continue the investigation against Acosta was to bring in the special prosecutor.

  “What will she do?” Smith said once Polanski had explained that Harris had, indeed, taken the case.

  “I’ll be able to work in Manhattan, away from Brooklyn. And she’ll give me a small team for surveillance. I’ll have the manpower I need. I need to know who to investigate. I need to speak to the kid.”

  “And I need some more background.”

  “Okay.”

  “Start with Acosta. Who is he?”

  Polanski nodded. He had studied Acosta for so long that he knew his biography as if he were a close friend. “He was born in Santiago in 1973. Family emigrated to New York in 1980 and he was raised in Queens. Started dealing around 2000. At least that’s when he was busted the first time. Moves pretty much everything and anything: party drugs, heroin, coke, crack, dope. He runs his gang like a business. The guys we’ve busted from the crew say he calls it La Corporacion. Gets his recruits from his family, from friends and from friends of friends around East Brooklyn. His brother, Savio, is his second in command. His sister, Elsa, makes sure the product gets delivered. I heard a rumour that his mother does his accounts for him. And Carlos works just like the Colombians worked: he puts some of his guys in to import and package the drug, others to move it around the city and keep it safe, and then he’s got the corner boys and vendors who move it on the street. On top of that, I’ve heard rumours that he’s put together teams to take down rivals and anyone he thinks might be able to threaten him.”

  “Like the guys who went after the Blancos.”

  “Maybe. The DEA has him down for a dozen homicides over the last eighteen months, but you can probably double that once you add in the ones we don’t know about.”

  “And how does he tie in with the dead guy?”

  “González was deep in his gang, but I flipped him,” Polanski said. “Took three months. Three fucking months. He had a business on Atlantic Avenue, where he said the cops on Acosta’s books used to come and get their monthly pay-offs. I persuaded him to record a meet. He was coming in the night that he was killed. He had evidence of one of the cops taking the money and he was going to testify against him.”

  “You don’t know which cops?”

  “He wouldn’t give me anything until we had him somewhere safe.”

  Smith took another cigarette from a packet in his pocket. He offered it to Polanski. “No, thanks,” he said, waiting for Smith to put the cigarette to his lips and light it. “Now you,” he said. “Who did the kid see?”

  Smith reached his left hand into his pocket and took out his phone. He clasped the cigarette between his teeth and swiped through the photos until he found the one that he wanted. He handed it to Polanski and invited him to look.

  It was a screen-grab from a video. “What is this?”

  “There’s a TV in the precinct house. They run promotional stuff on it. The night they took us there, they had something running about these cops who were handing out anti-drug leaflets. It was an extract from a report on the news. I found the original.”

  Polanski looked down at it.

  “Him,” Smith said. “You know who he is?”

  “Landon Shepard. He used to work the Seven Five. Retired last month, I think. Why?”

  “Because he’s one of the men Freddy saw outside the restroom. He’s your killer—or one of them.”

  “He’s sure about that?”

  “Swipe right,” Smith suggested.

  Polanski did as he was told. The next image was a photograph that Smith had taken of a photograph in a frame. It showed two men—one black, the other white—on a boat. The black man was Shepard. He was holding a big bluefish. Polanski swiped left and looked at the previous picture again.

  “Swipe right again,” Smith said.

  Polanski did and saw what he guessed was the back of the photograph. He read aloud: “‘Me and Shep, June ’15, Jamaica Bay.’”

  “The white guy is Robert Carter,” Smith said. “I think he goes by Bobby.”

  “He does. He and Shepard used to be partners in the Seven Five.”

  “You have anything on either of them?”

  “They’ve both had complaints made against them over the years, but nothing ever stuck. But if I was guessing o
n the types of officers who might end up working with someone like Acosta, they would be toward the top of my list.”

  They kept walking. “Shepard was waiting at the precinct for Carter at midnight on Monday. He was drunk. They had what you might describe as a vigorous discussion and then Carter drove him off. I’ve got photos—you can see them if you want.”

  “You were spying on them?”

  “I wanted to see if I could find Shepard—the precinct seemed like the best place to start.”

  “What—you were just standing outside?”

  “There’s a derelict building opposite. I was on the top floor.”

  Polanski looked at him with a curiosity he couldn’t hide. “You’re not really a cook, are you?”

  “I am.”

  “So what did you do before?”

  “This and that,” Smith said.

  “Law enforcement?”

  “No.”

  “So that leaves military, like I thought.”

  “Once upon a time. Does it matter?”

  Polanski held out the phone with the picture of the framed photograph still showing. “How did you get this?”

  “Probably best you don’t ask,” Smith said with a shallow smile.

  “Did you break into his house?”

  “Like I said—best you don’t ask.”

  “Jesus,” Polanski said. They walked on in silence for a moment. Polanski looked down at the phone and swiped right, moving into the surveillance pictures that Smith had taken. He saw Shepard and Carter and a third man, this one in uniform like Carter. “That’s James Rhodes,” he said, pointing. “He's a rookie. Straight out of the Academy. I checked him out when he got posted to the Seven Five. I’m guessing he's been assigned to work with Carter.”

  “He didn’t stick around long. I got the impression Carter wanted to speak to Shepard alone.”

  Polanski held up the phone. “Can you email me these?”

  “Sure,” he said. “What else do you need?”

  “The kid. We need to take a proper statement and get him to identify Shepard.”

  “He’ll do it. You got a safe house?”

  “I’m working on it. I can do it, though—it’ll happen. Where are they now?”

  “With me.”

  “Where?”

  “They’re safe.”

  Polanski could have pressed for their location, but there was no point. He doubted that Smith would tell him until he was ready and, he noted to his mild surprise, there was something trustworthy in the man’s gruffness that he found reassuring.

  “What are you going to do now?” Smith asked him.

  “I’m going back to Manhattan. I’ll take care of the safe house and then I want to get surveillance started on Shepard and Carter. The sooner the better. What about you?”

  “I’ll be with the Blancos,” he said. “Fix it so that they can get out of New York and then call me.”

  They were by the stairs that led down to Beach Walk. Smith nodded his farewell, broke away from Polanski and descended the stairs. Polanski turned around and started back to where he had left his car. He could see their footprints, two sets that made their way back to the shuttered rides of Luna Park. It was cold, with a chill wind blowing in off the sea and a crispness in the air that augured yet more snow. Polanski’s feet were cold in his boots, frozen after trudging through so much snow. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his coat and continued on. He was excited. The week had started badly, but Smith’s revelations promised an improvement. He was keen to get back to the island so that he could get started.

  83

  Detective Rebecca Mackintosh got up close to the dumpster, rose up and looked inside. The body was still there. The dead man hadn’t been touched so that the technicians could take their photos of him in his final, ignominious resting place. He was in an undignified position: he was upside down, his weight borne on his shoulders with his arms stretched out; his legs were split so that she could look down between them and see the man’s face. He had been frozen there by a combination of the cold and rigor. Mackintosh could see what must have happened for him to land in that position: he had been killed outside the dumpster, hauled up the side and pushed over the sill. He had gone in head first, with his legs toppling over the top and bracing against the opposite wall of the dumpster.

  The body had been found by a homeless junkie who had clambered inside the dumpster in an attempt to find somewhere to shelter from the cold. The woman had seen the man, unmoving and frozen solid, had called it in and then had tried to get away so that she didn’t have to deal with the cops. She was stoned, though, and had already blabbed about the gruesome discovery to the man who described himself as her husband. The responding officers had asked around and the woman had been located. Mackintosh would talk to her later. She certainly wasn’t a suspect, but if she had been in the area, then perhaps she might have seen something.

  The man’s wallet had fallen out of his pocket. They had fished it out in an attempt to identify him. His name was Alejandro del Cabral and he had a state ID card. She had been able to check the picture on the card against the man’s upside-down face and was reasonably sure that they were one and the same. The wallet held a driver’s license, a small paper fold containing a white powder that Mackintosh knew would be confirmed as cocaine, and three hundred dollars in paper bills.

  The photographer arranged a small stepladder so that he could stand on it, look into the dumpster and snap his pictures. Mackintosh didn’t want to get in his way, so she stepped back. The snow around the dumpster had been churned up by the stampede of people who were already involved in investigating the discovery: the homeless woman, the responding officers from the Seven Five, Mackintosh, the photographer, the CSI technicians. There was a line of vehicles parked on the street outside the arched entrance to the cemetery. A uniformed officer had been posted there to keep people out. The officer had already had to move on a TV crew from ABC7 after the presenter had blocked the way inside while shooting a hasty report.

  Mackintosh shivered in the cold, snowflakes settling on the hood of her coat and her shoulders. Two murders in a week. One just outside Cypress Hills station and the other at Euclid, no more than a mile and a half between them. She wondered whether they might be linked. It was possible. The Euclid murder had presented nothing of interest since she had spoken to the two witnesses. She had no leads, not even a hint of a lead, and now they had another killing to clear. They put each homicide on a board in the office. There had been ninety-nine murders in the whole of Brooklyn so far this year, with six in the Seven Five. They had solved four of those murders, a clearance rate that the city saw as just about acceptable. These two were unhelpful. And Mackintosh had landed both of them.

  She trudged through the snow to the patrolmen waiting by their car.

  “Anything? Witnesses?”

  The first man shook his head. “We asked up and down the street. No one saw a thing.”

  “What about video?”

  “Here? Most of these buildings don’t have anyone in them.”

  “What about the station?”

  The man shrugged. “I guess…”

  “Go and ask them,” she said.

  “You think they’d even be working?”

  “Go and ask.”

  She turned away as the cop muttered to his partner. She checked her watch: three in the afternoon. It was cold and dark, the sky grey and impassive for as far as she could see. Another big fall of snow was forecast, and that would soon cover any evidence that they might otherwise have found. Every day that went by made it less likely that they would be able to solve the murder. More likely the killer would be able to get away.

  Two murders in less than two miles in the space of five days. She’d had decent numbers all year, but now they were going to shit. She just needed to catch a break.

  84

  Carter was getting changed at his locker when Rhodes came down the stairs and joined him.

 
; “Hey, kid,” Carter said. “How you doing?”

  “I’m good,” Rhodes replied.

  “Gonna be a cold one tonight.”

  Rhodes reached into his bag and took out a Thermos. “I’ve come prepared,” he said, with a little of the goofiness that Carter had come to associate with him.

  “So have I.” Carter grinned, taking a hip flask from his bag.

  Carter took off his sweatshirt and jeans and pulled on his uniform. The rookie did the same. Carter watched him as he strapped on his belt and checked his weapon. The kid had relaxed after the first couple of days. Carter had continued to gradually introduce him to what life on the street was really like, the kind of activity you could indulge in without bringing down any unnecessary trouble, and the kid’s initial hesitation had been replaced by what Carter took to be a curious acceptance. It was too early to be sure, but, if he had been forced to guess, Carter would have said that the kid had the ethical flexibility to make a decent patrol cop in this part of Brooklyn. A grass eater, for sure, with the hope that he might be able to introduce a little meat into his diet.

  Carter holstered his pistol, fastened the retaining clip, and grabbed his coat.

  “I’ll see you in the muster room,” he said. “Don’t be late. Ramirez is in a shitty mood.”

  The sergeant hurried through roll call, picking out a few of the incidents that had made the previous shift just a little less boring than the eight-to-four usually was: there were reports of shots fired in Sutter Ballfields between Schenck and Barbey; a burglary on Bradford Street with the perpetrator climbing up the fire escape and forcing the window; a half dozen fender benders as drivers lost control on the ice; the disappearance of a ten-year-old girl who had failed to come back to her parents’ house on Dumont after throwing snowballs in Martin Luther King Jr. playground.

  Carter and Rhodes made their way out to the patrol car. Rhodes, who had settled into his role as Carter’s driver, slid inside and started the engine. The cabin retained a little warmth from the crew who had used it on the previous shift, and it didn’t take long to bring it back up to a hospitable temperature.