by Tom Barber
As it made contact, he cursed under his breath; the shiv had cut about a third of an inch deep, the skin sliced open, blood still running from the wound down his chest. Glancing down, he saw the cut on his arm was bleeding too, the blood dripping to the floor. Now out of danger, the pain from the two injuries suddenly kicked in, in addition to the throbbing ache of his forearm from where he’d blocked that first knife thrust.
He sat down on the bed while he got his breath back. Jesus Christ, you sure know how to get yourself in deep shit, he thought, shaking his head. If it was an art-form, you’d be goddamn Pablo Picasso.
Then he heard the sound of a key turning in the lock.
Throwing the pillowcase to one side as the door started to open, Archer rose instantly, ready to defend himself in case this was Round 2. However, as the door pulled back he saw two guards standing there, one holding a box containing Archer’s actual clothes, the other the man from the shower block.
‘Change,’ the latter said. ‘You’ve been released. Someone’s pulled you.’
‘Who?’
‘Just get changed,’ he ordered, the other guard placing the box down and pushing it towards Archer. ‘And don’t bleed on my floor.’
The box slid over until it hit Archer’s foot; the guards stood there, waiting. Opening the box and quickly pulling his blue jeans, black sweater and shoes back on, Archer replaced them with his overalls then walked over to the men who turned and led him out of the cell. It took some time to get to the exit as they had to negotiate several locked doors and long corridors, but eventually they reached the last door, the three of them waiting for it to be buzzed open.
Walking through that final exit, Archer expected to see Josh, Shepherd or Marquez but was caught completely off-guard when he saw who was standing there waiting for him.
It was Sergeant Jake Hendricks.
*
At six foot two, over two hundred pounds, dark-featured and tough as two dollar steak, Jake Hendricks was the hardest cop Sam Archer had ever met. The man was a walking sledgehammer, his uncompromising approach legendary in the Department. He was also Matt Shepherd’s closest friend and ran his own five-person team in the Counter-Terrorism Bureau, the two squads often working side by side. Although Archer knew him relatively well, he wasn’t anywhere near the top of the list of people he’d expected to see just then.
He knew Hendricks was intelligent but it was his fearless approach to police work that had built his reputation. There were many stories about him that had done the rounds, some no doubt having grown with the telling, but one Archer knew for a fact to be true was also one of his favourites. A few years back a gang from Cypress Hills had plotted to kill Hendricks after he’d come down on them hard shortly after being transferred there; he’d made their lives a misery and they’d decided it was time for some payback. Two of the gang members had found out where he lived and waited one night to waylay him, but when Hendricks had arrived home things hadn’t exactly gone as they’d planned. The incident had taken place a couple of years ago but apparently the two gang members had only recently started eating solid food again. Hendricks wasn’t a man to cross and definitely someone you didn’t want as an enemy.
Dressed in jeans, a dark sweater, boots and a leather jacket concealing his badge and weapon, Hendricks nodded at Archer as he appeared then turned and led the way out of the building without saying a word. Surprised, Archer followed the dark-haired Sergeant outside and over to a Counter-Terrorism Bureau Ford; Hendricks climbed in behind the wheel as Archer got into the passenger seat beside him. Hendricks fired the engine and they took off out of the compound, being buzzed out through the exit and heading towards the only bridge off the island which led into Queens.
Now he was out of there, Archer finally felt relief wash over him; against all the odds, he’d made it out alive, but only just. As he sat there he started to feel sick and cold, his nervous system exacting payback for the adrenaline spike that had helped save his life in the shower block twenty minutes ago.
Leaning back in the Ford’s passenger seat, he felt blood running from the wound under his sweater. Reaching under the garment and the t-shirt underneath, he pressed his hand to his chest and withdrew it. Hendricks glanced over, both men seeing it was red with blood.
‘You’re hurt?’ Hendricks asked.
‘I made some friends in there.’
‘Is it deep?’
Archer shook his head, remembering how he’d turned at the last second from that final shiv thrust which had saved his life. ‘Could have been a lot worse.’
Keeping his left hand on the wheel, Hendricks reached under his seat and tossed Archer a small first-aid kit. ‘Fix yourself up. And don’t bleed in my car.’
Seems to be a recurring theme tonight, Archer thought as he caught the box. Resting the kit on his lap he opened it up, taking out some antiseptic spray and a pack of wipes. Pulling off his sweater, he shook the canister then pushed it under his t-shirt and sprayed the cut on his chest then the one on his arm, both wounds still bleeding sluggishly. He found some gauze and tape in the box, which he stuck over the cut on his arm, then pulled out a large rectangular bandage and strapped it over the cut on his chest, the whole process taking less than a minute.
His effort at first-aid completed, he closed the box, placed it in the foot-well and sat back in his seat, closing his eyes and taking a long deep breath, his sweater resting on his lap.
‘Talk about a weekend to remember,’ he said. ‘Jesus Christ.’
‘How the hell did you end up in there?’ Hendricks replied. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘I got picked up two nights ago for visiting a victim’s mother in the East Village. They held me at the 13th for a day then transferred me up here last night, saying there wasn’t enough room at the Precinct or some bullshit like that. I was in my SHU cell all day but got taken out at dusk for rec time and 6pm was showers. Five minutes in the yard and a couple of minutes into the shower was all it took. Three Latinos jumped me.’
‘The guards?’
‘Pulled next door by something else. I think it was planned. A diversion.’
Hendricks swore quietly as Archer eased his sweater back over his torso, adjusting it awkwardly under his seatbelt, trying not to dislodge his bandages.
‘That place can be a real shit-show,’ Hendricks said. ‘You wouldn’t be the first suspended cop to die in there.’
‘Thanks for getting me out. How’d you know I was inside?’
‘Because I know Lieutenant Royston. He was a sergeant in the same Precinct as me years ago when Shep and I first started out in a squad car. He’s always been an asshole.’
As he spoke Hendricks moved off the Bridge into Queens, keeping his eyes on the road.
‘Two years before I joined the Department, he was accused of rape but beat the charges on a technicality. When we worked at the same Precinct he had two complaints of sexual harassment lodged against him but again he got away with it; he’s a vicious bully. After I heard you punched him, I knew he’d drop you in more shit the first chance he had. Getting you suspended wouldn’t be enough for him.’
‘So locking me up in there was the answer?’
‘He’s done it before. Years back, there was a guy who got aggressive with him. Royston had made advances to his girlfriend at a bar during another guy’s retirement bash. The officer was pissed and rightly so, so he called Royston out on it in front of half the Precinct. The next day, the poor bastard was conveniently arrested on some bullshit weapons license charge and locked up in Rikers for the weekend due to over-crowding, just like you. However, they didn’t put him in the SHU block; he was jammed in General Population.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘Sure you can figure it out, but let’s just say two nights can be one hell of a long time in a place like that. The guy made it the full two days but he was never the same afterwards. Couple of years later he killed himself.’
Archer felt the cuts on his c
hest and arm burn from the antiseptic. ‘All things considered, I got off lightly then.’
‘Shep called saying you hadn’t been in contact and had dropped off the radar, so I decided to check the prison admission logs during the past forty eight hours and bingo, there you were.’
Archer shook his head. ‘That son of a bitch.’
Hendricks paused for a moment, the car continuing on its journey through Queens. ‘What did Karen Casey say when you visited? Anything that wasn’t in the file?’
Archer looked at him, surprised. Hendricks ran his own team in the Bureau and hadn’t been working with Shepherd on the shooting. ‘You’re familiar with the case, sir?’
Hendricks nodded. ‘Shep briefed me. Once he told me what was going on, I asked to see the files.’
‘We tried that; Homicide wouldn’t co-operate. I had to call in a favour to see them.’
‘I’ve got a couple friends over there.’
Pulling out a brown folder from the well by his seat, he tossed it onto Archer’s lap.
‘The deceased was Leann Vanessa Casey. Nineteen years old at the time of death, unmarried and no partner, born in Johnstown, Pennsylvania to Karen and Marcus Casey. Was arrested in February on the Upper West Side for nothing since. No idea who she’s working for or where she’s been except apart from a three-month stint here at Rikers and record of her at Covenant Housing; apparently she was being treated for addiction to pain killers. Did four weeks in rehab out on Long Island and was released four hours before she was shot and killed.’
As Archer scanned the girl’s meagre police file again, getting reacquainted with the case, Hendricks pulled up at a red light.
‘Maybe she wasn’t working for anyone else; just herself,’ Archer said, turning the page and looking at the case notes again. ‘With the internet, who says a prostitute needs a pimp nowadays?’
‘That’s very possible.’
Archer turned the page, seeing the girl lying in the car park, her keys and bag beside her and numbered with small tags by CSU.
‘The Chevy was hers, all the documents checking out in her name. The bag she was carrying just contained a few spare clothes. Investigative team at the scene found several thousand dollars tucked into her clothing.’
He glanced at Archer.
‘Her savings, perhaps.’
Archer nodded, turning the page, and looked at the mug-shots of the two perpetrators.
‘The 114th settled on two suspects, pimps from another gang. Both were found dead from gunshot wounds this past Thursday, Carvalho shooting Valdez then wasting himself with the gun that killed Leann Casey. Convenient, right?’
‘Exactly,’ Archer said quietly.
‘Doesn’t exactly match up with the behaviour of a man who shot a young woman without hesitation three times and dropped two police detectives,’ Hendricks continued. ‘But aside from Valdez’ girlfriend, no other sets of prints were found at the location and she was doing thirty days for a DUI at the time of death. Homicide asked around but no-one in the building saw anyone in the vicinity of the apartment at the time of the shooting other than the two men. That meant it was case closed, investigation complete. All that was missing was a ribbon on top and a thank you card.’
There was a pause.
‘So what’s your view?’ Hendricks finished, looking at Archer.
‘The gun was the same that killed Leann Casey. They both had the same build as the two assholes who jumped us. It ticks every box; guys like this have done far dumber things.’
‘But?’
Archer pointed at Carvalho’s mug-shot, the heavier-set of the two, the man who’d killed Valdez then shot himself. ‘The eyes are the giveaway. When I was waiting for him to finish us off, I stared into the killer’s eyes. This isn’t the same man.’
Hendricks looked at him for a long moment.
‘What happened to the van from that night?’ he asked.
‘Pulled over four hours later in Harlem,’ Archer replied. ‘Officers arrested the driver, a guy two weeks out of the joint for stealing cars. He had priors, but he wasn’t the killer. He had an alibi. He’d been seeing his PO downtown at the time of the shooting.’
‘How’d he get the keys?’
‘Said he found the van on the corner of 144th and 2nd and they were still in the ignition. He stole it and called a chop shop in Queens who said they’d give him eight hundred bucks for it. He was driving it over there when he was pulled over. The plate had gone out to every cop in the city and a passing squad car tagged it.’
‘What about street CCTV? Cameras must have picked up the two suspects leaving the vehicle.’
‘Both figures were in dark clothing. They knew what they were doing. A bus stopped off on the near side of the street and obscured the shot for a good thirty seconds. When it pulled away again, both of them were gone.’
‘The man who shot you, what was he wearing?’
‘Jeans, jacket, hockey mask. Gun was a Steyr.’
‘His manner?’
‘Hard as hell. He took out the girl without any hesitation; it was only when he saw our cop vests that he lost his cool. Even then he was going to kill us but the driver was freaking out and stopped him.’
‘You heard them talk?’
Archer nodded.
‘Accents?’
‘Nothing I picked up on.’
‘Anything else you can remember?’
Archer closed his eyes, recalling what he saw. ‘That’s it.’
Hendricks thought for a moment, the hum of the car’s engine filling the silence, the vehicle driving on through the dark web of streets.
‘You know my wife was shot once too,’ he said. ‘Three years ago.’
Archer glanced at him. ‘I didn’t.’
‘After I tuned up a couple of gangbangers who tried to welcome me home one night, three of their boys came to our house a few days later to kill her as revenge. Fortunately they were sloppy and thought she’d be an easy mark. She fired back but took two to the leg; almost died. So I know where your head’s at. And you’re right; something about this is way, way off.’
Archer nodded then looked around him and frowned, realising they were heading for Brooklyn, not the Bureau or his apartment.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Somewhere we can get some real information,’ Hendricks said. ‘Cypress Hills.’
He glanced at Archer as they entered Brooklyn, heading for one of the most dangerous neighbourhoods in the city.
‘Let’s find out what’s really going on here,’ he said.
ELEVEN
In the sitting room of Karen Casey’s apartment on East 19th Street, Shepherd and a blonde thirty year old social worker named Theresa Palmer waited as the distressed woman recovered from the bout of tears triggered by their arrival several minutes ago.
Marquez had called Shepherd when he was on his way to the Hendricks’ for dinner, telling him that she and Josh had found Arch. Apparently he’d been dumped in Rikers having been arrested after visiting Karen Casey, and she and Josh were on their way to pull him out. After a few seconds of stunned silence, having not even realised that Archer was missing, Shepherd had swung his car round and come straight here to speak with Leann’s mother, wanting to see if Karen could shed any light on why his detective had been arrested as he left her place and telling Marquez to let him know the moment they got Archer out.
As Shepherd had arrived outside the building another car had pulled up and Theresa Palmer had stepped out, just as surprised to see him as he was her. Palmer was from the Polaris Project, the biggest anti-human trafficking organisation in the United States, and had been brought in by the 114th after it became apparent that Leann Casey had been an escort. Palmer’s role required her to counsel the families of those caught up in the sex-trade as well as the victims and Karen Casey had been on her visit list since her daughter had been murdered. Shepherd had been part of the NYPD for sixteen years but apart from his early days in a squad car with Hendric
ks when they’d arrested a few hookers and pimps, his work since, especially in the Counter-Terrorism Bureau, hadn’t involved the sex trade so he was glad she was here, feeling somewhat out of his depth in this unfamiliar territory.
The pair had been let in, walked up together and had now been sitting with the distraught woman for several minutes. Palmer was beside Karen on the couch, a hand resting against her back, murmuring words of comfort. As he waited patiently for Karen’s tears to pass, Shepherd glanced at the social worker, even more grateful she was here right now. Green eyed, attractive if in a slightly hard way and with shoulder length blonde hair, Palmer looked just what she was, a competent professional, dressed in a smart, well-tailored grey work suit with a white shirt and black court shoes. He guessed she had to be pretty tough to be involved in this kind of work.
Beside her, Karen would have been a head-turner herself once but Shepherd guessed life hadn’t been kind to her. She looked run-down, which wasn’t surprising considering her daughter had been murdered a month ago. He could relate to that; he knew how it felt to lose a child. Unlike her daughter, she didn’t have a police record for him to check, but the interviewing detectives from Homicide had noted down a few of her details in the file. She’d been born in a small town in Pennsylvania, was unemployed, divorced and the mother of one child, Leann, her ex-husband Marcus proving hard to trace, various Pennsylvania Police Departments still working on finding him to inform him of his daughter’s death.
Glancing around, Shepherd guessed she didn’t have much money to spare but her place was comfortable enough and well-furnished, if slightly worn and faded, a bit like its owner. As the woman began to compose herself, Shepherd’s attention settled on a photo of Leann to his right, the shot taken when she must have been around fifteen or sixteen. Sitting alone in a back-yard, the girl looked slightly strained in the picture although that wasn’t surprising considering Homicide’s notes recorded that Karen’s ex-husband had been an abusive alcoholic. She looked like a nice, sweet young woman, very pretty even then, someone whose life could have been very different under altered circumstances.
