The Dark Path

by Kevin McManus

  “You want to go in?” Bukowski said, looking at Morrigan.

  Morrigan jutted his chin in the direction of the patio. “I want to see if he goes inside first.”

  Sure enough, Klein did. About a minute after he entered, the restaurant the hostess, showcasing a permanent smile that Morrigan could sense was for the sake of the job, showed Klein to the VIP area and motioned to a table where two other men sat nursing cocktails and greeting the newcomer with familiar body language and gestures.

  “Check it out,” Morrigan said. “It’s The Assholes Club.”

  Bukowski chuckled as Klein sat with his buddies at a table close to the street. Morrigan, wanting a closer look, put the car in drive and slowly edged it forward until they were thirty feet away from Klein’s table. He put the car into park, and they sat watching the trio at the table for about five minutes before one of the men, dressed in a baby blue dress shirt, stood up and headed for the restroom.

  “Whoa,” Morrigan said, perking up in his seat. “No way!”

  “What?” Bukowski asked.

  Morrigan held up his hand. “Hang on…”

  They waited for the guy to return, and when he did, Morrigan pointed a finger and said, “There! Him!”

  Bukowski asked, “What about him?”

  Morrigan settled back in his chair. “That guy,” he said, “the one who just walked in, is the same guy that’s on one of the three passports we found in Denny Maisano’s place.”

  All Bukowski could think to do was shake her head as Morrigan pointed to the other guy seated to the right of Klein. “And the black-haired guy,” he said, “the other one—that’s the other face on the passports we found in Maisano’s place, too.”

  13

  A Spiderweb

  Thursday, January 10th

  Midtown Precinct North,

  10:30am

  “You’re shitting me,” Edmunds said, arms folded along his desk and a perturbed inflection in his voice. “You saw them? All of them? All of the faces on those passports?”

  “Yeah,” Morrigan said, pacing to deal with the jitters of being on the cusp of breaking open the case. “They were all having an evening meal.”

  Edmunds shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

  “I found it kinda fitting, really.”

  Edmunds grabbed a pen and began twirling it over his fingers. “What does it mean?” He glanced over to the corner of the room at Bukowski, seated in a chair with her chin resting in her palm.

  “Not sure,” she said. “But Anthony Klein being a suspect provides us with a myriad of problems.”

  “As in?”

  “As in, his father is a brother-in-law to someone in Congress, last I heard.”

  “You know who?” Morrigan asked.

  She shook her head. “I’ll keep digging though. The point is that Klein—”

  Edmunds held up his hand. “What are the names of the other guys you found?”

  “Thomas Woods,” Morrigan said, “and John Harrington. They were the other two guys on the passports.”

  “Why not just bring them in and question them?” Edmunds asked, though he knew from Bukowski’s prior statement that these boys were probably connected in a way that made it more than slightly difficult to charge them with anything.

  “Because it’s better to tail them. We’re not sure why they had those passports yet. Plus, they seemed all too happy to be with one another when we first spotted them.” Bukowski replied.

  “And?”

  “And, I’m of the mind that it means they haven’t caught wind yet about Maisano being arrested. If they paid him to make those passports, they’re going to want them soon.”

  Edmunds pouted his bottom lip and didn’t question the point. “Okay,” he said, curiosity lacing his tone. “What would your next move be?”

  Morrigan smirked like a devious child and Bukowski was just shy of rolling her eyes as she looked away.

  Edmunds reclined in his chair, rubbing his hands over his face. “Okay, wise guys,” he said, cutting through the bullshit before it even began. “Just tell me what you came up with.”

  Morrigan gave the captain his full attention. “Bukowski shows up with the passports. She pretends that she’s dropping the stuff off for Maisano.”

  “How do you plan on pulling that off?”

  “We get Maisano to set it up. He’s supposed to call these goons he crafted the passports for the second he was done with them. He said so.”

  “Why not just stake out Maisano handing them over himself?” Edmunds asked.

  Morrigan cocked his head. “They guy’s busted up and in the hospital. I don’t think that’s going to fly.”

  Edmunds drew a breath, thinking. “So,” he said, “you’ll get Maisano to make something up.”

  “And Bukowski,” Morrigan added, “is the perfect eye candy.” He waved his apologies to her without looking back. “No offense.”

  She casually smoothed out her eyebrow with her middle finger. “None taken.”

  Edmunds squinted and extended a hand like he was looking for change. “Someone want to fill in the blanks for me here?”

  Morrigan nodded. “Bukowski goes undercover for a night,” he said. “Maisano sets up a meeting with the frat boys for the passports, bullshit the scenario how we see fit, we make a deal, we arrest them.” He clapped his hands together. “End of story.”

  “Assuming all three of them will be there…”

  “Whoever we get, we sweat them and get them to flip on the others. Hell, even if it’s just a messenger, we’ll do the same.”

  Edmunds drummed his fingers on his desk. “These guys are lawyered up to the ass,” he said. “The little restaurant you said they were holed up in says everything about their pedigrees.”

  Bukowski shook her head. “They’re sloppy, captain. These guys used all the wrong connections to get hold of these passports. Only took us a few days to figure it out.”

  Edmunds crooked a finger and his eyes lit up with the hypothetical outcomes that the case could end up in. “Don’t forget that there are people dying in our district as a result of this thing.” He leveled his gaze at Morrigan. “Clearly there’s something big underneath all of this. The roots of this motherfucking tree stretch out a long fucking way.”

  “What are you saying, cap?” Morrigan replied as he scratched his head and looked sideways at Bukowski.

  “I’m saying that this scenario is at the stage where one misstep could land us all in a steaming pile of shit with no shovel to dig ourselves out. I’m saying be careful. We don’t know who we’re going to end up pissing off the moment we get the crew from the L.L. Bean catalog in an interrogation room.”

  They heard a knock on the door. “Bruce Shearer, the SWAT commander, wants to talk to you, captain,” a uniformed female officer said. “And it sounds like he’s pissed.”

  Morrigan couldn’t help but tilt back his head and huff a laugh. “Okay, Reeves… We’re on our way.”

  Shearer met Morrigan, Bukowski, and Edmunds mid-stride down the hallway that led to the crime labs, his booted feet stomping with intention as Edmunds held up his hands, asking for a chance to explain.

  “Where the hell do you get off looking at my people?” Shearer barked.

  “Hold tight,” Edmunds said. “You’re lucky that internal investigations isn’t looking into your department. Forensics said that the bullet came from a Remington—”

  “Not one of mine,” Commander Shearer interjected.

  “—and we have to look at all possibilities, all possibilities, to deduce exactly what happened to Jake Dalton.”

  Shearer’s neck was pulsating, the veins growing like a spiderweb and feeding adrenaline into his brain. He pointed a finger. “My people didn’t take that shot.”

  Edmunds shrugged. “Then you have nothing to worry about.”

  Shearer homed his sights on Morrigan and Bukowski. “You two,” he said. “You responsible for this? You pushing the agenda that my people are res
ponsible for that two-bit prick getting shot?”

  Edmunds turned his body and puffed his chest, shielding his detectives. “Stay off my people,” he said. “That’s an order. They’re doing their job, and I’m not going to get involved in some kind of chest-bumping match when all we’re trying to do is look at this from every angle.” He lassoed his finger in the air. “You want to storm around here and act like some kind of pissed-off cowboy treating this like some kind of ‘bros having each other’s back’ bullshit, I’ll go ahead and phone the rat squad and tell them to handle this. Or, you act like a goddamn professional and let the techs do their sweep of your Remingtons.” A shrug, his hands slapping his sides. “Your choice, Commander Shearer.”

  Shearer huffed and puffed, most of it for show, some of it a result of lifting copious amounts of weights coupled with octane-based supplements he took for an extra boost. He weighed his options, taking his time. “This is bullshit, Edmunds.”

  “Get out of my face, Shearer.”

  “Bullshit!” the commander huffed before disappearing from sight.

  Edmunds turned to his detectives. “Stay out of his sight,” he ordered. “I’ll get Miller and the lab monkeys to look at their stuff. In the meantime, get on over to Maisano and start figuring out the logistics on this thing.”

  A nod from Bukowski. “Copy that.”

  Morrigan opened his mouth, ready to suggest sending Hackett over to William Thompson’s residence back in Long Island to do some more digging on the home invasion stunt that Anthony Klein, aka Brian Rogers, took part in back in 2016—but he was interrupted by Officer Reeves.

  “Captain,” she said, a grave tone tracing her words, forking her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of Edmunds’ office. “I think you better take this.” She nodded at Morrigan. “They want to see you, too.”

  Morrigan felt his heart skip a beat.

  They?

  14

  The Ghost of Damien Huerta

  Midtown Precinct North

  The guys in Edmunds’ office were standing, lingering about with their hands stuffed inside the pants of their suits, which all had the hefty price tags that one employed in the internal affairs division could more than afford. Slack but self-assured expressions hung on their faces as Morrigan and Edmunds entered the office.

  “Captain Edmunds,” said the man in the blue suit on the right side, “I’m Sergeant Horvath. IAD.” He motioned to the guy in the black suit. “This is Sergeant Willis.”

  Morrigan eyeballed both men, took a step forward and unconsciously jutted out his chest.

  No one went to the trouble of exchanging handshakes.

  Half of the precinct outside the office could smell traces of the rat squad as the occasional gaze laced with disdain was leveled in their direction.

  “What can I do for the internal affairs?” Edmunds asked, not making eye contact with either of the men, well-aware of their reputation for burning cops and taking pleasure in the process.

  Edmunds found himself more worn out by the cyclical stereotype of it all than the men themselves.

  Willis and Horvath made it a point not to look at Morrigan as Willis said, “We’re here to look into an older matter.”

  “Which one would that be? You’ll have to be more specific.”

  “The shooting in Midtown,” Horvath said, nodding to Morrigan. “Back before Lieutenant Morrigan here was transferred to the 1-8.”

  Morrigan felt his stomach drop and an odd sensation like his legs had turned to rubber. Jesus Christ, he thought. Are these rat bastards serious?

  Are they really bringing this back up?!

  Morrigan would never forget that day. It was an impossible feat. Every hour since the one when he pulled that trigger had been geared toward stuffing the memory down deep into the recesses of his brain and simply living with it. After a while, time took a bit of the sting off. But now it was all coming back, the symptoms of grief that Morrigan once thought he had gotten over returning as sour flashbacks from the past began knocking on his front door and begging to come inside for a chat.

  Morrigan opened his mouth, ready to unleash a tirade of insults and “What the fucks?” in Willis and Horvath’s direction. But he caught himself quick, holding his breath for a moment and swallowing his pride before exhaling a hot breath reminiscent of something close to a laugh.

  “I, uh,” Morrigan began, crossing his arms and forcing a shit-eating grin, “I was under the impression that the shooting team cleared me on that.”

  Willis shrugged. “Technically,” he said with a condescending timbre, “it’s still an open investigation.”

  “That was six years ago. I was told it was closed.”

  “New evidence has been brought to light in the form of eyewitness testimony.”

  “Who?”

  Willis and Horvath averted their gaze and let the question fly past them like they had dodged a bullet.

  Horvath said, “That’s confidential, as of this moment, Lieutenant Morrigan—”

  Morrigan huffed and waved the guy off as he slipped into the chair across from Edmunds’ desk. “Oh, for chrissakes…”

  Edmunds shook his head and wagged a finger, trying his best to dish back the somewhat elitist and smug attitude the IAD goons were dishing out. “That’s not going to fly, gentleman. You want to come stirring up something, you need to tell us what’s going on.”

  “We have to protect our sources,” Willis said. “This isn’t a free-for-all.”

  Morrigan pointed a finger. “There were three people in that room,” he said, “when Damian Huerta was shot. Myself, Detective Gamble, and Huerta. Huerta pulled a knife, Gamble got stabbed, and I shot Huerta. The end.”

  “Not according to our witness,” Horvath said. “There is a claim that you shot Damian Huerta, succinctly putting it, in cold blood.”

  Succinct, Morrigan thought as he laughed out loud. You’re just being an asshole. “Is that a fact?” he said, shaking his head and unable to look either of the IAD pricks in the face.

  Willis said, “Our eyewitness’s testimony, we feel, has given us enough reason to reopen the case and see if the proper steps need to be taken.”

  “Fine,” Edmunds said, “then what are you doing standing in my office leveling accusations at one of my people when you don’t have charges to file?”

  Horvath gestured to Morrigan. “Because we want to see Morrigan’s financial records.”

  A squint from Edmunds.

  A hard swallow from Morrigan.

  “What for?” Edmunds asked.

  “That’s confidential as well,” Willis said. “We just wanted to come here and give you the courtesy of a heads-up.”

  Horseshit, Morrigan thought, wishing he could say everything he was thinking out loud.

  A long pause followed before Edmunds nodded to the door. “Fine,” he said in a bland tone. “Then go.”

  “We’ll need his financials—”

  “Talk to his PBA rep,” Edmunds said, waving them off. “Until then, leave my office.”

  The IAD officers lingered for a moment, taking their time to leave as they half swaggered out and started co-ordinating the next steps of their interrogation right in front of Morrigan and Edmunds.

  They even left the door ajar on their way out.

  Morrigan slammed it shut.

  “Un-fucking-believable!” he yelled as soon as Horvath and Willis were out of earshot.

  Edmunds pumped the air with his hands. “Sit down,” he said. “I get it, I do, but throwing a fit isn’t going to reverse this bullshit.”

  “It is bullshit, by the way. I was cleared of that shooting over six years ago.”

  “You want to tell me about it?”

  “I just did. It was a straightforward shooting. The suspect pulled a knife on my partner—I shot him.”

  Edmunds took a beat as he tapped his chin with his finger. “Why do they want to look at your financials?” he finally had the stones to ask.

  The color
in Morrigan’s face seemed to take on a pale shade as he looked his captain square in the eyes, the seconds now feeling like minutes.

  Morrigan shrugged. “Hell if I know, captain.”

  An answering shrug from Edmunds. “Any idea why these guys would have a reason to do that over a simple shooting?”

  Morrigan could sense the interrogatory tone in his captain’s voice and began speaking in a more defensive tone. “The fuck if I know,” he said. “This is pure, run-of-the-mill IAD bullshit. This is nothing more than a bunch of assholes looking to play Serpico because corruption is down but they still want to keep their jobs. Plain and simple.”

  Edmunds believed Morrigan when he said the shooting of Damian Huerta was straightforward. He had no doubt in his mind—but it was obvious that talk of money was a more than sensitive subject with his detective.

  Edmunds folded his hands and leaned in, somewhat paternal in the way he looked at Morrigan. “Morrigan,” he said, “if you want to talk, if there’s anything I can do to help…” He said nothing more, leaving the bait out for Morrigan in case he wanted to bite.

  Morrigan shook his head. “I’ve got nothing to hide, captain. Nothing. This is just the rat squad trying to stir up shit because of whatever ulterior motives they’ve got in store.”

  Edmunds took a beat. “Call your PBA rep,” he said. “Tell them what’s going on.”

  “I will,” Morrigan said. “Soon as I set up the sting with Bukowski. I’m not wasting any more time on internal affairs crap than I have to.”

  Edmunds nodded. “Call me when it’s set up.”

  Morrigan opened the door and marched out like a cowboy leaving a saloon.

  Edmunds watched as his lieutenant left, a lingering scent in the air that most cops could sniff out quickly once they became seasoned by the job: bullshit.

  Alex Petrovic was seated in a sunken chair that smelled like mildew, in an apartment not far from where he had fatally shot Mrs. Ruiz in the head. The television in front of him showed a black-and-white movie, though his eyes were unfocused. He was waiting with a burner phone positioned next to him on the nightstand. His orders were to wait until he was told to move—and that’s exactly what he did.