Around 5pm the cell phone buzzed to life and he scooped it up on the second ring, and casually held it to his ear. His ice blue eyes maintained their vicious glare at the television.
He answered the call.
He didn’t bother to greet the caller.
“We have another one for you,” a voice said from the other side. “Can you do it tonight?”
Petrovic grunted a positive growl into the receiver.
“Good,” the voice said. “The name of the mark is William Thompson. He lives at this address in Long Island.”
The voice gave a series of numbers.
Petrovic didn’t need to write it down.
“Call when it’s finished,” the voice said before hanging up.
The Serbian man stood, switched off the television, grabbed his backpack and slipped out of the room with a feline grace. He went outside, tossed the burner phone in a trash can, hailed a cab, and made his way over to Long Island to execute William Thompson.
15
The Jack of Diamonds
Thursday, January 10th
South Central Hospital,
2:30pm
“Fuck’s sake,” Maisano said as he slammed a fist on the bed in his hospital room, still reclined, sore, and bruised. “You guys are bending me over a barrel here.”
“It’s not that difficult,” Morrigan said, taking an orange off Maisano’s nightstand and slowly peeling it. “Just call Klein, tell him the passports are ready, and tell him that your girl is going to pass them off.”
Maisano squinted. “Who?”
Morrigan lingered near a window and cast his glance outside at the trees as Bukowski stepped in.
“Me,” she said.
Maisano pointed. “You.”
“Yeah. I’m going to play the part. We’ll set this up somewhere public. I’m assuming that’s what Klein probably wanted when he made the deal with you.”
Maisano nodded. “I didn’t even know his real name was Klein until you two said something.”
“What name did he give you?”
“Sean Moore.”
Morrigan started laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Bukowski asked him.
Morrigan turned around. “He took the names of the two of most famous actors who played James Bond and mashed them together, Sean Connery and Roger Moore.”
Bukowski huffed a laugh. “Jesus Christ… I forgot that you are such a Bond nerd, Morrigan.”
“Look,” Maisano cut in, not amused. His body and mind were raw and weary and aching to just recover quickly and get the hell back home. “Just tell me what you want to do here. Let’s set this thing up.” He pointed a finger. “But I guarantee that I can’t stay in the city any more after all is said and done. My reputation is burned. This guy, Klein, he’s got connections. He never said what he wanted those passports for, but a guy dressed like he was sure as shit has the means to cause someone an interminable headache if he sees fit. He made it a point to relay that to me.”
Bukowski shrugged. “What’s your point?”
Maisano perched forward. “Everything that’s happened is going to send me into exile. That’s the point. I’m just a little pissed off about it and wanted to get it off my chest.”
“Well,” Morrigan said, “you got it off your chest. Now you can shut the hell up about it.”
The two men homed their sights in on one another, Bukowski playing witness to the showdown and knowing that Morrigan would never break.
Morrigan took out his cell, held it up, and tossed it by Maisano’s feet on the bed. “Make the call.”
It took Maisano a minute to muster the courage—and to not shout off his mouth to Morrigan.
9:30pm
Morrigan walked toward the Jack of Diamond’s bar a block from his apartment building to meet his brother Tommy. As he walked he thought about the plans for the next day. The meeting with Klein had been set up for the following evening, 10pm sharp at a place called Priscilla’s. It was almost too easy. Klein relished the fact that a woman would be meeting him, and a “damn fine-looking one” as Maisano had told him over the phone.
But now was one of those rare moments for Morrigan: down time. Until then, Bukowski would work the William Thompson angle and Miller in forensics would be sweeping the SWAT team’s gear. The chumps at internal affairs could wait.
Good a time as any for a drink, he thought as he ambled into the bar.
Tommy had taken a stool at the counter toward the far end. The jukebox was humming A Pair of Brown Eyes as Morrigan slipped into the seat beside him.
Tommy kept his gaze level on the Knicks game playing on the television mounted in the corner of a bar, pulling on his single pour of whiskey as he nodded to the TV and said, “San Antonio’s gonna win the game from the free throw line. Fuckin’ pricks.”
John Morrigan held up his pack of smokes to the bartender who nodded his approval—despite the bar’s no smoking policy—when he saw the badge around the lieutenant’s neck.
John lit up. “Never cared much for hoops,” he said.
“Hoops, Christ, you sound like the old man.”
John ordered a whiskey and started reflecting on his father—some of it fond, most of it filled with contempt. “He only liked baseball. The guy was stuck in a time-loop that stopped in the late sixties.”
Tommy snuck a cigarette from his brother’s pack and lit it with a match, both of them nursing their drinks as they stared blankly at the television. Neither of them had just “talked” in quite some time. Neither of them was sure where to start.
“You talk to my parole officer yet?” Tommy asked, eyes still glued to the tube.
John took a swallow. Nodded. “I did,” he said. “Everything seems to be on the up-and-up.” He took a puff of his smoke. “Congratulations on your release.”
Tommy sighed. “You could have just trusted me when I told you the first time.”
John shook his head. “I can’t, man. You know that. There’s too much history behind us.”
“You act like I’m the only one culpable, brother.”
“For the most part you were, Tommy. You broke Mom’s heart. Don’t forget that.”
The two brothers shared the silence as Tommy took a stiff pull of his drink. “What can I do, man?” he said pleadingly. “What can I do to make things okay between us?”
John shrugged, pouted his bottom lip. “Tough question to ask,” he said. “There’s a lot of people you owe an apology to.”
“I’ve been apologizing all my life for being who I am, Skip.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“It’s your name!”
“It pisses me off.” John stewed and took a drag of his smoke.
“What’s with you?” Tommy asked. “You’re pissed with me, I get that, but there’s something else going on with you besides just an old grudge with your next-of-kin. How is work going?”
“Work’s work,” John waved him off, trying to hide his agitation with the rat squad. “No different than it was the last time we saw each other. The asshole-to-good-guy ratio still seems to tilt in the perp’s favor. Work’s been taking a huge bite out of my ass. That’s all.”
“New York City, baby. No one does it better.”
A few moments passed as John took a large swallow of beer from his bottle.
“Things can’t go back to the way they were, slick,” John said with a hush. “Not like it used to be.”
Tommy looked away. “So, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying, that…” John struggled to find the words. “I’m saying that I’m still your brother. I’m saying that I want to… try.”
A sliver of a smile crept onto Tommy’s mouth.
“But you’re gonna have to give it time,” John continued. “This isn’t going to be some overnight success.”
Tommy took a beat.
He nodded.
He raised his drink.
“To starting over,” he said.
John took
his glass and clinked it against Tommy’s. “To starting over.”
Both of the brothers threw back the whiskey, ordered a pair more, and then set about bullshitting and chain-smoking their way through the night. It was a much-needed moment of alleviation for the both of them.
But it wouldn’t last for long.
16
No Dice
Friday, January 11th
Morrigan, parked on the corner of Lexington, checked his watch and saw that it was fifteen minutes before 10pm. He was behind the wheel of his cruiser, his radio tapped into Bukowski’s wire and it emitted a static crackle as he heard her say, “Give me one second. I gotta adjust the mic.”
Morrigan tapped his finger on the wheel, anxious to get a move on. The passport deal was going down in less than fifteen. But he was perplexed as to why Mr. William Thompson had not been home in over twenty-four hours. He said into the radio, “What happened again with Thompson?”
Bukowski sighed. “Hasn’t been home in over a day. I asked the neighbors if they saw him. No dice.”
“We’ll need to knock on his door again after we deal with Mr. Klein here.”
“One step at a time, lieutenant…”
She’s right, he thought. Focus.
It would be a simple setup: meet Klein, swoon Klein, get Klein to confess, then nail Klein before slapping on the cuffs.
Take him to the precinct, Morrigan thought, ticking it off like an item on a grocery list. Sweat him. Get the info. Follow the leads.
Morrigan heard ruffling sounds over the airwaves, most likely from Bukowski adjusting her wardrobe so that it sat better over the slim microphone taped to her chest. For a moment his mind wandered, but then he quickly checked himself as a reminder that he was on the clock.
“How’s your brother?” Bukowski asked.
Morrigan hit the transmit button on the radio. “We had drinks last night,” he said with a surprised inflection. “It went okay.”
“Sounds promising.”
“For now.”
A few more moments passed. “Okay,” Bukowski finally said with a satisfied sigh. “I’m good.”
Morrigan, parked across the street and half a block away from a restaurant called Priscilla’s, held up a pair of field glasses and took a look through the front windows. “I don’t see Klein or anyone else,” he said. “Do you want to wait or go in before he does?”
Bukowski, around the corner in an alley, thought for a moment. “I’ll wait,” she said. “I want this guy to get nervous first.”
“Ever the tease, detective.”
“So I’ve been told…”
“You got your playbook memorized?”
“I’m gonna get this guy to confess to shit from when he was eight. I’ve got this covered.”
Morrigan smirked and shook his head. “Copy that.”
They hung idly by as time ticked on, Morrigan and Bukowski growing increasingly nervous as the minutes passed.
Morrigan checked his watch: 10:02pm.
“Shit,” he hissed.
The radio crackled. “See anything?” Bukowski asked.
Morrigan did a scan. “Negative.”
“Where the hell are they?”
“They’re pompous arrogant assholes. They like making people wait.”
Morrigan may have said it, but he wasn’t buying it. Something feels wrong, he thought.
“I don’t know,” Bukowski said. “Maybe they’re too coked out at a nightclub to know what time it is…”
Morrigan opened his mouth to retort, but cut himself off as he felt a presence creeping up on him to the left. With his right hand pulling out his piece, Morrigan made a move for the door and found himself laying eyes on a piece of paper being pressed against the window that read DAMIAN HUERTA.
What the fuck? Morrigan thought, remaining plastered to his seat.
The paper was turned over, showcasing three new words written in black ink, CANCEL THE DEAL.
The radio crackled to Morrigan’s right. “Something’s up,” Bukowski said. “What do you think?”
Morrigan waited, his hand still clutched around his pistol, as a fresh piece of paper was pressed against the glass. RETURN HERE IN 15.
“Morrigan,” Bukowski said through the radio. “What’s up?”
Morrigan stayed in place as the paper was pulled from the window, and a figure dressed in black turned his back on him before retreating casually around the corner.
“Hey,” Bukowski barked. “Morrigan. Yo!”
Morrigan snatched up the radio and cleared his throat. “Let’s call it,” he said.
“What?” Bukowski protested. “Are you sure?”
Throw her off the scent, Morrigan thought. “Yeah,” he said. “This is a bust. They’re fucking with us. Let’s just call it and start fresh tomorrow.”
A pause.
Bukowski said, “Morrigan, I—”
“Just get back here, detective,” he ordered. “I’ll drop you off at the station. We’re canning this whole thing.”
Another pause.
“10-4,” Bukowski replied dutifully.
Morrigan began searching feverishly through the rear-view mirrors as he waited for Bukowski to arrive at the cruiser, an overwhelming sensation tickling the back of his neck, as if multiple pairs of eyes were leering in his direction.
Bukowski was inquisitive for the first few moments of the drive back to the precinct before Morrigan dropped her off. He tried to remain cool, batting away her curious digging before he left her curbside.
“I’m going for a drive,” Morrigan said. “I’m sick of this runaround bullshit.”
He tried to make it sound like he was perturbed as opposed to nervous, pissed off rather than scared. He needed to throw Bukowski off the trail before she became suspicious.
He just needed enough time to work it all out.
Morrigan made it back to Priscilla’s restaurant two minutes from the fifteen-minute deadline. As he sat in his car he scanned the surroundings with a wary eye, free hand switching the safety on his gun to off.
His cell phone rang. He squinted, waited a moment, and then answered. “Morrigan.”
“Go into the restaurant,” a voice said.
“Who is this?” Morrigan asked.
A sigh. “Don’t play this game, Morrigan. Go into the restaurant. Bring your gun if it’ll make you feel better. No one is going to frisk you.”
The line went dead before Morrigan had a chance to reply.
He pocketed his phone, still unsure of what move to make as he slowly observed his surroundings. After gathering his breath and a little bit of courage, Morrigan stepped out of the Subaru, tucked the gun in the back of his pants, and made his way to the front entrance of Priscilla’s.
Morrigan opened the front door and slipped inside, one hand wavering toward the gun stuffed in the back of his jeans and ready to produce it at a second’s notice. It only took a moment for him to find his designated meeting spot when he laid eyes on two men seated next to each other in the booth in the back: Klein and a raven-haired guy with cold dark eyes.
Klein sipped coffee.
The raven-haired man watched the door.
Morrigan approached the table and stood a few feet shy of it—waiting.
“Take a seat, John,” Klein said, his pearly whites grinning through his lips as he swirled the coffee in his mug.
Morrigan took his time sliding in the booth across from them, surreptitiously removing his gun and resting it on his lap as he sat.
“Money comes with its advantages,” Klein said, his golden and finely cropped hair catching the light as he held up his mug. “But nothing beats the charm of a good old cup of New York diner coffee.”
“Cut the shit,” Morrigan practically spat. “What do you want?”
“My passports, for one.”
“Eat shit. You’re lucky I’m playing whatever game it is you’re pulling.”
Klein smiled. Titled his head. “Well,” he said, “playing the
Damian Huerta card was an ace-in-the-hole, quite frankly.”
The muscles in Morrigan’s jaw tensed. “Who the hell are you?” he said. “What do you know about Damian Huerta?”
Klein placed down his mug and intertwined his fingers while the raven-haired man stared blankly at Morrigan. “I know everything,” Klein said, his voice just above a whisper so the only other occupant of the restaurant, the cook, could not hear him. “I know that you took a bribe to knock that kid off.”
Morrigan never had a panic attack before—but the tightening in his chest was suggesting to him that he was about to have his first. “That’s horseshit,” Morrigan said, defiant. “That was a bogus tip.”
Klein shook his head. “No, it wasn’t.” He leaned in. “Or did you honestly think that IAD digging up your past in the last few days was sheer coincidence?”
The color drained from Morrigan’s face. “You son of a bitch…”
Klein shrugged and showcased a sheepish, boyish grin. “Like I said,” he said. “Money comes with its advantages…”
Silence took over as Klein took a sip of his coffee.
Morrigan continued to shake his head, almost as if he was trying to wake himself from a dream. “No,” he said. “This is just some elaborate IAD stunt. You’re working for them.”
“I’m not working for them,” Klein said. “And this sure as shit isn’t a stunt.”
“Then what is it?”
“This is actually a rare moment for someone in your position.”
“How do you figure?”
Klein looked at the ceiling, thinking of a way to phrase it. “You’re getting a peek behind the curtain, Lieutenant Morrigan. If you, and I’m sure you see it this way, see yourself as the ‘good guy,’ then I, again, according to you, am ‘the bad guy.’ Now, we all know that a man in your position will spend the days and nights scrambling to piece together clues to figure out what the bad guy, me, is up to, and once you, the good guy, piece together enough clues, you find your narrative, and you find your man. Correct?”
The Dark Path Page 9
