“His body is decaying about ten feet from me.”
“Well, Morrigan, sounds like you should clean it up then.”
Morrigan paused in his tracks. “Come again?”
“You heard me. Ditch the body. You work for us now, remember? Or do you have such a shit recollection of our recent conversation that you don’t remember?”
“This isn’t my job,” Morrigan protested.
“Don’t fuck with me, or I’ll tell my friend outside to pop you in the head and call it a night. Collect the body, dispose of it, clean the house, and move on. You have a set of passports to collect as well. Perhaps you should get a move on.”
And then the line went dead.
Morrigan stared at his screen for a moment as he contemplated his next play. There was no use fighting. There was no point in putting up a resistance. He was playing by one person’s rules now, Klein’s, and that’s all there was to it.
19
Busted Up
Morrigan’s lit cigarette was burnt nearly to the filter, a long stick of ash curving like a finger on the end as the last remnants of burning tobacco singed and twisted in a smoky trail that lingered upward toward the ceiling of the precinct.
Bags were under his eyes. A strong stench of death still hung on his person after disposing of William Thompson’s body. Morrigan glanced down at his watch and saw that it was past 7am.
He took his time, nursing a cup of now-cold coffee in his hand as his eyes stayed glued to the entrance of the evidence room about twenty yards away from him to the right.
He checked his watch again nervously.
Just do it and get it over with, he thought.
Take this case out back and shoot it in the fucking head.
Morrigan grunted and went to rise from his chair but someone clapped him on the shoulder. On edge and already uneasy, Morrigan cocked his head to the right and found himself laying eyes on Captain Edmunds.
“Hackett’s on loan to the 8-7,” he said. “Next few days.”
A few seconds of time were chewed up as Morrigan squinted before saying, “Okay. Good for him?”
Edmunds shrugged. “Figured you need some of his paperwork on the Ruiz case.”
Morrigan shook his head and pretended to tend to the pile of papers in front of him. “I’ve got it covered,” he said. “Think I’ll be okay.”
“How’s it going, by the way?”
Morrigan made a fifty-fifty motion with his hand. “It’s, uh—” he searched for the words. “I’m getting there.”
Edmunds said nothing.
“Anything else, captain?” Morrigan asked, looking up with a pair of pleading eyes to Edmunds that screamed to dispel the secrets he was so dearly holding on to.
Edmunds could sense the dismay in Morrigan’s eyes. And figured a good chunk of it had to do with the internal affairs investigation.
He turned away. “Keep me in the loop… And by the way, stop bloody smoking in here, you asshole, how many times do I have to tell you.”
“Yes, captain,” Morrigan replied, watching Edmunds disappear from view.
The lieutenant waited for a solid five minutes before he decided to make his move on the evidence room. He casually meandered over to the door, punched in his passcode, and walked inside. After a few minutes searching he located the bagged-up passports and stuffed them inside his coat pocket.
At noon, he decided to make a stop at the recently discharged Denny Maisano’s house to ask for a quick favor.
Maisano threw his hands in the air when he answered the door. An “Ah fuck!” emitted from his lungs the moment he laid his eyes on Morrigan.
“What’s happening, Denny?” Morrigan said with a beam.
“I don’t want trouble, Morrigan. I’ve had enough as it is.”
Morrigan motioned inside the house and waited for Maisano to give his blessing. Maisano eventually relented and stood aside, walking away from the door as part of him hoped in vain that the visitor would just turn on his heel and leave.
Maisano groaned with pain from his fractured ribs as he pulled a beer out of his fridge, the television blasting highlights from a football game played the night before. “What do you want, lieutenant?” he asked, half irked, half trying to convey a sense of submission, an overall sense in Maisano’s voice that he would play ball—if he had to.
Morrigan shrugged. “Nothing you haven’t done before.”
“What does that mean?”
Morrigan cut to the chase. “I need three passports, identical to the ones that you made for your previous client. You know, the one you got busted up over.”
Maisano crooked a finger. “You assholes brought that to my doorstep.”
“Don’t play the innocent with me, Denny, I ain’t gonna run around in circles with you.”
Maisano made a puttering sound with his lips. “Jesus,” he said, as if Morrigan’s words were lost on him. “You can fuck off, I held up my end.” He wagged a finger. “I’m not making anything else for anyone again.”
“You’re going to have to. One last time. Unfortunately.”
“The hell I am. I’m done. Out. Finished. Look at me, I’m bust up. I should be still in hospital, man.”
Morrigan was grinding his teeth. There was no way he could play this straightforward. He was operating off the book. He needed those passports. It was the only tactic he could think of employing to help dig himself out of the hole he had dug himself in, back when he pulled the trigger on Damian Huerta.
“Okay,” he said, sounding depleted. “That’s how you want to play this?”
Morrigan took his pistol out of his holster, took off the safety catch and fired a round into Maisano’s television, a flash of light flaring in the room as one of the players on the screen was cut off mid-pass in the middle of a video recap.
“Whoa!” Maisano threw his hands up. “What the fu—?”
Morrigan trained his pistol on Maisano, who was turning white and rigid, holding his hands up like he was backing up a plane.
“Three passports,” Morrigan said. “Identical to the last ones you made for Klein.” He shook the gun like he was testing a paperweight. “Do we understand each other?”
Maisano cleared his throat. He had already agreed but it took him a moment to recall his muscle memory and physically nod his contrition. “Three passports,” he repeated, like a short-order cook not wanting to foul up a food order. “Identical to the last ones.”
Morrigan smirked. “Good man,” he said and holstered the pistol.
Maisano got to work immediately but tossed the occasional glance over his shoulder at Morrigan.
20
Off Limits
Morrigan was camped out in front of his television by the time nine o’clock in the pm hit, a beer in his hand, and a talk show playing out on the television that he wasn’t paying particularly close attention to.
His eyes drifted over to the window and the open blinds to his right near the couch—all he had to do was close them in the arranged signal and Petrovic would come calling for the passports.
As he sat on the couch, the day’s events replayed in his head. Most of it was spent crafting false leads for the investigation, Morrigan using all his tact to subtly steer leads in false directions and maintaining that William Thompson was still MIA. Hackett, Bukowski and the others working on the case were getting narky, with nothing adding up and everything looking like it was starting to fall apart.
And that’s just what Morrigan preferred—because that’s what Klein had ordered him to do.
As he sipped his beer he contemplated everything he had done in his life since the day he murdered Damian Huerta.
I’m a goddamn fool, Morrigan thought. I thought I could do it once and walk away. He grimaced and shook his head. But there’s no walking away.
I was damned from that day forward.
However, if there was such a thing in this situation, Morrigan knew that a sliver of a silver lining was present. All he had to do t
o make it happen was close the blinds and turn over the passports. His past would go away. His sins would be expunged from his record. But even though the official record of Morrigan’s past would appear crystal clean, he knew deep in his heart that killing Damian Huerta and covering up for Klein in the form of obstruction and interference would forever haunt him, even after all was said and done.
Overwhelmed with guilt now associated with a sickening sense of nausea, Morrigan placed down his beer and walked over to the window. He saw, down near the street corner, the same Mustang with tinted windows waiting patiently by the curb. Morrigan huffed, closed the blinds, moved back over to his couch, and sat.
And then he waited. A full five minutes passed before he heard three hard knocks at his door.
Morrigan retrieved his gun and kept it by his side as he carefully pulled out the bagged-up passports from his jacket. He knew hell would come down the moment someone realized they were missing from the station, but Morrigan figured it was better to just fork them over and come up with an excuse afterward.
It was a play only a desperate man would make.
He went to the door, his gun clutched in one hand. He breathed heavily as he opened it.
It was dark outside in the hallway, only the outline of Petrovic standing two feet away visible. Time passed. Morrigan wasn’t sure how long. He thought of the only thing left to do—he took the passports from his pocket, held them up, and handed them over.
Petrovic looked them over in the dark. After a moment he produced a folder in his right hand and held it up.
Morrigan slowly reached out and took the file. Petrovic turned on his heels, stuffed his hands in his pockets and quickly descended the staircase that led to the lobby. Morrigan closed the door, engaged the locks and stood resting his body against the door as cold sweat ran down his face.
Morrigan was in the clear… he hoped.
After a few moments he took the folder and brought it over to the kitchen counter, hastily opening it and scouring through the contents—photos, records, testimonies, and affidavits. It was everything related to the case of Damian Huerta. All of it, including the “fresh eyewitness’s testimony” that Klein had promised would bring him down.
Morrigan sighed as he shut the folder and firmly planted his palm on the cover like he did so many times when he swore to God in court. He smiled, not so much at the fact that he had the file back, but more because he managed to pull one over on Klein without him even realizing it.
Morrigan went to his back bedroom and opened the nightstand. Nestled inside was a paper bag filled with three passports, the originals crafted by Denny Maisano, still bagged-up tight. Morrigan would place them back in the evidence room the following morning.
Morrigan’s gaze returned to the file and all the incriminating evidence inside that would need disposing of. His thoughts centered on how to go about incinerating it when he heard a key turn in the lock of the front door.
Tommy!
Morrigan quickly stuffed the file away in one of the kitchen drawers before he stepped to the fridge and went about taking out a fresh bottle of beer.
“Skip?” he heard Tommy call out.
Morrigan grabbed a second beer and held it up as his brother entered the apartment. “Fancy one of these?”
Tommy shook his head and smiled. “Sure,” he said and tossed his jacket onto the couch.
Morrigan twisted off the caps, tossed them, and handed Tommy a brew. “How you doing, ace?” Tommy asked as he plopped down on the couch.
“Better,” John said, still standing. “Been a long day but I think it’s starting to draw to a close.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Tommy said as he took a swig and eyeballed the gun on the kitchen counter. “You playing with that or something?” He pointed, concerned.
John waved him off. “I was cleaning it. I got sidetracked.”
“You shouldn’t drink and play with guns. It’s bad for your health.”
John toasted the air with his beer. “So I’ve been told…”
The two brothers shared the silence.
Tommy started smiling. “Hey, man,” he said, taking a deep breath like he was about to unload a dump truck’s worth of positivity on John. “I just wanted to say thank you.”
John squinted. “For what?” he said, eyes glued to the television, actually watching it for once.
Tommy stood, placing down his beer and gesturing to the bottle of whiskey in the kitchen. John nodded his approval. “For everything,” Tommy said. “For being a good brother. All of it.”
John laughed. “You’ve been drinking already, haven’t you?”
Tommy shrugged as he snagged the bottle of whiskey and a pair of glasses from a shelf. “Just enough to grease the wheels,” he said. “I wanted to save the stiffer stuff for you and me.”
Tommy poured two-fingers’ worth in each glass, walked over to the couch, and handed one to his brother. John placed down his whiskey and turned around to face Tommy, still standing with one hand sheepishly stuffed into his pocket. “Thank you, man,” Tommy said, holding out his glass in a toast. “You really came through. I, uh… I thought you would just write me off when I showed up. But you didn’t. Everyone else did. But you didn’t, so…” he extended the glass further. “To you, Skip.”
John huffed, looked at the whiskey, felt his sorrows on the cusp of being drowned for the next few hours, and clinked his glass against Tommy’s. “You too.”
They threw the ginger lady back, both of them grunting from the harsh kick as John handed back his glass and asked for another. “Tastes good,” he said. “I definitely needed that.”
Tommy puttered his lips as his face turned red from the alcohol. “When’s the last time you got laid?” he asked, ready to pour himself another.
“Jesus,” John laughed. “You cut straight to the point.”
A shrug. “We’re brothers,” Tommy said as he poured. “We’re supposed to talk about that kind of stuff.”
“Some stuff is off limits even between brothers.”
“Yeah,” Tommy said. “Like this?”
John turned his body to get a look at whatever Tommy was holding up—and saw the passports in the evidence bags.
The exact same ones that he had given to Petrovic.
All John could think to say was, “What the hell is that?”
Tommy shook his head. “Where are the real passports?”
John slowly rose from his chair.
Tommy snatched up the pistol on the kitchen counter and aimed it at him from three feet out.
“Jesus!” John shouted, hands in the air. “Tommy, what the fuck are you doing?”
“Did you really think that we’d be that stupid?”
John waved his hands. “Tommy, what the hell is going on?”
“Wake up, Skip,” Tommy replied, waving the gun. “I’m with the opposition. So are you. And you fucked up.”
The brothers stared each other down for a long moment as Morrigan adjusted to this new reality. “You’ve been keeping an eye on me for them,” he said, chagrined. “Haven’t you?”
Tommy shrugged. “Pay day’s a pay day, John.”
John huffed. “Bastard. You got no loyalties, do you? Not even to me…”
Tommy shook his head. “No, I don’t, Skip. And you had a hand in making it that way.” He cocked back the hammer on the pistol. “Now, where are the real passports? Give them to me or I’ll pop you in the leg. No question.”
John rubbed his fingers together before heading toward his bedroom.
“Slowly,” Tommy reminded him.
John slowed his pace like he was walking on thin ice. He came to the bedroom, edged open the drawer on the nightstand, and held up the passports.
“Toss them over,” Tommy demanded.
John obliged.
Tommy checked over the contents and nodded his approval. “Excellent,” he said. “I’ll give you back the fake ones so you can put those back into evidence. Capisce?”
“Now. Sit down on the bed, John.”
John did as he was told, clenching his fists and jaw and wanting desperately to give his brother a piece of his mind. “You going to kill me?” he asked.
Tommy pulled out his cell. “I couldn’t do that. You know that. That’s Petrovic’s job. There is a difference, you know, between me not liking you and being a cold-hearted prick that wouldn’t hesitate to kill you. The fact is we share the same blood. Plus, Mom would kill me if she found out I killed you.” He laughed.
“You’re one funny fucker,” John snarled.
“And you’re not too bright, big brother. Klein gave you an order and you went against it. You’re too valuable to kill, but that still doesn’t free you from repercussions for breaking the rules…” Tommy pulled up a video chat app on his cell phone, dialed a number, and tossed it over to his brother. “Check it out.”
John caught the phone, the screen glowing to life with the close-up image of a man bound to a chair with beads of sweat peppering his brow—Hackett.
“No more fucking around, Skip,” Tommy said. “This is what will happen.”
John’s eyes went wide.
Hackett squinted as he looked straight at him through the screen: “John…?”
POP! A shot went off. A flash emitted from the bottom of the screen, and the top part of Hackett’s skull was blown to shreds as his body fell backward onto the bed inside his apartment before the screen on the phone went black.
John dropped the phone to the floor, nauseous, and bolted toward the bathroom to his left to puke as Tommy casually picked up the phone, sighed, and placed it back in his jacket pocket.
Back at Hackett’s apartment, Alex Petrovic went about staging the scene. The whole thing would be written off by the NYPD as a suicide.
And Morrigan wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it.
21
Blood or No Blood
The Dark Path Page 11
