Double Scotch

by Steven Henry

  They went to a Chinese place just down the street. Erin had long ago learned that savvy takeout owners set up shop as close to police precincts as possible. Erin got General Tso's Chicken and Jones ordered vegetarian fried rice. Rolf was too proud to beg for table scraps, so he'd have to wait for his kibble. They decided to eat at the restaurant instead of doing carryout. Neither was keen to dash back to the precinct right away.

  “So,” Jones said once they were sitting down over their meal. “How are you holding up?”

  “I'm fine,” Erin said automatically.

  “Really?” Jones said. “Because I keep having nightmares about that fight under the train tracks.” She laughed nervously. “I swear to God, I've never been so scared in my life.”

  “Jones, it's okay,” Erin said. “They were shooting at us. Of course we were scared.”

  “Hey, Erin, we've been working together a while now. Kira's fine.”

  “Sure, Kira. You holding things together?”

  Kira snorted. “Well, you know how it goes. How you doing?”

  “Okay,” Erin replied. “But there's something with the Lieutenant. He's a good enough cop, but he can be such a jackass sometimes. It's like he's decided, ever since the goddamn Russians, I'm this fragile bundle of nerves that's got no business being on the street.”

  Kira's eyes narrowed. “You really think that? Why?”

  “Hell, yes,” Erin said. She took a bite of her chicken and chewed it angrily. “I can do fantastic police work, and he just keeps riding me. He's sure I've got PTSD, that I'm weak, that I'm incompetent. He doesn't believe a word I'm saying about this murder, and—”

  “Girl, can you even hear yourself?” Kira interrupted. “You are so full of shit.”

  Erin stopped short, mouth hanging open in surprise.

  “Look, I'm your friend, right?” Kira demanded.

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “So I'm gonna give you a reality check. 'Cause that's what friends do. Yeah, Webb's a medium-large asshole sometimes, but you think he doesn't trust you? Erin, he's got you working point on your own case. You think he's given that to me? Or to Vic?”

  Dumbfounded, Erin didn't have an answer.

  “Damn it, Erin, I'd give my left pinkie to be doing what you're doing. You've got a chance to solve your case, a major goddamn case, and you're bitching because the LT is hurting your feelings? Listen, don't make him righter than he ought to be. Don't go all emotional on us.”

  “Emotional?” Erin echoed. “But you just said—”

  “Yeah, I know,” Kira said. She stared down at her fried rice and poked at it with her chopsticks. “I'm an emotional creature, too. Look, Erin, every morning I have to pull my shit together before I can even get out of bed and come in to work. I'm scared basically all the time, just plain scared half out of my mind. I don't know how you do it. I don't know how anybody does. But we show up, so we have to bring our A-game. We have to be tougher than we think we are, because otherwise we're going to fall to fucking pieces. So don't you start with me, because I need you strong.”

  Erin stared across the table. She saw that Kira was actually fighting tears. “Jesus,” she said. “I'm sorry. I—I didn't know.”

  Kira looked up at her. “No, I'm sorry. It's not fair to lay all that on you. This is my shit, and I've got to deal with it.”

  Erin nodded. She could respect that. “Hey, if you do need anything,” she said awkwardly.

  “I'll call in a 10-13,” Kira said with a wan smile. “It's just... Erin, you're on the fast track here and all you're seeing is the bullshit that's getting in your way. And me, I'm not sure I can do this at all. Maybe I should go back to Internal Affairs, ride a desk. At least there, no one's going to shoot at me.”

  “You sleeping okay?” Erin asked.

  “Hell no. I'm taking pills for it.”

  “Bad dreams every night?”

  “Yeah. You?”

  “Pretty much.”

  They ate in silence for a few minutes.

  “So, you following the Yankees?” Erin asked finally.

  “Erin,” Kira said, “You have a lot of brothers, don't you.”

  Erin laughed. “That obvious, huh?”

  “It shows.”

  “We could talk fashion instead, or boy bands,” Erin suggested. “That girly enough for you?”

  Kira shuddered. “Or perfume,” she said. “Maybe fingernails.”

  “You're morbid.”

  “Least I'm not girly,” Kira shot back.

  “What do you think those two guys were tortured for?” Erin asked.

  “Information.”

  “Yeah, but what information?”

  Kira thought it over. “When I was with the gang task force, I remember how they handled things. When you're breaking up a gang, you can't start at the top. Usually, you don't even know who's calling the shots. So you get some lower-ranking guys and flip them. They don't know much, but they can give you the next guy up the food chain. Then you follow it to the top.”

  “You think someone was using these guys just to get to their boss?” Erin asked. “That's pretty cold.”

  Kira shrugged. “We're talking about a guy who ripped their fingernails off, then shot them and dumped them overboard. I'm not thinking we're looking for a real sensitive, touchy-feely kind of guy.”

  “Right,” Erin said. She chased her last piece of chicken around her plate.

  “Of course, knowing what they're after doesn't help us find the killers,” Kira said. “Maybe Vic can turn up something on the dead guys' organization.”

  “Yeah,” Erin said, but she wasn't really listening. She was thinking about criminal hierarchies and the New York underworld, and wondering if she should pull on some of the threads she already had hold of, see what came loose.

  “Hey,” Kira said, waving a hand in front of Erin's nose. “Come in, Officer.”

  Erin blinked. “I need to go talk to someone.”

  “This for the hotel case, or the boat?”

  “The boat.” Erin stood up. “I'll meet you back at the precinct.”

  “Where you going?”

  “To talk to a CI.”

  “Be careful.”

  “I'm always careful.”

  “That's not comforting, given our track record.”

  “Hey,” Erin said. “I've got this.”

  Chapter 9

  The lunchtime rush had ended by the time Erin and Rolf got to the Barley Corner. The pub was almost deserted. One waitress, Danny the bartender, a pair of young toughs, and Carlyle were the only people present. The two guys wore white wife-beaters that showed off Celtic tattoos on their shoulders. They gave Erin a once-over. She stared coolly back. They took in the shield at her belt and the K-9 at her side and immediately looked away, pretending to ignore her. She marked them as street-level wiseguys as easily as they'd made her as a cop.

  Carlyle stood up to greet her, as he always did. “Erin, darling. Come, sit down.”

  She took a seat at the counter to Carlyle's left. Danny drifted over.

  “Get you something, ma'am?”

  She shook her head. “Not now, Danny. I'm on the clock.”

  “It's business, then,” Carlyle said. “But it's always a pleasure to welcome you here, business or no. Come, you surely want something to wet your throat, if we're to be talking. Corky would suggest a virgin Rum-and-Coke.”

  “So... that'd be a Coke?” Erin asked, raising her eyebrows.

  “If you insist.”

  “I don't know what's more ridiculous,” she said. “That Corky would ever order anything without alcohol, or that you'd mention him and 'virgin' in the same sentence.”

  Carlyle laughed. “Fair points.”

  “I don't see him in here,” she said, glancing around again.

  “He's a working lad, with his living to make.”

  “Well, don't tell him I said hello. It'll just encourage him.”

  “You're a woman to break an Irishman's heart,” he
said, smiling.

  “I didn't come here to break anyone's heart,” she replied.

  “No, I imagine you came to pick my brain.”

  She nodded.

  “So what are you wanting to be knowing?” he asked

  “Smiling Jack.”

  His face gave nothing away. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Smiling Jack,” she repeated. “Gangster. Scars on his cheeks.”

  “A great many gangsters have scars. It's not the safest of occupations.”

  “You know who moves product into New York,” she said. “You're plugged into the networks.”

  “And you're trying to find this cheerful lad?”

  “I don't think he's very cheerful,” she said. “And I know where he is. Glasgow.”

  “Ah,” Carlyle said. “I fail to see how he's your concern, in that case.”

  “I don't care about him,” she said. “But someone else does, and that's who I'm trying to find.”

  “I don't think I'm following you.”

  “Jack had a shipment coming into New York,” she said. “On the Loch Druich.”

  Carlyle waited, watching her face.

  “There were two guys on board the ship,” she went on. “Garrity and Carr. You ever heard of them?”

  “Those aren't exactly uncommon names among folk of Celtic extraction,” Carlyle said. “What is it you're seeking them for?”

  “I'm not looking for them, either. I know where they are, too.”

  Carlyle spread his hands. “Then I'm afraid we find ourselves in an uncharacteristic position, Erin. I'd say you know a great deal more than I. Frankly, I don't see how I can assist you. Where are these lads you mentioned?”

  “We've got them back at the station,” she said, telling a technical truth.

  “Then perhaps they're the ones you should be asking these questions.”

  “I don't think they'd have much to say.”

  Their eyes were locked on each other, both looking for more information than their words conveyed. Carlyle nodded ever so slightly.

  “Perhaps not,” he agreed. “I take it something untoward has occurred.”

  Erin broke eye contact while she tried to think what to say next. Her gaze traveled across the bottles behind the bar. A familiar label caught her eye.

  She looked back at Carlyle. “On second thought, I think I'll take you up on that drink.”

  “Ah, grand,” he said, signaling to the bartender. “Danny, whatever this young lady wants, on the house of course.”

  “A whiskey,” she said. “Glen D. And leave the bottle.”

  Danny blinked, then grinned. “Glad to, ma'am. Take it slow, though.” He poured her drink and set the bottle on the counter beside the glass.

  She picked the bottle up and examined it, holding it up so the light shone through the amber liquid. “You know,” she said to Carlyle, “I've never seen this brand of whiskey anywhere but here.”

  “It's a small label,” he said. “Hand-crafted in the Highlands according to a thousand-year-old recipe, or so I'm told.”

  “Glen Docherty-Kinlochewe,” she said slowly. “Am I saying that right?”

  “I've no idea,” he said. “I'm Irish, not Scottish.”

  “It's a funny thing,” Erin said, still speaking slowly and quietly. “The Loch Druich had some cases of Glen D on her manifest. And here, talking to you, I've got another bottle of the stuff. Would you call that a coincidence?”

  “Does it matter what I'd call it?” he replied.

  “Look, Cars,” she said, abandoning her coyness. “You and I both know what was in those cases on that ship. Just like you knew about the two guys who were coming in to keep an eye on that cargo. There's things you won't tell me, sure. But we have to talk about this, because someone killed Garrity and Carr for what they knew, and I don't think they're gonna stop there. If we're gonna put a stop to this before it goes any further, I need your help.”

  Carlyle took a moment, thinking it over. “I'd like to invite you to my office,” he said. “If you'd care to step upstairs, we can speak with a touch more privacy.”

  “I think that's a good idea,” Erin said.

  He got up. “If you'll follow me, darling. Feel free to bring your drink with you.”

  “I didn't really want it,” she admitted.

  “And you call yourself an Irishwoman,” he said, shaking his head sadly. He picked up the bottle and the glass. “I'll bring these along. Either you'll decide you want it after all, or I'll see it doesn't go to waste.”

  Carlyle's apartment was directly above the Corner, reached by a door at the back of the bar. Erin couldn't help noticing the door was steel-core and a good two inches thick. She raised her eyebrows and cocked her head at it.

  “Soundproofing,” he said. “The lads get a mite rowdy of a night, and I need a bit of sleep now and again.”

  He led her up a flight of stairs to an upstairs hallway. To her surprise, she saw that the entire floor was a single suite of rooms. The thought of the cost of that much Manhattan real estate made her eyes water.

  The place was furnished with high-quality furniture, but nothing ostentatious. Carlyle was clearly a man who liked nice things, but wasn't showy about it. Everything was neat and clean, no clutter at all.

  He ushered her into his private office. It was finished in dark wood paneling with a heavy-looking mahogany desk, a leather swivel chair, and a couple of armchairs in the corner, a floor lamp between them. Except for the laptop computer on the desk, the whole room might've been lifted out of the nineteenth century.

  Carlyle turned on the lamp. Warm, golden light filled the room.

  “Please,” he said, motioning her to one of the armchairs. He sat in the other, facing her. Rolf lay down beside Erin and rested his chin on his front paws.

  “This is where you do business, huh?” she asked.

  “Nay, darling,” he said with a smile. “Most of my business is conducted downstairs. This is where I balance the accounts, or share a quiet drink with a friend.”

  “Is that what we are? Friends?”

  “Aren't we?”

  “Anyone ever tell you you've got a habit of answering questions with other questions?”

  “You think so?”

  She had to laugh. He was smooth, that was for sure. No wonder he'd never even been charged with a crime. Nothing stuck to him. She reminded herself that for all that, he was a member of a powerful underworld organization. The O'Malleys were no laughing matter. And that was why she was here.

  “You knew Carr and Garrity,” she said. It wasn't a question.

  “What happened to these lads you speak of?” he replied. It wasn't an answer.

  “You know a guy with a German accent who might want to go after them?”

  “German, you say?” Carlyle repeated, and for the first time, his eyes gave something away.

  “Yeah, German,” Erin said. “Acts like a pirate. Doesn't shy away from killing. Ring any bells?”

  “Rüdel,” Carlyle said quietly.

  “Who's that?”

  “A lad I've heard of, from time to time,” he said. “I'd heard he might be in the neighborhood.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “I've not met the man,” Carlyle said. He was still holding the glass of whiskey. He tossed it back in a single swallow, not even flinching at the burn in his throat. “I've only heard stories, you ken.”

  “What do these stories say?”

  “He's a lad who does piecework for hire. A mercenary of sorts. He specializes in what the corporate lads call hostile takeovers.”

  “What does he take over?”

  “Organizations.”

  “Like the O'Malleys.”

  “Organizations which operate beyond the restrictions of the law,” Carlyle said. “Which I'm not saying Evan O'Malley has anything to do with, mind. What you have to know is how rare such a man is.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Carlyle poured himself another shot
of Glen D, but didn't drink it right away. He stared into the glass while he talked. “These organizations are like any other company, Erin. They're run like every business, and for the same goal.”

  “To make money,” she said.

  “Aye. If they could make more money operating within the law, they'd do that, and I imagine your lot would have to find some other use for your time. But the point is, there are businesses taking in money, all across this fair city of ours, every day. In quantities so vast it beggars the imagination. They've no fondness for complications. Believe it or not, with a few psychopathic exceptions, organization lads have no interest in violence or killing. They're willing to do it, of course, but they'd rather not. Blood is expensive and messy. It brings all manner of complications and attention.”

  “But this Rüdel?” she prompted.

  “He's purely a fighter,” Carlyle said. “The bloodshed and violence other lads avoid, he seeks out. He's the lad they call in when someone's determined to pile up a great many bodies.”

  “Carlyle,” Erin said. “Were Garrity and Carr connected with the O'Malleys?”

  He gave her a long, level look. “I like you, Erin,” he said. “And I liked your father. You're both good coppers, and I respect that. Leaving that aside, you saved my life, and my place of business. But there's things you shouldn't ask an Irishman to do, and foremost among them is to rat out his fellows. So please, don't ask me questions you know I'll not answer.”

  She sighed. “This Rüdel, if that's who it was, shot Garrity and Carr. We're trying to catch a killer. If these were your guys, we're on the same side here. Anything you can tell me might help us put this thing to rest.” She paused, then decided the hell with it, she'd tell him. “They were tortured before they were killed. Depending on what they knew, any of their associates might be in danger.”

  At that moment a series of muffled popping sounds came through the floor, like distant champagne corks, or maybe someone squeezing a handful of bubble wrap.

  “I thought you said this place was soundproofed,” she said.

  “It is.”

  A thrill of adrenaline rushed through Erin's body. She jumped to her feet. “Was that gunfire?”

  “That bit about the torture,” Carlyle said dryly, “would have been a fine piece of information with which to begin our conversation.”