Double Scotch

by Steven Henry

  “If you go to war with another of the O'Malleys, it becomes my business,” she said. “If bodies start dropping, that's gonna come across my desk sooner or later. I don't want to have to arrest you.”

  “Here's where you add that you will if you have to, aye?” Carlyle said. He was smiling as he said it, but it was a surprisingly gentle smile.

  “If you make me,” she said. “It's your call. Major Crimes doesn't come after you unless you give us a reason.”

  “But you truly don't want to.”

  “No,” she said, “I don't.”

  “May I ask why?”

  Erin paused. She'd blurted out the truth without really thinking about it. And too much truth was sometimes a dangerous thing. But she was finally starting to understand Morton Carlyle, and she knew on a gut level that she wasn't in danger from him, at least not directly.

  She decided to risk a little more truth. “You're gonna think this is crazy,” she said. “Hell, I think it's crazy. I wear a shield, you... God, we're supposed to be enemies. But I feel like you understand me better than anyone else in this damn city. There's things we can't say, but we say more without actually saying anything... shit, do you know what I mean?”

  He nodded. “Aye, Erin, I do.”

  “That's exactly what I'm talking about,” she said. “I like being able to talk to you, even when you piss me off.”

  “Likewise.”

  “When have I ever pissed you off?” she demanded.

  “You did wrongfully accuse me of murder once,” he reminded her.

  “That bounced right off you! You just smiled and ordered a drink, then drank it right in front of me!”

  “Fair enough, darling,” Carlyle said. “Nay, you're right, I've not yet been truly angry with you. You've given me more than a fair shake, and that's all a lad can ask.”

  She shook her head in quiet wonder. “We really are friends.”

  “I hope so.”

  “How'd this happen?”

  “I suppose defusing a bomb together is a bit of a test for that sort of thing,” he said.

  It was Erin's turn to laugh. “Yeah, I guess so. Remember Corky standing there, afraid to move?”

  “And him flirting with you all the while,” Carlyle chuckled. “I swear, when the Grim Reaper comes for Corky, he'll ask the bony old lad if he's been on a diet, because he's looking fantastic.”

  “I also remember your first reflex,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you put yourself between me and a live bomb.”

  “Oh, you needn't dwell on that,” he said. “I was throwing myself to the floor and met you on the way down.”

  “And I just happened to be in the way?”

  “Always the detective, aren't you, Erin? Here we are, having a pleasant conversation, and I've the feeling you're trying to get me to admit to something.”

  “I'm trying to get you to admit that the life-saving hasn't just gone one way.”

  “I didn't save your life.”

  “If that bomb had gone off, you might've.”

  “Do you live your life on the basis of hypotheticals?”

  “I swear to God, you're the hardest man in New York to pin down,” she said. “I know I said I understood you, but there's limits.”

  “Now I think it's my turn to try to get you to admit to something,” he said.

  “What's that?”

  “You like trying to puzzle me out.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Maybe I do.”

  “Then to be fair, here's an admission from me.”

  “Really? No ducking and dodging?”

  “Not this time.”

  “I can't wait to hear this,” she said. “Fire away.”

  “I appreciate your honesty,” he said. “You say what you believe, and you don't shy from it. That's a rare thing in this world, rarer still in my little corner of it.”

  She didn't know what to say to that, so she just said, “Thanks.”

  “And now I'd like to propose another toast,” he said, lifting his glass.

  “To what?”

  “To mystery.”

  She touched her glass to his. “And to finding the answers.”

  “But not too soon,” he said. “That would spoil all the fun.”

  Here’s a sneak peek from Book 5: Manhattan

  Coming 2019

  Erin's phone buzzed in her pocket. She started, then fished it out, feeling a little silly for her nerves. She saw the name of her commanding officer on her caller ID and sighed. Lieutenant Webb didn't make courtesy calls.

  She thumbed her screen. “O'Reilly.”

  “Where are you?” Webb asked. No small talk, straight to the point.

  “At a bar.”

  “Not drunk, are you?”

  “No, sir. Just had one.”

  “Okay, get back here right now.”

  “Sure thing.” She pushed back from the bar and hopped off the stool. Rolf jumped up and followed. “What's up?”

  “A 10-13 just came over the net.”

  Erin didn't understand. The code for an officer needing assistance was important, sure, but they wouldn't rope in an off-duty detective for it. There were literally thousands of Patrol officers who could respond more quickly. “I'll get there as quick as I can, but—”

  He cut her off. “It's too late for that. An officer's down.”

  Her heart lurched. “We got units on scene?”

  “Yeah,” Webb said. But she already knew from his tone what he was going to say. “We lost him.”

  She didn't want to ask the next question, but she had to know. “Who is it?”

  Webb hesitated a second too long. She felt like she was going to throw up. Names chased each other through her brain.

  “He's from our precinct,” he said. “It's Hendricks, one of the rookies. Bob Michaelson's partner.”

  Erin had to stop moving for a second and close her eyes. “What happened?”

  “We're detectives, O'Reilly. It's our job to find that out.”

  The scene of the shooting was just off FDR Drive, near the East River. A full squadron of NYPD cruisers was deployed on Fletcher Street, under FDR. Grim-faced uniformed officers were everywhere. There were even half a dozen guys in full ESU tactical gear, assault rifles in their hands.

  The other members of Erin's squad were already there. Vic Neshenko gave her a curt nod. Kira Jones looked at Erin with haunted eyes.

  “Hey, Erin,” Kira said quietly.

  “Hey,” Erin replied, unable to think of anything else to say.

  “I heard they pushed you up to Second Grade,” Vic said to Erin by way of greeting.

  “Yeah.” She hadn't wanted to bring it up. Vic was still a Detective Third Grade, and she wasn't sure how he felt about her being promoted over his head.

  “Suppose that means you're gonna be looking for more respect.”

  “No, I expect you'll still be an asshole.”

  “Okay. No problem, then.”

  If Vic ever went to prison, he'd never get time off for good behavior, but Erin still liked him. However surly he got, he was rock solid when things went sideways. There was no man in the NYPD she'd prefer to have watching her back.

  “How long had Hendricks been wearing his shield?” she wondered aloud.

  “The hell would I know? I guess maybe he was with the last Academy class.”

  “Jesus,” Erin said. “On the Job less than a year.”

  “It's always the newbies that get it,” he said. “They can't read the street yet.”

  “Their training officers are supposed to keep them alive,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Vic said. “What the hell was Michaelson doing, letting this happen? He's been around longer than God.”

  “I'll bet Michaelson's asking himself the same thing,” Erin said. She was thinking of John Brunanski, the officer who'd died holding her hand. She still thought about what she could've, should've done differently, all the ways she could
've saved him.

  “Hell of a thing,” Vic said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, team,” Webb said. “We're all thinking it. This is a shitty situation. But every case we get is shit. They don't call Major Crimes over parking tickets. Let's work the case and get it solved.”

  The crime scene was obvious. A squad car was angled across the narrow street, both front doors standing open. The detectives gathered around the car and stared. The passenger-side window had three bullet holes in it, tightly grouped. Blood was spattered on the door panel and pooled on the pavement. Discarded bits of packaging for first-aid supplies were strewn around. There was no body.

  “Where's Hendricks?” Webb asked the nearest uniform.

  “I heard they took him to Bellevue,” the officer replied.

  “Small world,” Erin muttered. Her oldest brother was a trauma surgeon there.

  “What's that, Detective?” the patrolman asked.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  Bob Michaelson was sitting on the curb a little ways off. He was a heavyset Patrol sergeant in his mid-forties. Here, today, he looked twice that old. The other officers had given Michaelson some respectful space, so he sat all alone. He was covered with blood. Hands, face, uniform. Someone had put a paper cup of coffee in his hand. He didn't seem to have noticed it.

  “Poor guy,” Kira said softly.

  Webb sighed. “Let's get this over with.” They walked to stand in front of Michaelson. He didn't look up.

  Webb cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Sergeant.”

  Michaelson raised his head. He looked straight through Webb.

  “What happened, Bob?” Webb asked, his voice surprisingly gentle.

  “Normal patrol,” Michaelson said. He sounded hoarse, like a man who'd smoked too many cigarettes. “Same shit, different day. We came down Maiden Lane. I saw that door,” he waved a hand indifferently toward the building behind him, “and spotted a possible forced entry.”

  Erin looked over Michaelson's shoulder. Sure enough, the warehouse at his back had a door that was standing ajar. She could see splintered wood on the doorframe, probably from a crowbar.

  “Tim called it in,” Michaelson went on. “I parked across Fletcher. Just then, the break-in crew came out.”

  “Carrying anything?” Webb asked.

  “Duffel bags and handguns,” Michaelson said. “Three suspects. Tim wanted to bust them right there, but I got an ID on their leader. I told Tim to call for backup, to fall back. But the kid wanted the collar. You know how rookies are. He was out of the car before I could stop him. He didn't listen.” The old sergeant put a hand over his face. “I told him to get back in the car. He didn't listen.”

  “Bob,” Webb said, “you know who the shooter was?”

  He nodded. “I got a great look at his face. But it happened so goddamn fast. Bastard had his gun out the second Tim yelled 'NYPD!' I was still getting out my side of the car. The son of a bitch put three through the window there. Tim didn't even get a shot off, caught two right... right in the throat.”

  “Holy shit,” Vic said softly. He was looking at the car door, tracing bullet trajectories with his fingertip. “That's some damn good shooting.”

  “Bob,” Webb said again, “who the hell did this?”

  Michaelson finally met Webb's eye. “Hans Rüdel.”

  “No.”

  Erin and Vic said it simultaneously. They glanced at one another, then back at Michaelson.

  “That's not possible,” Erin said.

  “Rüdel's dead,” Vic said. “That's not rumor, it's a goddamn fact. I put two bullets in his chest. I watched him go into the East River.”

  “I was there,” Erin said. “I saw it too.”

  “Then he's got a twin brother,” Michaelson said. “Because I just watched him put two through my partner's throat.”

  “You're sure it was him?” Erin pressed.

  “He was seven, eight yards away. His face was all over the news last summer. Yeah, I'm sure.”

  Corky and Carlyle's behavior suddenly made sense to Erin. Rüdel had tried to kill Carlyle and nearly succeeded. If Corky had heard he was back in circulation, the two Irishmen had a very big problem.

  Vic abruptly walked away from the damaged squad car. He went around the corner of the warehouse and out of sight. Webb and Kira were still talking to Michaelson, but Erin didn't think they'd find out much more. She and Rolf went after Vic.

  She rounded the corner just in time to see the big Russian slam his hand against the brickwork. He pulled back his arm and did it again, then a third time. As she came cautiously toward him, he clenched his fists and let out one word.

  “Fuck!”

  Erin put out a hand and touched his shoulder. “Hey, Vic,” she said. “Breathe, big guy.”

  He leaned against the wall with both hands, letting his head hang down between his shoulders. “I missed,” he said.

  “No you didn't,” she said. “I was there. You nailed him twice.”

  “Should've made it three. Should've put one right in his damn face. He was right there, he was wounded, we had him! We were so goddamn sure he was dead, we didn't look that hard. And now that kid's dead. Because of me.”

  “Knock it off!” Erin snapped. “You are so full of shit. Hendricks is dead because we've got the most dangerous job in New York. He got careless and eager and he screwed up. You didn't make him get out of that car. You're blaming yourself, Michaelson's blaming himself, the only reason Hendricks isn't blaming himself is that he's not alive to do it. Will you lay off the self-pity so we can get some work done?”

  Vic looked at her, and for a moment she was ashamed of herself when she saw the raw pain in his eyes. But it was only for a second. Then he locked it away in some deep, dark part of himself. He blinked, and when his eyes opened again his game face was on.

  “You can be a cold, hard bitch, you know that?” he said.

  “Had a lot of punks tell me that over the years,” she replied.

  “You know I love you for it.”

  “You getting mushy on me now?”

  His lips moved in a grim parody of a smile. “Okay, tell me one thing. How the hell do we find this bastard?”

  Erin hadn't been thinking of much else. “First we need his motive.”

  “That's easy. He didn't want to go to prison.”

  “No, not why he shot Hendricks. I mean, why was he breaking into this building in the first place?”

  Vic thumped the bricks and winced.

  “You okay?” Erin asked.

  He studied his hand. Lines of blood streaked his palm. “Yeah, I'm fine.”

  “Better put on some gloves before we check the scene,” she said. “Let's find out what Rüdel stole.”

  They couldn't just go inside. The Fourth Amendment, and the Supreme Court, dictated that the police needed a warrant unless they could show imminent danger to life or risk of destruction of evidence. Neither of those stipulations applied in this case, so they had to jump through the bureaucratic hoops. The silly thing was, everyone knew they'd get the warrant, but they still couldn't go in until they had it. Sillier still, they couldn't contact the owner of the warehouse.

  “The lease is under the name Jameson,” Kira said after some quick digging through a squad-car computer. “But I think it's a front. There's a phone number, but it goes to generic voicemail.”

  “We don't need the owner's permission,” Webb said. “But it sounds like they're into something shady.”

  “Surprise,” Vic muttered. “What, did you think he was stealing jelly beans?”

  “Got the warrant,” Kira announced.

  “Okay,” Webb said. “It's unlikely any of Rüdel's guys are still inside, but let's exercise some caution. Guns out, people.”

  They roped in a couple of ESU operators to help, just in case. The tactical guys lined up with the detectives outside. Webb cleared his throat.

  “This is the NYPD! We're coming in to execute a search warrant. An
yone in there, keep your hands where we can see them!”

  Vic and one of the ESU went first. Erin, Rolf, and another ESU guy followed. Webb and Kira brought up the rear with a small posse of NYPD uniforms. They moved quickly to clear the kill-zone in the doorway. The door itself was already broken and posed no obstacle.

  Erin was tense and keyed up, ready for anything. She reminded herself to check her corners, to keep her field of fire clear. She could feel the nervous energy in her fellow officers. They were looking for some payback for Hendricks.

  Vic was a big guy, and so was the ESU man beside him. All Erin could really see to her front was their shoulders and the backs of their heads and vests. When they suddenly stopped, just a few feet inside, she nearly ran into Vic's backside.

  “Freeze!” Vic shouted. “Hands up!”

  There was a momentary pause. Erin sidestepped, keeping partially obscured behind Vic's bulk. She brought her Glock in line and peered around him. Then she saw that she hadn't really been ready for anything.

  A gorgeous redhead sitting calmly on a packing crate hadn't entered into her predictions for how this search was likely to go.

  The woman looked to be in her mid- to late-twenties. She was dressed in dark, tight bluejeans and a black leather jacket that was open in front, showing a black turtleneck tight enough to show a fantastic figure. Her hair was a coppery auburn and was pulled back in a ponytail that made her look younger than she probably was. Her face was oval-shaped with high cheekbones. Her eyes were bright, penetrating green.

  The woman slowly showed her hands to the police. She stood up, unhurried, ignoring the guns pointed her way. Then she smiled.

  Erin saw something predatory in the expression. It was a fierce look, and she almost expected the woman's lips to draw back from her teeth.

  The red-haired woman said, “Easy on those triggers, lads. You wouldn't want to be doing something we'd all regret, would you?”

  Erin started at the unmistakable brogue of Northern Ireland. The woman could've come from the same neighborhood as Corky and Carlyle.

  “What's your name, ma'am?” Vic demanded. He was still aiming his Sig-Sauer at her and seemed totally unimpressed with her feminine charms.