The John Milton Series Boxset 4

by Mark Dawson

  30

  Freddy was still sitting outside. Milton went over to him and sat down. Mackintosh diverted to the information desk.

  Milton overheard Mackintosh as she spoke to the desk sergeant.

  “Where’s Farley?”

  “In back.”

  “She was supposed to have called his parents. We can’t leave him here on his own.”

  “We’ve both been trying,” the sergeant said. “Just getting voicemail.”

  Milton went up to the desk.

  Mackintosh heard him approach and turned to face him. “Can I help you, Mr. Smith?”

  “I’ll stay with him,” Milton said, “until his parents get here.”

  “It’ll be social services if they’re not here soon.”

  “I don’t mind waiting. Is there anywhere I can get him a drink and something to eat?”

  Mackintosh looked doubtful.

  “Look,” Milton said. “He’s scared. And he seems comfortable with me. He shouldn’t be in here on his own.”

  She shrugged. “Sure. Knock yourself out. Vending machine around the corner. Cans of Coke, chips, candy bars. Machine doesn’t always work, though.”

  “Thank you, Detective,” he said.

  Milton went over to the boy and sat down next to him.

  “How you doing, Freddy?”

  “They say they wanna talk to me,” he said.

  “They do. They’ll want you to tell them about what you saw.”

  “Didn’t really see nothing,” he said, although Milton could tell that he was underplaying it. He was frightened. He probably wanted to go home. That was understandable. Milton would have felt the same.

  “You hungry? Thirsty?”

  Freddy nodded.

  “You want some candy? They say there’s a machine over there.”

  “Sure.”

  Milton got up and followed Mackintosh’s directions to the vending machine that had been set up just inside a corridor that led off the main area. The stock had been allowed to dwindle without being replaced, and the choice was meagre. Milton punched in the numbers for two Hershey bars and two bottles of Arizona iced tea, collected them from the slot and took them back to Freddy.

  “Thanks,” the boy said as Milton handed him one of the bars and one of the iced teas. He unwrapped the chocolate, broke off a piece and hungrily stuffed it into his mouth.

  “You like the Giants, then?” Milton asked him.

  “Uh-huh,” Freddy said with a nod, his mouth full.

  “I like the Dolphins.”

  “Dolphins suck,” Freddy opined as he unscrewed the lid of the bottle.

  “You don’t like Tannehill?”

  The boy took a slug of the iced tea. “He ain’t no Eli Manning.”

  Milton could see that Freddy was relaxing a little. The chocolate and the iced tea and a conversation about something that was obviously close to his heart had all served to distract him from the horrors that he had been forced to witness. Milton opened his bottle. He lowered his head to take a sip just as Freddy crossed his legs. Milton’s attention was snagged by the shoes that he was wearing.

  “Nice sneakers,” he said.

  Freddy reached down and brushed his fingers against the appliqué stripes on the sides of the sneakers as if rubbing away a smidge of dirt that wasn’t there. “They’re new,” he said.

  “Adidas?” Milton asked.

  He nodded. “Mastodon Pro. Special Edition.”

  Milton frowned. “Did you have a pair like that before that were stolen?”

  Freddy took a half turn and then shuffled an inch or two away from him as if his question had frightened him. “How’d you know that?”

  “I think I know your father,” Milton said. “His name is Manny, right?”

  Freddy swallowed and nodded. “How you know him?”

  Milton didn’t know how much he should say. It was possible that Freddy didn’t know that his father attended the fellowship. The last thing he wanted to do was give him something else to worry about tonight.

  “He used to be a soldier,” he said instead, remembering what Manny had shared during the meeting. “I did too. We have quite a bit in common.”

  It was a vague answer that didn’t really address Freddy’s question, but the boy let it slide.

  “Do you have any idea where he is?” Milton asked him.

  “I don’t know,” Freddy said with a weary shrug. “I spoke to him at the game. Sounded like he’d gone out drinking. But maybe he has his phone switched off. I don’t know.” He took another swig of his iced tea. “How long you think they’re gonna keep me here? I just want to go home and go to bed and forget all of this ever happened.”

  “I’ll have a word with them,” Milton said. “It might help now that I can say I know your father. Wait here, all right?”

  Milton went up to the desk. Mackintosh was still there, leaning against it, her phone pressed to her ear. She finished the call and put the phone away as she saw Milton approach.

  “What is it, Mr. Smith?”

  “What’s the plan for the boy?”

  “I need to talk to him, but I don’t want to do that without a responsible adult in the room. And I can’t get through to his father.”

  “I know him,” Milton said.

  “His father?”

  “His name is Manny Blanco.”

  “You didn’t mention that before.”

  “I only just realised.”

  “You know the boy, too?”

  “I’ve never met him before tonight. I just know his father.”

  “How?”

  Milton bit his lip. Confidentiality was one of the most important principles of the fellowship, but he knew that he would have to offer the detective more than mere platitudes if he was going to be able to take Freddy home.

  “His father is an alcoholic,” he said. “Like me. I know him through meetings.”

  Mackintosh didn’t react. “You think he might be drinking now?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Milton said, although Freddy clearly thought that was a possibility. “He’s been sober for a long time. It’s probably something else. I just wanted you to know that I know him. And, if it’d help, I could take the boy home.”

  She shook her head. “Can’t just let you do that.”

  “What were you going to do? You can’t leave him here all night.”

  “I hadn’t made up my mind,” she said. “I was beginning to think I might have to call social services.”

  “I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job,” Milton said, “but you’re not going to be able to talk to him tonight. Why don’t you take him home? I’ll come too. I’d like to help if I can, and I think he’ll be more relaxed if I’m there. It’s probably nothing with his father. Freddy thinks he might just have his phone off. Take him home, and you can get them both back in here tomorrow.”

  She looked at Milton, over to Freddy, and then back at Milton again. Finally, she nodded. “Fine,” she said. “Tell him to get ready. I’ll go and get my keys.”

  31

  Milton went back to the bench.

  “Good news,” he began, and then stopped.

  He could immediately see that something was wrong. The boy’s hands were clutched together tightly, and the blood had drained out of his face.

  Milton sat down next to him.

  “What is it?”

  Freddy unclenched his hands and slowly pointed up to the TV that was showing the promotional videos. It was a recording of a news report.

  “…and members of the Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association handed out informational bulletins about opioid addiction at the Cypress Hills Community Center during last night…”

  Milton turned back to the boy. “What’s the matter, Freddy?”

  “Him,” he said in a whisper.

  The reporter was still speaking. “NYPD officers who have saved lives with the opioid antidote Narcan were among those distributing the community safety bulletins to resident
s…”

  A uniformed officer was in shot, holding a sheaf of leaflets in one hand and distributing them to a line of men and women with the other. He was black, in his early to mid-fifties, balding and had a beard that was shot through with silver.

  Milton spoke quietly. “One of the men from earlier?”

  Freddy swallowed hard and nodded.

  “Are you sure?”

  “It’s him,” Freddy said. “He was outside the restroom. I’m sure.”

  The news report ended and was replaced by a recruitment video.

  “Don’t say anything else,” Milton said. “Don’t mention it to anyone.”

  “I can’t just… do nothing.”

  “That’s exactly what you need to do—for now, anyway.”

  “But—”

  “We can talk about it later,” Milton said.

  Detective Mackintosh came over to them. She had a set of car keys in her hand and had one arm through the sleeve of a thick jacket.

  “Come on, then,” she said. “I’ll run you home.”

  Part II

  Monday

  32

  Polanski looked at his watch. It was twelve-thirty. José Luis González had called him three and a half hours ago. Brooklyn to New Brunswick was not a difficult journey. It should have taken him only an hour to get over to the safe house. Polanski had warned him not to wait too long to set off, but even if he had taken an hour to pack a bag, he should have been here by now.

  He looked around the apartment. It was simple and bland, with cheap and functional furniture and walls that still smelled of the whitewash that had been used to clean them up after the last occupant had moved out.

  He switched off the lights, went outside and locked the door after him.

  He took out his phone and stared at the screen. The last call had been from González, and there had been nothing since.

  He called a contact at Central Booking on Schermerhorn Street.

  “Has anything gone down in Brooklyn tonight? The Seven Five, maybe the Seven Seven?”

  “The usual. What are you looking for, Detective?”

  “Any homicides?”

  “Hold on.” Polanski could hear the tapping of keys. “Yes,” the man said. “One homicide. Unidentified vic, male, thirty to forty.”

  “Latino?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where?” Polanski pressed.

  “Body was found in the restroom at Euclid Avenue station.”

  Polanski stood there in the cold, the phone held to his ear, a sickness in his gut. Euclid was the station that González would have used to start his journey to the safe house.

  They had got to him first.

  “Detective?”

  Polanski ran his fingers through his hair.

  “Detective? You still there?”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’m here.”

  “You need anything else?”

  “Yeah. Who’s on the case?”

  “Detective Mackintosh from the Seventy-Fifth.”

  Polanski thanked the man, ended the call and put his phone away. He stood outside the building for a moment, unmoving, the crisp air upon his face. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Grimly, he did up his coat and walked across the lot to his car. He couldn’t give up. He had come too far to do that. He was close to rooting out the corruption in the Seven Five. This was the proof. This murder, it was the proof that he was close. It was a setback, but that was it. He would just have to adapt.

  33

  Mackintosh led the way through the station and outside to the row of cars that were parked at right angles to the road. She aimed her key fob at a Hyundai Sonata, blipped the locks and invited them to get in. Milton went to the back of the car and opened the door for Freddy. The boy slid inside. Milton went around and opened the other door. He sat in the back, too.

  Mackintosh started the engine and adjusted the rear-view mirror so that she could see them both. “Where you headed, Freddy?”

  “Danforth Street.”

  “Up in Cypress Hills?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What about you, Mr. Smith? That’s the wrong way for you.”

  “I’ll make my own way home once Freddy is inside.”

  “All right, then.” She put the car into reverse and pulled out into the road. She switched to drive and set off, heading east on Sutter. The roads were quiet at this late hour, with just the occasional passer-by on the sidewalks.

  “You been to the game tonight, Freddy?” she said as she turned north onto Atkins.

  “Yeah,” the kid said quietly.

  “You get that ball there?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He caught it,” Milton said.

  “From OBJ,” Freddy added.

  “After his TD? Gotta make you feel good.”

  Milton turned and saw him give a small smile.

  She was a decent interrogator. She was establishing points of similarity between herself and the boy, common ground that she would use to build the foundation for the relationship that she would try to construct. Freddy was too young to see what she was doing. There was nothing wrong with her strategy—she was just doing her job, after all, and Milton had no reason to doubt her—but Freddy’s admission that he recognised someone in the precinct made Milton uneasy about anyone there, including her. He would need to satisfy himself that she was on the level.

  She turned onto the main thoroughfare of Atlantic Avenue.

  “Listen to me, Freddy,” she said. “Try not to let what happened spoil how you remember tonight, will you? You start thinking about it, you just get that ball and squeeze it tight until you remember the good stuff. You hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You can call me Mack,” she said. “Everyone else does.”

  Mackintosh paused, still looking back in the mirror, but then she nodded and turned her gaze back to the road ahead. She turned onto Hemlock Street, turned left onto Danforth and then slowed down as she approached the address that Freddy had given her. “Ten, eight, six—here we are. Four. Come on, I’ll see you to the door.”

  “I got it from here,” said Milton.

  She shook her head. “I’m coming, too.”

  Milton opened his door, stepped out and made his way around the car. He opened Freddy’s door.

  Mackintosh got out, too.

  “Come on,” Milton said to Freddy. “Let’s get you inside.”

  Milton had not expected to return to Danforth Street. It was an odd alley that extended for two blocks west from Hemlock Street to Crescent Street south of Etna Street. The surface of the road had not been paved for many years and was pocked with uneven stretches and potholes that would have been deep enough to damage car wheels and unseat unwary cyclists. The drug den that he had put under observation was number nine. Milton was pleased to see that there was no sign that it was still being used for dealing; it looked as if his warning had been taken seriously.

  Number four was right next to the elevated north–south stretch of the subway that linked the stations at Crescent Street and Cypress Hills. Milton had spent several hours outside it, and the details were still fresh in his mind. It was in poor condition, comprising an extended ground floor that abutted a three-storey building behind it. It had been carved into three separate properties: the first-floor addition, and then the second and third floors of the main building. Freddy made his way to the addition. It was accessed by way of a freshly painted red door that was set back a couple of feet behind a wire mesh fence. Dirty trash cans were lined up between the wall of the property and the fence, and a Dominican flag fluttered listlessly from behind one of the barred downstairs windows.

  Freddy crossed the sidewalk and opened the gate in the wire fence that marked the boundary of the property. He had a key, and he used it to unlock the door.

  He paused on the threshold, his hand on the handle.

  “It’s okay,” Milton said.

  Freddy didn’t look back at him. He presse
d down on the handle, opened the door and went inside.

  34

  “Hello?” Freddy called out.

  There was a light on inside. Milton turned back to Mackintosh. The detective was in the doorway, waiting to come inside.

  “Dad?” Freddy called.

  The front door opened into a living room area. It was tidier inside than the exterior had promised. There was a leather couch and matching armchair, a low coffee table and a modest TV that had been placed on a wooden unit. The TV had been muted and left on, and a rerun of Law & Order was playing.

  Freddy frowned and made his way through the living room to a corridor that accessed the rear of the property. Milton felt like an intruder, but he followed behind him.

  The boy paused at a closed door. He tapped his fist against it. “Dad?”

  Milton thought he heard something from inside.

  Freddy put his hand on the handle and pushed the door open. He went inside.

  Milton and Mackintosh waited.

  “Oh no,” he heard Freddy sigh.

  Milton took a step inside. The stench of alcohol was pungent, and he had to resist the urge to gag. He saw empty twelve-ounce cans on the floor around an overflowing trash can. He recognised the black, green and orange design of Brooklyn Lager. There were at least ten of them.

  “Dad,” Freddy said.

  Milton heard a grunt. He stayed in the doorway, reluctant to go any farther. It wasn’t just that he didn’t want to intrude, although that was part of it. More than that, he didn’t want to see what he knew was just inside the door. Manny had fallen off the wagon, and Milton didn’t want to see the results. He had always struggled with empathy—it was one of the characteristics that had made him so successful in his previous career, but disqualified him from having any semblance of a normal life now—and he knew he would have no idea how to react if he was asked to help.

  “Wake up, Dad. Come on.”

  Freddy started to cry.