by Mark Dawson
He turned to Acosta.
“On the floor. Face down.”
He did as he was told. Milton pinned him down with a knee in the small of his back, reached for his right hand and yanked it all the way around. He took the cable tie from his pocket, shoved the right wrist and then the left through the loop in the tie, and then closed it until there was no more slack. He frisked him quickly, removing a bag of weed, a wallet, a roll of bills and a key with an Audi fob from his pockets. He dumped everything but the key, putting that into his own pocket.
He grabbed Acosta’s shirt and hauled him to his feet.
“You’re crazy,” Acosta mumbled.
“You won’t be the last person to say that. Where’s the boy and his father?”
“Upstairs,” he said.
“Show me.”
Milton let Acosta lead the way to the stairs. They climbed up to the top floor. The girl’s description had been accurate: there was a corridor with four doors leading off it, two on each side.
“Which room?” Milton said.
Acosta nodded to the nearest door on the left.
There was a key in the lock; Milton turned it and opened the door.
The room had no furniture. Milton looked around Acosta and saw that Manny and Freddy Blanco were inside. Their wrists had been secured behind their backs with cable ties and then a pair of cuffs attached the ties to a cast-iron radiator. They had been blindfolded, too, but both turned to the door at the sound of it opening.
“It’s okay,” Milton said. “It’s me.”
Manny’s face showed panic beneath the blindfold. “They took us—”
“It’s all over,” Milton interrupted. “I’m here to get you out.”
He turned to Acosta and kicked him in the back of the knees. The Dominican’s legs buckled and he collapsed. “Face down on the floor. If you move, I’ll shoot you.”
Acosta flattened himself to the boards. Milton unsheathed his hunting knife. He crossed the room to the Blancos and removed their blindfolds. Both father and son were terrified, squinting into the sudden light, dread shining from their eyes. Milton worked quickly, slicing through the plastic ties that bound their wrists.
“Do exactly as I say,” Milton said. “Stay with me and don’t panic. You’re going to be fine.”
Manny gaped at him.
“Tell me you understand, Manny.”
“I understand. I—”
“Good,” Milton cut in firmly. “Now—we’re going downstairs and then we’re going to leave. Ready?”
Manny nodded.
Milton reached down and helped him to stand. “Let’s go.”
117
Milton grabbed Acosta by the scruff of his shirt and hauled him back to his feet again. He shoved him out of the door and turned him around to face the stairs. “Down,” he ordered.
They gathered in the main first-floor room. The older man hadn’t moved.
“Him,” Milton said to Manny, gesturing at the old man. “Frisk him for me.”
Milton dragged Acosta backwards across the room to the safe.
“What’s the combination, Carlos?”
“Fuck y—”
Milton backhanded him across the mouth.
“What’s the combination?”
Acosta glared up at him, his face a mask of hatred. “You’re a dead man,” he said. Milton put the muzzle of the UMP against his head. “6850,” Acosta spat.
Milton turned the dial to the right through four turns and then stopped on the six. He turned the dial to the left, passing the eight twice, stopping there on the third time. He turned the dial to the right, passing the five once before stopping on it the next time. Finally, he spun the dial to the left and stopped at the zero.
The lock disengaged and the door opened.
The safe was full of money. Milton did not have the time to guess at how much was there, save that there was a great deal of it. The bills were fastened with rubber bands, and Milton took two thick wads of fifties and pushed them into his pocket.
“What is this?” Acosta said. “You rollin’ me? Seriously? Are you crazy?”
“Shut up, Carlos.”
Milton reached into his pocket and took out the Beretta. It was still in its plastic bag. He undid the bag, removed the gun and pressed the grip into Acosta’s right hand.
Acosta swallowed. “What are you doing?”
“Hold it.”
Acosta did as he was told and Milton deposited the weapon in the safe. He shut the door and spun the dial.
Milton crouched down and spoke quietly into Acosta’s ear. “Just so you know,” Milton said, keeping his voice low enough so that the Blancos wouldn’t be able to hear him. “That’s the gun I used to kill James Rhodes this morning. The police are at his house now. They’re going to find him, and then they’re going to find the gun that killed him in your safe with your prints on it. They’ll think you did it. You’re going to go away for a long time, Carlos. A long, long time.”
“Take that off,” Acosta said. “I wanna see your face. I wanna see it before—”
Milton silenced him with a second backhanded slap.
“Jesus,” Manny exclaimed.
He was crouched over the older man. He had a holstered pistol in one hand and a wallet in the other.
“What is it?” Milton said.
“He’s a cop. Look.”
The wallet opened to reveal an NYPD detective shield.
“Name?”
Manny looked at a credit card. “Richard Haynes.”
Milton remembered the name from a conversation with Polanski. Haynes was Polanski’s senior officer.
“You’re the leak in Internal Affairs.”
The old man was still on his belly. He turned his head so that he could glare up at Milton, but said nothing.
“Can you remember how to handle a weapon?” Milton said to Manny.
“Sure.”
“Take his gun and cover Acosta.”
Manny took Haynes’s pistol out of the holster and held it out in both hands. He nodded that he was comfortable with it.
Milton grabbed Haynes and encouraged him to stand. He marched him up the stairs and tossed him in the room that had been used to imprison the Blancos. He shoved the older man to the wall, pushed him down to his knees and turned him around so that his cuffed wrists were next to the radiator. He took a third cable tie, looped one end around the radiator, fed it through the tie that restrained Haynes, and then yanked it until it was tight.
Haynes slumped against the wall, his head hanging limply. The fight had gone out of him. Perhaps he was wondering how he would be able to explain how he had come to be in the headquarters of one of Brooklyn’s most notorious drug dealers. That would be difficult to do, especially when the Blancos could implicate him.
Milton shut the door, locked it and pocketed the key.
He descended the stairs and turned his attention back to Acosta.
“Get up.”
He yanked on the tie, wrenching the Dominican back up to his knees. He yanked again and Acosta stood.
“Get behind me,” Milton said to Manny and Freddy. “Cover the stairs.”
He grabbed Acosta and manhandled him to his feet. “Get moving, shitbird. Time to go.”
118
Acosta went first down the stairs. Milton was tight behind him, his left hand on his shoulder with the muzzle of the UMP pressed against the back of the Dominican’s head. Freddy came next and his father brought up the rear, covering them with the detective’s confiscated gun.
“You know who I am?” Acosta spat back at Milton. “You making a big mistake. I’m telling you, you have no idea the kind of mistake you’re making.”
Milton ignored him.
They reached the landing.
“I’m gonna fucking kill you,” Acosta said.
Milton bunched his fist and punched Acosta in the back of the head. “Shut up, Carlos,” he said.
Milton shoved him through the open door
onto the roof. He grabbed the bag of gear that he had left there and tossed it over the edge; it landed with a soft thud in the snow below.
“I’ll pay you,” Acosta said. “How’s that? How much do you want?”
Milton pushed Acosta between the shoulder blades, impelling him to the edge of the roof.
The Dominican teetered on the lip, looking down into the yard. “I can’t climb down there,” he complained.
Milton kicked him in the small of the back. Acosta disappeared over the side, falling through the steep drop and ending up on his back in a shallow drift that cushioned his fall.
Milton hopped down to the dumpster and then down into the snow next to Acosta. Freddy followed, then turned to help his father.
Milton knelt down, grabbed Acosta’s jacket, and pulled him to his knees.
The snow was falling heavily. The abandoned vehicles in the yard had already been blanketed with another half an inch. The light from the windows behind him cast out enough illumination for him to be able to see the mess of footprints that led into the yard from the direction of the gate. His own prints had been covered; these prints were new. There was a bunch of footprints that funnelled into the yard between a pickup truck and an old US Postal Service van. The footprints split off into individual tracks that led to the left and the right.
Milton reached with his left hand and grabbed Acosta by the shoulder. He pulled him closer, holding the submachine gun ready.
“Come out,” Milton called. “Get out here where I can see you.”
Milton saw a man emerge from behind the red truck. He was wearing a plastic Barack Obama mask that covered his face. The mask had large, exaggerated white teeth. The man was toting a shotgun, and it was levelled at Milton.
“Drop the gun!” Obama called out.
Milton snaked his left arm around Acosta’s neck and started to move back toward the wall. He put himself and Acosta between the man with the shotgun and the Blancos.
A second man emerged from behind the trailer of the truck. He, too, had a shotgun. He was wearing a plastic mask that bore a passing resemblance to Bill Clinton.
Both men looked as if they knew how to use their weapons.
“Drop the gun.”
The third man to come out from behind the truck wore a George Bush mask. He had a pistol in his hand and it, like the two shotguns, was aimed at him.
Milton recognised his voice.
Fedorov.
Milton pulled Acosta tight against his body and aimed the UMP around him at Fedorov. “What are you doing?”
“Drop the gun, John. Please.”
“What are you doing?”
“I want him,” Fedorov said, gesturing to Acosta.
“Well, you can’t have him.”
“You are not in a position to argue. Please. I would rather that we could finish this amicably. I do not want to see you get hurt.”
“So point those guns somewhere else and let us be on our way.”
Milton looked at Clinton and Obama. He guessed that the other two men were Fedorov’s brothers.
“You and your friends are free to go,” Fedorov said. “Just not with him.”
Milton looked from Fedorov to his brothers. He was badly outnumbered and they had him in a crossfire. There was nowhere for him to go: the door in the wall behind him was locked, the fence on either side was too high, and, besides, those shotguns would chew him up the moment he tried to make a move. And more important than that was the fact that he was with the Blancos. He had more to consider than just himself.
Acosta struggled in Milton’s grip. “Who the fuck are you?” he said to Fedorov.
“Your drugs were responsible for the death of my son.”
Acosta squirmed. “What you talking about, man?”
“You had a dealer in Little Odessa. A young man. The same age as my son. They became friends. Your dealer gave my boy heroin. A little at first, to tempt him, and then more. He stole from me, Mr. Acosta. The day before he died. My own son stole money from my business to buy the drugs that killed him. Do you know how that made me feel? That I was complicit in his death?”
“I’m sorry about that,” Milton said before Acosta could reply. “But he’s going to get justice. That’s why I’m here.”
“Justice? What justice? You will take him to the NYPD?”
“Yes, I—”
“But you said yourself that you could not trust them. You said that they are all corrupt.”
“Not all of them,” Milton protested.
“A few bad apples?” Fedorov asked scornfully.
“There’s one man I trust. A detective. He’s been building a case against Acosta for months. He can close it now.”
Fedorov shook his head. “And this detective, he is interested in corrupt officers, yes? That is his focus?”
“Not just—”
“Mr. Acosta could choose to cooperate. Perhaps he could give the detective what he really wants. All the corrupt policemen handed to him on a plate. And what would that mean for him? A plea bargain? A little time, then back out to sell his poison again? More children killed so he can make a little more money? Surely you can see how that is not justice. You can see how it is unacceptable.”
Milton felt a hand on his back: Manny or Freddy, he couldn’t be sure.
“This is not a negotiation,” Fedorov said. “Acosta is a dead man. But I do not want to hurt you or your friends. Please. Both of you, drop your guns and step away from him.”
Milton was all out of options. “Do what he says, Manny.”
Milton dropped the UMP into the snow and released his hold around Acosta’s throat. The Dominican dropped down to his knees, the icy crust crunching as he plunged into it.
“This is a mistake,” Milton said.
“We can disagree about that. Go. Before I change my mind.”
Milton stooped down to collect his bag and trudged through the ankle-deep snow. He put himself between the three men and the Blancos, gesturing that Manny and Freddy should pass on the other side of him. Sergei and the older brother turned to cover him as he went by them. Milton made his way to the Audi and blipped the locks. He told Manny and Freddy to get into the back. He opened the front door, tossed his bag inside, and slid into the seat. The gate to the road had been opened and pushed back. Milton started the engine and edged out into the road.
There was an old panel van parked outside the open gate, the rear doors open and the engine running. Milton ignored it.
He heard the sound of raised voices behind him, but he didn’t look back. Milton straightened the wheel, pushed down on the gas, and started away into the blizzard.
119
It was two thirty in the morning. Polanski sat in his office, keeping himself awake with as much strong coffee as he could stomach. He realised that he hadn’t had more than a couple of hours’ sleep on the office couch since he’d moved the case to Manhattan. His eyes felt red and raw, and he ached in places he had never ached before. It was only the adrenaline and the caffeine that were keeping him upright.
Detective Walker had just called in her report. She had tried to contact Officer Rhodes by phone, but her calls had gone unanswered. She had driven across to Rosedale and had forced the door to his modest house. Rhodes was dead on the couch in his sitting room. He had been shot. Two times and, both, she suggested, from close range: one in his knee and the other in his head. The casings were on the floor. Her search of the premises had revealed the proof of Rhodes’s perfidy: a cache that had been cunningly hidden in the space beneath the bath. It contained the fake documents necessary to effect a changed identity in the event that he needed to bug out.
Polanski stared at the screen. The blue dot that indicated the location of John Smith’s cellphone had not changed. It was in the same place as it had been since the trace had been activated. Smith was at home and had been for the past three and a half hours. Polanski had listened to Smith’s story, but he was no one’s fool. What he had said about Acosta and th
e Blancos was possible, but outlandish. Polanski wasn’t prepared to trust him blindly, especially not after Mackintosh had provided a glimpse into his history and, at the same time, shone a light upon a violent streak that he kept well hidden.
He had spoken to Mackintosh before they released Smith and a compromise had been reached. She would accede to his request on the basis that they kept a close eye on him. Polanski had agreed; he might have taken the same steps even without her laying down the requirement. Assistant District Attorney Mantegna had filed an emergency request for a trace to be put on his phone; the request had been granted and the provider had complied within ten minutes of receiving the order.
His phone buzzed on his desk.
He picked it up.
“Smith?”
“Where are you?”
“Manhattan. Where are you?”
“Just leaving my apartment.”
He looked at the computer; they should have been able to see whether there had been activity on the phone. “Has Acosta called you?”
“No—Manny Blanco did.”
Polanski found it. Smith had just received a call from a landline. The number was unfamiliar.
“Where are they?” he asked.
“They got away,” Smith said. “They’re on Atlantic Avenue. You need to go pick them up.”
Polanski looked at his computer. The location of Smith’s phone had moved. It was to the north of the apartment, and, as he stared at the screen, it kept moving.
“You need to go,” Smith insisted. “Not someone from the precinct.”
Polanski heard the sound of an engine turning over. A motorcycle engine. He grabbed his coat and started across the floor. “I’m going now,” he said. “Where are they?”
“Outside the Barclays Center. They said they were held in a room above a strip club not far from there. The HoneyPot.”
“How did they get out?”
“He didn’t say.”
Polanski reached the lobby and jammed the button to call an elevator. “I’m on my way.”
