“Can I order you something?” asked Ty.
“It’s not a date, detective, but I’ll be less busy next week if you’re interested.”
“Not sure how to answer that.” He then whispered, “Maybe we should just keep it Ty and drop the detective thing?”
“You’re in Harlem, Mr. Williams. Two African Americans having coffee on East 125th Street. What’s so noteworthy about that?”
“I don’t know, but let’s try to go unnoticed.”
Jones fidgeted. “On second thought, maybe I will have that espresso after all.”
Ty signaled towards the counter and held up two fingers, and then pointed to Glenda.
“So,” asked the reporter, “Do you want to tell me why you’re here, other than to have coffee with someone who is clearly,” she snorted, “not your type?”
“Do you remember asking me questions at the scene near Flatbush?”
“Yeah, I got it. You came up here because you’ve got an informant who told you that everything is now run under one label. That’s not a big discovery, Ty. I questioned Bruner on T.V. last week about that and the woman boss. If you saw the tape, then it was obvious that the deputy chief ran away like I got some kind of disease.”
“I saw it live, but I don’t think that Bruner is going to tell you about stuff that they’re working on.”
“That’s funny. Are they telling you? Why are you even talking to me? I think that you are going rogue on this one. A Brooklyn guy shows up here? Tell me you aren’t flying solo on this. I’d say you’re full of crap.”
“Off the record?”
“Sure, off the record,” responded Glenda.
“I heard it through the grapevine that I’m being moved. One of my informants disappeared. My boss won’t say a damn thing. It all looks really ugly. Like I said, there are zero traces of my inside guy. Zip. Nada. So what do you know, because I got one more week working Brooklyn narcotics, and then I’m being loaned to some little place out in Long Island—indefinitely. Does that not sound like I was getting close?”
Jones looked uptight.
“Ms. Jones, did I say something disturbing?”
“One of my people is gone. And this outfit up in Rockland County is making me a huge offer to come up there and do stories on vandalism and other boring crap. What the hell is that? You’re being moved. I’m being courted? Who else are you talking to?”
“Just a few people. But in the last week, they’ve been preaching to me about how there’s no there there. I’m not kidding; these are guys who busted mid-level dealers with me—now they aren’t returning my phone calls.”
“Mr. Williams,” offered Jones. “What do you think you will solve out on Long Island? Diddly. Don’t even try to spin it. You are being sidelined.”
“I can only think of two reasons for that. Either some big fish wants to make a huge bust, and they want junior from Brooklyn to get out of the way. Or—”
“—Or you’re pissing someone off, and you might have some dirty peers who want you gone. I’m surprised you don’t have a target on your back. But, it could be that someone is giving you a second chance just to shut up and go quietly—they might actually be doing you a favor. I’m mean, you’re not dead. So how much do you wanna know?”
Ty scratched his head. “There is a lot more going on than busting some gangbangers with a kilo. I think that was a set up to make us look like heroes. The truth is that someone wanted those guys gone—and they are gonna get 15 to 20—that counts as gone. We were used to clear the path so that female boss could put Brooklyn under her control.”
Glenda had a sour look on her face. The transwoman thing couldn’t hide her scowl; that was universal. “Go out to the Island. Bust some kids trashing playgrounds. Live a long and happy life. You don’t need this.”
“I’ve got a week, maybe two, before they move me. I’m not just going to let it go.”
“You are a dumb ass, Ty. But you got character. Kinda like me, except I’m only slightly dumb, and I’ve got fewer morals.” Jones let that sink in.
“And your point?”
“Do you want to meet someone?” Glenda arched a penciled eyebrow and waited.
“Sure. Do they know something?”
“I think so. And this one’s got a death wish. That usually means that you’ll get a good story, but they might be dead before you can print it. So, detective, do you want to take the red pill?”
The garage, about a five-minute walk, was just three levels and above ground. Glenda led Ty up a ramp to the second floor. The detective immediately saw a very suspicious-looking Hispanic teenager. The kid was rocking back and forth against the short, concrete wall overlooking the garage exit below.
“Who’s that?” Williams was nervous but didn’t show it.
“That’s our leaker. Call him Juan. He knows a little.”
They approached “Juan,” and Glenda walked up to the wall to gaze down on the driveway that led into the lot. Ty approached cautiously and stood back a bit. Down below, he could hear what sounded like the gate guard yelling at someone. It stopped, and Williams felt the rumbling of a truck beneath them.
Jones bumped the nervous teen with her elbow. “Tell this man what you told me.”
Juan stammered something in broken English, but then blood and brains spattered onto Glenda’s blouse. The guy dropped. She turned towards Williams. The detective was reaching for his gun and began crouching down. This time Jones heard the crack of a rifle shot. A bullet slammed into Ty’s neck. It was a clean shot with messy results.
Glenda tried to figure out where to run. She felt pain in the side of her head and toppled back over the cement wall with a brief sense of falling before everything went black.
Chapter 5
Claire German never had guests to her large home on east 70th. No one ever asked about the quirky habit because she never let anyone get that close. Once in a very great while, there might be a need to have an electrician or plumber, but they were always random—and only one visit by any single company. It was a rule, one of many, to keep her in the shadows, always.
At precisely 6 p.m., a simple “Ding” resonated up the wide staircase to the sitting room on the 2nd floor. Claire drifted down the steps to the darkly stained door. She opened it sufficiently to let a man into the entry hall.
“Hello, Scott.”
“Hello, Claire.”
It was dark inside. To his left, he could see what must have been a large study. Probably it was used by Martin German to entertain high-priced Wall Street types. Now it was just one over-stuffed chair, ancient-looking, and three walls lined with empty bookshelves from the floor to the ceiling. It was odd.
“That must have been your father’s library—am I right?”
“Spot on. You’re as perceptive as usual, Scotty.”
“Thanks. And you are as gracious as always.”
The introductions were stilted, but he expected that since Claire was usually sweet and benign. A perfect fit for Clemp.
“Why don’t you come upstairs to my study?”
“Um.”
She jerked her head and flicked her index finger towards the broad staircase. Scott followed her. On his way up, he looked towards the dining room, which was dark. It was also empty, much like the library, without so much as a chair.
The 2nd-floor hallway, unlike the entry, glowed with modern lighting on the ceiling. The dichotomy between the two floors was striking, but perhaps that was just Claire’s way of preserving her father’s memory—by leaving some areas untouched.
She pointed to the right, and he followed her into a white room with two folding chairs and a bridge table. Scott’s expectation that she’d put some decorative touches upstairs was dashed.
“I guess you prefer simplicity.” The words slipped out before he could hold them in check.
Claire remained placid. “I try to purchase just what is needed and no more. Of course, someday, when I have a home and family, I will indulge in some de
corating. Does that make sense?”
“Seems reasonable to me.”
“Tell me about you, Scotty. Are you settled down with children? And your wife’s name is?”
“Tonya. I believe you might know her from those Albertona perfume commercials. They play them constantly. She—”
“I’m not one for watching so much television, but is she the striking brunette model who winks as she sprays it?”
He laughed. “Well, not quite. She’s a hand model. The close-ups of Tonya handling the perfume jar are at the end.”
Without losing a step, Claire said, “And what beautiful hands she has indeed.”
“Thanks. The rest of her is pretty also.”
“I’m sure.”
I guess I was fairly straightforward about why I called. Honestly, it was a surprise to hear from you after ten years, and I’m glad we had that quick drink together last week. Just seeing you brings back so many memories—”
“Which, Mr. Barnett, I would prefer to not think about too much. Some of those are fairly painful. The truth is that I’ve been successful in keeping my home in order, but the place is empty. When you mentioned Mr. Clemp to me, I thought that maybe one more shot at romance before they start calling me a has-been—”
“Oh, please!” he interrupted. “We’re the same age, so what does that make me? And, I thought you brought up Clemp.”
“Did I? Anyway, you’re a married man with kids. Do you see what I have here? I could buy furniture, but to whom am I going to say ‘stop jumping on the couch?’ Don’t get me wrong, I believe in a woman having a career and going out and conquering the world. But doing that alone is garbage. I told you all of this over my martini.”
“Claire, that is why I thought of Chuck Clemp almost immediately. The man is only 90% of the way there. There are plenty of women in New York that are throwing themselves at him. I’ve watched him reject them all. He doesn’t want a social climber using him to rub elbows. I promise you; he hates that crap.”
“Do you remember who my father was? He was one of the best at separating the movers and shakers from their money.”
“Yes. So I’ve heard. But what happened to half the money when he got it?”
“Scott, he gave it away.”
“That’s right, Ms. German. Your dad was known for that. And that’s why I think you might find Mr. Clemp to be similar to you in that regard.”
“Maybe he is, but what’s your interest in this?”
He got up and stretched. The simple plastic chair was tough on his back. “Two-fold. And I won’t lie to you. I never lied to you back in school, and I won’t now. First, he needs a woman in his life—and children. Old-fashioned—he is. Second, it’s good for my career.”
It was Claire’s turn to get up. She was wearing a simple, light-blue skirt and jacket and walked over to the window facing the street below. Her back was towards her old school friend. Barnett waited while she appeared to be mulling things over. She swung around.
“You know, Scott, if we do hit it off, but then it turns to hell—you’ll be out on a limb, won’t you?”
“I’ve gotten this far by trusting my instincts. I liked you back in the old days, and you’ve always been a decent, honest person. Am I right?”
“Except when I’m competing. Like I did on the soccer field. Then I was ruthless. Remember?”
He shrugged. “Sure. How can I forget? You were brutal. But this isn’t soccer.”
She did her best to suppress the recollection of her aggressiveness on the field. It kind of lit a fire inside Claire when she thought about it. Her behavior in competition scared the other girls. “No. Sports is history for me. I play for things that matter now.”
“Does that mean you want to give Chuck Clemp a chance?” He waited.
A timid smile was her reply, followed by a simple, “Sure, no promises, but I’ll take a stab at it.”
Chapter 6
For two months, Mike kept to himself, but Cassie was on his mind daily despite his best efforts. Even though he was out fishing, she would spring up suddenly in his thoughts. But then Casper remembered that he was damaged goods; a man who could, for the foreseeable future, not engage in the pursuit of real life. The beautiful and sweet pub owner was better off without him.
So, he pushed himself to fish like a demon. He left at eight and stayed out all day. The unorthodox netting timeline was laughable to the tried and true Italian method, but it worked for Mike. The hauls were small compared to pro standards, but they were bigger than he’d brought in when trying to go toe-to-toe with the experts. And, he didn’t have to get up and 3 a.m. every day to compete with them.
The downside? Not all the restaurants were interested in buying his fish at three or four in the afternoon. Cassie used to be a good customer, but he avoided her place since the night she clamped down on his lies. That left a few eateries to focus on, so he lowered his price and managed to scratch out a meager living.
One of the young teens on the beach had a habit of being around when Mike came in. The boy spoke surprisingly decent English and would help tie up the Sylvia for a few coins every day. The idea of taking the youngster out to fish crossed Casper’s mind, but he decided to keep the whole damn town at arm’s length.
He tossed the line. “Hey Alfredo, thanks for being here.” Mike would say the same line every day.
“Thanks for the money,” was the boy’s response—it was like a standard exchange between the two of them.
Casper put a large box onto a two-wheeler and prepared to make his rounds to the eateries within a quarter-mile radius. The day wasn’t quite over at three; the process of schlepping around the neighborhood was unavoidable.
“Hey, American guy. That girl is looking for you.”
“What girl, Alfredo?”
“The one who speaks English and has the pub. She said that it was important that she see you. I told her where you live.”
Mike was churning. “You did what? Why did you do that? How do you know where I live?”
The young Italian kid gave him a sly look. “You are really good at hiding, but I figure it out. So I told her.”
“If you saw that I was keeping my place secret, then why did you tell her? Damn it! I don’t want anyone coming to my house.”
He held up a bag of food. “She bribe me.”
“Alfredo. Please do me a favor. Don’t tell anyone else. I don’t want people bothering me, okay?”
The boy smiled. “You want me to tell her go away and no see you?”
“No. Just forget about it. But in the future, Alfredo, don’t tell anyone about me,” he repeated.
Casper smiled and tossed his helper a coin. There was a nod of understanding, and Mike was desperately hoping that the issue was done. He wheeled the cart out onto the main drag and headed for the restaurants in the opposite direction of Cassie’s place—that was his new pattern. As much as he wanted to see her, there was no point in starting something that would die on the vine.
Pushing the box ahead of him, Mike began the daily rounds—another day and some Italian paper money to pay for the standard rations. The good part was that he was in excellent shape; at least he had the body he’d always wanted.
It was just dusk when he dragged the two-wheeler through the junkyard gate. The lights around the perimeter hadn’t clicked on, and it was hard to see much in the twilight. But then he saw a figure sitting on the step to his container home. Prickly nerves danced on his spine. In almost a year, no one ever hung out by his place.
Casper approached cautiously, then relaxed. And then he got nervous for a different reason.
“Hello, Bill.” Cassie stood up and brushed off the dust from her pants.
“You tracked me down. Why are you here?”
She was unphased. “Because I’m clairvoyant, and I can hear your thoughts out there while you’re fishing.”
“Neat trick.” He parked the cart to his left and turned back to face her in the subdued light. “I would
have thought that after two months, I’d be a distant memory.”
“Fifty-two days. It’s not two months yet.”
He laughed. “You’re counting?”
“Yes. I’m checking off the days in my calendar. Are you ready to tell me the truth?”
Mike groaned and ran his fingers through his hair. “Fine. I’m not from Atlanta.”
Now it was Cassie’s turn to laugh. “Well, now, that’s a step in the right direction.” She stretched. Casper could not help but notice her figure. Granted, she was the only Anglo in the whole town, but she would be an eye-catcher anywhere.
“Why did you torture Alfredo to give up my address?”
“I didn’t torture him. I only told him that you dropped your cellphone at the pub.”
“That’s a good one. I don’t own a cellphone.”
She sat back down on the step. “And that would make you—the only person on the planet without one. Don’t you think that is curious? I mean to a normal person like me.”
“Let’s just say I don’t like intrusions.”
Cassie wasn’t put off, and her presence was once again like gravity. He was in orbit, falling towards her.
“Well, I’m intruding. What do you think you can do about it?” She stood again and inched her way closer.
“Do I need to do something about it?”
“That is an excellent question. One to which I have an entire basket of answers.”
At this point, Cassie had closed to within inches. Her sweet breath grazed his senses. His loneliness and isolation crushed him. And here she was, a woman who he would have been drawn to regardless of the circumstances. Something clicked when Mike was near her, just like 52 days earlier on the beach.
He could resist her no longer. All the brief, pleasant words in the pub, her stance by the breakwater; was she actually saying, “I want you?” The woman’s close proximity aroused him.
Cold Dead Hands (A Mike Casper Thriller Book 1) Page 4
