“Business as usual. Now your turn.”
“The usual boys in blue weren’t around,” Sinclair explained, still looking at the carnage across my clothing. “Someone called in the smoke, but when some boys from the 7th rolled by and didn’t see any tape, they cordoned off the area. That was at … four in the morning? We’re the only ones who know about the particulars, seeing as Viessman wants it kept on the DL. After all, we wouldn’t want the ritzy folks in the Upper East Side worried that their city might be gettin’ dangerous.” He snickered.
“Yeah, all the high-profilers live around here,” I groaned. “Trying to make this their own little slice of the Upper City.”
“Fat chance that’ll happen with Maranzano hanging around.”
“Anyone make any other radio calls besides the ones to Viessman and Robins?”
“Besides the original report that didn’t get anyone’s attention, just the call out for you. Allen picked that one up,” Sinclair explained. “Other than that, nothin’.”
“All right, good, they plugged any possible leaks.” I moved closer to the slumped-over man with the holes in his chest. “So who’s the stiff?”
“Davin McIntyre, an enforcer for Maranzano. He ain’t no Santoni, but he was gettin’ there,” Sinclair said, handing me a wallet and licence. “A dead Maranzano boy on their own turf — it seems like the noose is tightenin’ around their throats more and more these days. Everyone wants a piece of ’em. Whose dog did they kick to get this much hate recently?”
“No clue. This ain’t the Eye’s style, though.” I inspected the corpse. The holes through the chest matched the almost triangular pattern in the brick behind him. “Nor Gould’s. He’s a long-range head shot sort of guy. Four corpses, Allen.”
“I see that,” the machine responded. “You were correct, it seems. I’ll redouble my efforts.”
“They complained about the smoke and the smell, not about the noise. Bullets are basically the ambient background for this city. But no explosion means no Von Whisper,” I noted. “Paddy, got any solid evidence other than dead bodies and burnt stock?”
Sinclair snapped his fingers at the head officer from the 7th and beckoned him over, then retrieved a small paper bag from the man. He passed it to me, and I dumped three crumpled bullets into my hand, along with a casing. They had been found nearby. Whereas the bullets were mangled and shredded from slamming into the brick wall behind the dead enforcer, the back of the casing was intact. I couldn’t read French, but I recognized the numbers 8 and 50, as well as the word Lebel.
“We also retrieved this,” Sinclair said, handing me an intact shell much larger than the ones in the bag. Long, black, about 15 millimetres in diameter. A Von Whisper round. “Need any more evidence?”
“Nope. Shit, this was our man. He didn’t get the chance to use this, though.”
I put the Von Whisper shell into the bag and pocketed it. Fuck! My stitches ripped and itched with my movements. I shouldn’t move too fast until I’d healed more.
“How much did he burn?” I asked.
“A few tons of guns, hooch, drugs, some bodies, Automatic parts — the standard Maranzano affair,” Sinclair noted. “This doesn’t tell us anythin’ other than that this guy has one hell of a grudge against ’Zano.”
“Not just that,” Allen said, inspecting the wall opposite the corpse. “We have a few things. The killer’s height, for one. And the fact that they have blood. Seems McIntyre had one last try at escaping and gave us some credible evidence.”
The machine pried a switchblade from the wall. Its edge was coated in dried blood. I doubted that it was McIntyre’s.
“Hell of a throw for a man with a dislocated arm. What can this tell us?” I asked.
“Well, the murderer isn’t a Red-eye,” Allen noted.
“A nice change for once,” I said, grinning.
“The bullet holes give us a height estimate,” Allen continued. “If we assume they fired their weapon from the hip, the murderer should be between five-eight and five-ten. If they fired from their shoulder, I’d say they were around four and a half feet.”
“We ain’t chasing a little guy, so I’ll take the former assumption,” I said.
“This knife and the blood it produced will coincide with a wound on their arm. Without a blood trail, I can’t determine any more about them, but the wound could be useful in identifying them if we’re able to round up several suspects. There’s also the bullet pattern, which will be critical in finding them.”
“Yeah, triangular, with three bullets. Don’t you think it’s just him having one hell of a trigger finger under pressure?”
Allen moved closer to the holes that the mangled lead had been pulled out of. It inspected the entrance holes, measuring the depth with its fingers. “Would you be able to replicate this pattern with your Diamondback?”
“I could try.”
Allen directed me a few feet away from the corpse and pointed at a spot in the wall to fire at. I switched the Diamondback to double-action and made the shots as accurate as I could. The pattern I made was similar, but not perfect. Allen inspected my bullet holes — their depth, angles, and everything else.
Several officers from the 7th came by to find out what was happening, not used to the lack of discipline I displayed in my work. One of the cops caught my eye. He was tallish and looked at me with a knowing scowl. Was it the same guy from the gala? I couldn’t be sure, but something about him didn’t fit with the other cronies from the 7th.
“Allen.”
“Hmm?”
“That man.” I kept my gaze on him.
“What man?”
I turned to Allen, flabbergasted, and when I turned back, just like that, he was gone again. I ran over to where he had been standing and looked around for any alleys or avenues he might have disappeared into, but saw nothing. I asked the damned cops, but they knew even less. They’d been transfixed by what I was doing. I went back to Allen.
“Just as I suspected, it wasn’t a fast trigger finger. These bullets were fired perfectly parallel to one another, at the same time, from three different barrels. Your attempt did not have the precision the other pattern did, and small changes in your angle are evident in the entrance holes, along with bullet depths being dramatically different.”
“Couldn’t the —”
“No, McIntyre’s sternum could not have deviated the rounds to have a perfectly parallel and triangular pattern.”
“Any clue how many guns out there have three parallel barrels that can fire 8x50 Lebel?”
“No idea,” Allen said.
“Paddy?”
“Not a clue, El,” Sinclair said, lighting a dart. “We need someone with some serious knowledge of firearms to figure this out. You got a guy for that?”
I nodded. “I just might. Might have a girl for it, too. That reporter might know her way around the city, and she might know which people want to dismantle Maranzano’s operation. Plus, the Iron Hands are still on the table as suspects.” And there was that man I kept seeing. But I felt like I should worry about that one myself. Another assassin in the Eye’s pocket? A professional from GE?
Then, looking at the body nearby, something hit me. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the smell, maybe it was the burnt truck and the fact the fire had died out quite some time ago.
“Paddy, Shen has jurisdiction over the Upper East Side.”
“Yeah, and?”
“The 7th’s boys came to cordon the area, not the 11th’s. And if my memory serves, Shen runs a tight ship. Nothing gets by him or his men.”
“Your point?”
“That body is old, that truck fire ain’t exactly going, and this is one of the only crime-free neighbourhoods in the Lower City. I know Tony Shen, and I know for a fact he ain’t ever tardy when it comes to crimes. Remember the Edison Hotel? He was first on the scene, and that wasn’t even in his area of operations. His cops would have seen this fire hours ago. He should have been here by now.”
“Civilians would have seen it, as well, and called it in,” Allen noted.
“Yeah, but how many people in this city would want to involve themselves in something like this? Especially in the Upper East Side. They leave near-certain death to the cops.”
“You think Shen had something to do with it?” Sinclair asked.
I shrugged. “We should ask, because I see no reason gunshots wouldn’t draw in at least a few curious cops. I don’t care how empty the Upper East Side was last night — there are always cops on the street.” I turned to Allen. “We’re heading to the precinct. Paddy, get them to put this place on lockdown, then you’re coming with us.”
This might be a blessing in disguise. We could release an official statement about the murder, make it as vague as possible, and wait for someone to reveal too much detail. But that was a tactic for the long term. For now, I had a friend to question. I wasn’t happy with the implications surrounding him.
After Sinclair had locked down the scene, we climbed into the car, him in the back, Allen driving, and me riding shotgun.
“Detective, is there a reason you have a hammer in your holster?” Allen asked.
My blood ran cold, feeling Sinclair’s eyes on me.
“You said you didn’t work like that anymore, El,” he said, his tone dead serious.
“I know.” I took the hammer out and put it inside the glove compartment, out of sight and out of mind. “Let’s go, Allen, drive!”
CHAPTER 12
THE TRIO WALKED UP TO THE Upper East Side’s precinct situated on the southwest corner of 81st and 2nd. The 11th Precinct had always been the nicest of the precincts in the Lower City; much more modernized than the 5th, and much cleaner than the 7th. According to Sinclair, Viessman said he kept the latter filthy to spook the perps, but most cops in the city knew it was because no one wanted to clean it after it had gotten that dirty.
Shen, however, wasn’t one for cutting corners. Approaching the precinct, Allen could see the 11th’s interior was all drywall and glass, making it feel larger, with more ambient sunlight. He could see from one end of the station to the other without even walking through the front door on the eastern side.
Shen’s head snapped up and his eyes met theirs as they walked into his building. The place was half-empty; most of the officers were out on duty, keeping the streets clean and free from Maranzano’s hijinks. Not that there would be any hijinks. Maranzano was reported to live in this area, but he operated strictly out of the Kips Kompound. As Roche had said, if the old Italian crime lord knew one thing, it was not to shit in his own backyard.
The glass office Shen was sitting in was on the west side of the building, with a solid wall to his back and a window looking out onto 81st Street on his left. His desk faced east, out across the station. He had opened the blinds on the window looking north, as well as on the windows beside the door to his office that looked into the station.
Entering the room, Roche stood in front of the desk, and Allen and Sinclair sat down in the cushioned chairs before the commissioner.
“Detective Roche …” Shen began with a hint of worry, “are you perchance here to report a crime or … are you in need of an ambulance?”
“Nah, I’m good,” Roche groaned.
“I see …” Shen’s tone was agitated. Allen had previously deduced the subtle difference between fear and annoyance. Shen was feeling the former. “Perhaps you should make your way home, looking like this —”
“Allen, how long was that fire burning, would you say?” Roche interrupted, still staring at Shen.
“About four hours. It burned out around seven in the morning.”
“Four hours. So that means it was started around three. Is my math correct, Shen?”
“What are you two on about?”
Roche checked that the door was closed before continuing more quietly. “There was a murder in your neighbourhood at that time. Yet somehow you failed to hear the shots and go investigate. Why didn’t you?”
Shen started to speak, but Elias ploughed on.
“I always thought you were credible and committed, but I can see now you’re as dirty as the rest. How much was the bribe, huh? Maranzano weighing down too heavy? You had to let someone walk in and take out a favourite of his? Or did your cops pull the sting and you covered up for them?”
Allen could tell that Roche didn’t like saying these things, but they all needed answers.
“They told me not to go looking, no matter what I heard! They threatened my officers. I could not in good conscience sacrifice their lives out of principle. You would have done the same!” Shen blurted out.
“This isn’t the first time the 11th has been in the crosshairs,” Roche said. “You got a reason this time is special?”
Shen was silent, looking at Roche first, then at Allen. Suddenly Allen understood. Shen wasn’t talking, not because he didn’t have an excuse, but because he was being watched. His pale face and tight lips confirmed it. Roche turned to look at Allen, his own face reflecting controlled dread.
“Commissioner Shen, where are they?” Allen said.
“If I answer that, the moment you leave this station and go after them, I’m a dead man. I leave this office, I’m a dead man. You even look in their direction, we’re all dead men.”
“Looks like they can’t hear you, so that’s something,” Roche said. “Look in their general direction. Their view can’t be good enough to spot something as subtle as a glance.”
Shen carefully darted his eyes at the rooftops outside his north window three times. Roche kept staring at Allen, who hadn’t moved a muscle.
“You know where he’s looking?” Roche asked.
Allen thought he could make out a figure on the rooftop in his peripheral vision. “Yes. Northeast corner of 81st and 2nd,” Allen responded. “I think.”
“You think? Okay, I’ll stay here and pretend to grill Shen to keep up appearances. Allen, you go to the washroom, find an open window, and move your way around the block to get to the gunman without being seen. Paddy, the moment it leaves, close the blinds. The ones looking into the precinct.”
Allen stood, excusing himself out of habit, and walked out into the hall, knowing the assailant could see him. He walked through the frosted glass door back into the station, hanging back for a moment to see and hear what happened.
Roche leaned forward toward Shen. “I’m going to have to rough up your desk. I’m real sorry. But this will keep you alive.”
Shen nodded. “You’re a good man, Roche.”
“No, I ain’t.”
Roche yelled, grabbed a tray holding a stack of papers, and threw it against the east window, leaving a small scrape in the pane. Sinclair pulled the blinds on the office door, looking nervous.
Allen made his way to the bathroom and found a window with a latch above one of the toilets. It wasn’t very dignified, pushing himself through and landing in a snowbank, but at least it was out of sight and quiet. He came out in an alley on the south side of the building and looked up to see clear sky — no Plate. He moved out to the street and peeked around the left corner, looking northward onto 2nd Avenue.
He spotted an almost unnoticeable black figure atop the northeastern building. Not many people could have seen them, but he was no ordinary person. The precinct was on the southwest corner of 81st and 2nd, and the assailant was at the northeast corner. Crossing 2nd Avenue would be the hardest part of this flanking manoeuvre due to lack of concealment.
Across the street a line of parked cars gave him something to run to, once he had moving cover, as well. He waited until a large GE supply truck carrying fresh Automatics from the downtown factory started moving southward down 2nd Avenue, blocking the shooter’s view of the precinct and of Allen. The machine sucked in air, breathing shallowly as he calculated his chance to cross, and began sprinting in front of the truck.
A heavy horn sounded just as he jumped out of its way, his back slamming into the rear tire of a park
ed black Packard. Thankfully, there weren’t many civilians nearby to see an Automatic making a run that might have killed a normal man. The mad dash left him shaking and paranoid. After a solid minute waiting behind the parked car and listening for gunshots, he considered it safe to emerge and continue his journey north.
Allen spotted an alleyway leading east and made a dash for the narrow path. He soon turned north and reached 81st Street several dozen feet east of the intersection the shooter was surveilling. Now out of the shooter’s line of sight, he moved toward the apartment building he believed the shooter was perched on. The door was unlocked, and the concrete stairs were safe enough. He ran up as quickly as he could, indifferent to the cusses and complaints of the Automatic-hating residents of the building who saw him go by.
His synthetic lungs were hyperventilating when he reached the top, his hands shaking. He held his breath, pushed his anxiety down, and took out his 1911. He loaded a round into the chamber, held it in one hand with his finger far from the trigger, unlatched the safety, and counted to five. He would try to take them alive, but if a bullet went wild, it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t.
He slammed his shoulder into the roof access door and pointed his gun forward.
“NYPD! You’re under …”
The figure in black was atop the adjacent snow-covered rooftop, well over twenty yards away. Their gaze moved from the sights of a rustic-looking rifle onto Allen. Both of them were frozen in place. The shooter was crouched behind the edge of the roof, rifle resting against the parapet, a black briefcase lying nearby. Their clothing was black and baggy and covered by a heavy coat that obscured their features beyond recognition. A black trilby, a bandana, and a set of welding goggles further hid their identity. It wasn’t elegant, but it was effective. Allen wouldn’t know much about this killer until he got them into custody.
The rifle swung in Allen’s direction. He ran forward and tumbled as a Lebel round flew inches above him, almost scraping his metal body. He rose out of the roll and continued running, hopping down to the same rooftop that the gunman was on. The shooter kicked the briefcase toward Allen to trip him up, but he jumped over it easily and sprinted after them.
Midnight Page 12
