by Steven Henry
She shrugged. “I don’t think it matters what I think. I’m not the intended audience.”
“No,” Vic said. “Those poor bastards in the theater were.”
“I’m not sure about that,” Erin said. “I think maybe the message wasn’t meant for the people who were there.”
“The hell it wasn’t,” Vic said. “Those kids are gonna support New York’s therapy industry for years.”
“Hold on, Neshenko,” Webb said. “O’Reilly might be on to something. You think this was like a mob hit? A statement killing?”
“It’s one hell of a statement,” she said. In her mind’s eye, she saw Carlyle nod approvingly. The thought pleased her.
“So who is the audience?” Webb asked.
“The obvious one is Ron Whitaker,” she said.
“Front row seat,” Vic observed. “It’s a good way to trash his career, kill his assistant, wreck his self-confidence.”
“So, you’re thinking Whitaker might be the real target,” Webb said. “And Grimes was incidental?”
“If someone wanted to send him a message, it’s a great way to do it,” Erin said.
“If you don’t mind turning a girl into hamburger to make your point,” Vic said.
“I shouldn’t have told you what I had for lunch,” Erin said.
Webb turned to the board. “So, who wants Whitaker scared? Neshenko, run his financials. See if he owed money to anybody. If loan sharks wanted to scare him, they might’ve decided to hit someone close to him.”
“I was just thinking we needed more suspects,” Vic muttered.
“You got a problem doing police work, Neshenko?”
Vic stopped. He slowly turned to face his commanding officer. “No, sir, I’ve got no problem doing police work.” He spoke very distinctly, emphasizing each word.
“There something else you have to say, Detective?”
A muscle twitched in Vic’s cheek. “How’d I get on your shit list? Sir?”
Webb put his hands on his hips. “You’d better either stop talking right now, or explain yourself,” he said in a dangerously quiet voice.
“I used to work ESU,” Vic snapped. “In the Bronx. I’ve kicked down doors and taken down hard collars. I’ve been in fistfights, knife fights, and gunfights. I’ve been shot. What the hell am I doing riding a goddamn desk all day? You and Erin go running all over the Five Boroughs, and I’m still here with my thumb up my ass, every damn day. You want to tell me why?”
“You done?” Webb asked, still speaking softly.
Vic thought it over. “One more thing.”
“And that is?”
“If you weren’t hiding behind that lieutenant’s shield, I’d kick your ass. Sir.”
“Okay,” Webb said. “You’ve had your say. Now sit your ass down.” Suddenly, his voice cracked like a whip. “That’s an order.”
Vic stood there another moment. Erin thought, for those few seconds, that Detective Neshenko was considering quitting the NYPD in some spectacular way. The anger radiated off him like an almost physical force. Very, very slowly, he lowered himself into his chair.
“Now listen to me,” Webb said. “You’re a damn good detective, Neshenko. How many shootouts have you been in, the past six months?”
Vic considered.
“How many men have you killed?” Webb went on, when he didn’t get an immediate answer.
“Three... maybe four.”
“You’re not sure how many gunfights you’ve been in, or how many people you’ve killed,” Webb said. “That seem like the normal police experience to you?”
Vic didn’t answer.
“I’ve lost track of the number of Critical Incident reports this squad has filed,” Webb said. “By my count, since we became operational, we’ve shot and killed five perps, wounded another half-dozen plus, and sustained numerous line-of-duty injuries. You’ve been in the front lines the whole way. You don’t have to tell me you’re a tough SOB. I know that. Hell, the greater New York metropolitan area knows that by now. But all that shit takes a toll on you.”
“I’ve passed my psych evaluations,” Vic growled.
“I know,” Webb said. “You wouldn’t be on duty at all if you hadn’t. But you’re a pressure cooker, Neshenko. I’m giving you a chance to get your head right, before you go back on the sharp end.”
“What about Erin?”
“What about her?”
“Everything you told me is true about her, too. Aren’t you worried she’s gonna go crazy and start popping off rounds?”
“Now that you mention it,” Webb said, “I am. You gonna go crazy on me, O’Reilly?”
“Wasn’t planning on it, sir,” Erin said.
“Doesn’t matter,” Webb said. “Given the choice, I’d bench the both of you until spring. But I don’t have that choice. Because my only other detective went back to Internal Affairs and left us a man down.”
“Kira’s a woman,” Vic reminded him.
“Shut up,” Webb said. “My point is, we’re thin on the ground here. Jones was the best desk jockey I’ve ever had, but she doesn’t work here anymore, so the rest of us have to pick up the slack. I’m sorry if your feelings are hurt, Neshenko. Tell you what. I’ll make you an offer, out of the goodness of my heart.”
“I’m all ears, sir.”
“You and I are going to go back to the theater, take a look around, see if we missed anything. We’ll talk to Whitaker again, try to figure out who might be leaning on him. If he’s already scared, you might be able to tip him over the edge, shake something loose. O’Reilly will stay here and look into Whitaker’s money. And, as a bonus, I won’t give you a rip for your blatant insubordination.”
“In exchange for what?” Vic asked. He didn’t trust generosity that came down the chain of command.
“If you ever, I mean ever talk to a superior officer like that again, whether it’s me, Captain Holliday, the Commissioner, almighty God, whoever, I will personally see to it that you spend the rest of your professional career on Staten Island, in a uniform that doesn’t fit you, guarding a crosswalk. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal, sir,” Vic said. But there was a bounce in his step when he stood up.
Erin watched them go, fuming internally. They were going to check up on her idea. Vic was being rewarded for in-subordination, while she was left holding the fort. But she knew better than to get in the middle of that situation. She’d probably be safer away from her squad-mates while they cooled off.
Chapter 14
“Follow the money” was one of the first rules of police work, but it was one of Erin’s least favorite tasks. She liked chasing down her prey. She and Rolf were at their best on the street. But their noses and instincts didn’t work online.
She stared at her computer screen, daring it to reveal the secrets of Ronald Whitaker’s bank accounts. All she saw was her own reflection, shadowy and distant.
“Hey... Erin?”
“Yeah?” she replied, without looking up. The voice was familiar enough that it didn’t startle her at first. Then her brain caught up with her and she did a double-take. “Kira?”
Kira Jones, one-time Major Crimes Detective, now working a desk upstairs at Internal Affairs, came hesitantly out of the stairwell.
Erin hardly recognized her. The other woman had a fondness for edgy fashion; this was the first time Erin had ever seen her in formal office attire. She hadn’t re-applied her hair dye, either. Her hair was still dark red toward the tips, but had started growing in black.
“Help you?” Erin asked. She didn’t know quite what to say. Kira was her friend, or had been. Now she was the working cop’s boogeyman.
“I thought I’d come down, see how you were doing,” Kira said. She tried a cautious smile. “Remind myself how real cops do things.”
“So, the Bloodhound let you off leash?” Erin asked. That was the nickname for Kira’s boss, Lieutenant Keane. Everyone at Precinct 8, except maybe Captain Holliday, was scared
of Keane.
“He’s at a meeting, offsite.”
“He know you’re down here?” Erin meant it as a sour joke.
“No.” Kira didn’t smile.
“The rest of the squad’s out,” Erin said.
“I know.”
Erin narrowed her eyes. “Keeping pretty close tabs on us, aren’t you.”
“Take it easy, Erin. I want to help.”
“That why you bailed on us? Because you wanted to help?” The words just slipped out.
Kira winced. “It wasn’t like that, Erin.”
“That so? Because I was there, and that’s kind of what it looked like.”
Kira shook her head. “I didn’t want to leave, Erin. Jesus, I know, I’m a coward. Okay? I was scared. You happy to hear me say it? I didn’t want to die, and if I kept working with the team, that was gonna happen.”
“Cut the drama,” Erin said harshly. “None of us have gotten killed.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Kira said, coming closer and dropping her voice. “Listen to me, okay? That ambush with the Russians really fucked me up. I couldn’t sleep for weeks. Nightmares, flashbacks, the whole works. I tried pills, I tried booze, I tried friggin’ therapy. Then you know what? I ended up sitting in my bathroom at two in the morning one night, holding my service piece, wondering how it’d feel if I just shoved the thing in my mouth. That maybe it’d be worth it if it’d just make me stop being scared. I couldn’t take it anymore. That’s why I left. It was killing me.”
“Jesus,” Erin said quietly. Her anger was gone as quickly as it had flared up. “Kira, I... I didn’t know.”
“The crazy thing is, now that it’s gone, I miss it, a little,” Kira said. She pulled Vic’s chair away from his desk and sat down facing Erin. “I feel like I just kicked a heroin habit. I know it’d ruin my life to go back, but sometimes I miss the high, too.”
Erin managed a slight smile. “Yeah, I get that.”
“Working for Keane... it’s different,” Kira said. “He’s smart. He just knows things about people. He can read a guy better than anyone I know. He’s a damn good cop, and he’s not bad to work for. But... shit, I don’t know. That’s enough about me anyway. I didn’t come down here for confession.”
“You’re not Catholic anyway,” Erin remembered. “Lapsed Unitarian, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah. Like my mom.”
“So why are you here?”
“I wanted to give you a heads-up.”
“About what?”
“Rumors.”
“What sort of rumors?”
“About you.”
Erin felt her stomach tighten. “Who’s spreading them?”
Kira licked her lips. “I don’t know. I haven’t tried to nail down the source. But they’re specific, and it feels like... like something out of a political campaign.”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s a smear job.” Kira wrinkled her nose. “Someone’s trying to discredit you in the department.”
“Christ,” Erin said in disgust. “This is so middle school.”
“No shit. But you need to hear it, if you haven’t already.”
“What’s the point?”
Kira leaned in. “Because someone’s trying to hurt you, Erin. One of ours.”
“Okay, let’s hear it.”
Kira extended her index finger. “First, people are saying you’re a mole for IAB.”
“I know,” Erin said. “Ever since you and I nailed the O’Malleys’ inside man.”
Another finger joined the first. “Second, word is you’ve got a hook which got you your promotion to Second Grade. Detectives don’t usually get bumped up that fast. You don’t have political pull, so the story is that you’re screwing around with one of the higher-ups in the department.”
“Like Holliday?” Erin said in disbelief. “I hardly ever even talk to the guy!”
“Talking isn’t the point,” Kira said. She added a third finger. “And third, you’re helping take down particular criminals to help members of a specific organization.”
“So I’m doing hit jobs for the O’Malleys?” Erin asked. “That’s what you mean?”
“Yeah.”
Erin took a deep breath. “So, let me get this straight. According to this son of a bitch, whoever they are, I’m a dirty cop who spies on our own people, works for the Mob, and screws her boss. Am I missing anything?”
Kira nodded. “That’s about it.”
“But no one’s filed a formal report with your office about any of this?”
“That’s the funny thing,” Kira said. “We hear anything even close to this about anyone in the precinct, we check it out. But Keane doesn’t have a file open on you.”
“That’s good news,” Erin said. Then she caught the look in Kira’s eye. “Isn’t it?”
“I don’t understand it,” Kira said. “And that makes it bad news. Keane seems to be just ignoring you.”
“Maybe he knows I’m a good cop.”
“He doesn’t ignore anybody. If he pretends not to see you, it means he’s really paying extra attention. He might be getting ready to pounce.”
“Wouldn’t you know about an investigation?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Kira sat back and spread her hands. “I’m just one of his people. He doesn’t tell me everything. But I’m telling you, there’s no official file.”
Erin sighed. “Okay, thanks for the heads-up. I don’t know what I can do about it, though.”
“I don’t either. Just thought you should know.” Kira stood up. “Sorry for bothering you. And... I miss you, Erin.”
Her face had gone softer. Erin was surprised, and touched. “We miss you here, too.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. None of the rest of us can work financial records like you can.”
“That what you’re doing here?” Kira leaned forward and glanced at Erin’s screen, interested.
“Yeah. This is the magician, the one whose assistant got sawed in half.”
“I know about that, saw it on the news. Gross. Hey, you mind?”
Erin gladly wheeled her chair to one side. Kira started tapping keys, navigating banking subsystems with the ease of long practice.
“Shouldn’t you be getting back to IAB?” Erin asked after a few minutes.
“In a second,” Kira said absently. “What’re we looking for?”
“Any irregularities. Large deposits or withdrawals, money laundering, that sort of thing.”
“Hmm. Well, it looks like he’s got an unpredictable flow through his bank accounts,” Kira said. “Makes sense, if he’s getting paid by the job, city to city. Normal expenditures... except for this, here.”
“What?” Erin followed Kira’s gesture.
“Three withdrawals, ten grand each, a couple days apart.”
“Thirty thousand total?”
“Yeah, but in small enough chunks not to trigger a CTR.”
“Kira, I’m a street cop. I don’t know bank lingo.”
“Currency Transaction Report,” Kira explained. “Anything over ten thousand, banks automatically generate it. If it looks weird to the bank, an SAR can be filed. That’s a Suspicious Activities Report. If that happens, the account holder is notified and can block the transaction.”
“So, the reason for withdrawals like this would be to avoid attention from the bank?” Erin asked.
Kira nodded. “Which would only make sense if the account holder was doing something they didn’t want people to notice, or maybe if someone else was manipulating the account.”
“You mean bank fraud?”
“They could be draining his accounts.”
“Where were these transactions?”
“Sterling National, on West 39th.”
Erin scanned the computer screen. “With the last withdrawal happening on New Year’s Eve.” She jumped to her feet. “I’ll check it out. Thanks, Kira!”
“Don’t mention it,” Kira said. “Hey, be ca
reful, okay?”
“Always am.” Erin was heading for the door. Rolf trotted beside her, eager for action.
“I didn’t mean with the criminals.”
Erin paused. “Yeah, I know. And thanks, again.”
“We should get together sometime,” Kira said. “Grab a drink, maybe. If you’re willing to hang with an IA officer.”
Erin nodded. “I’d like that.”
On the way to the bank, Erin gave Webb a quick call to let him know what she was doing. She checked her rear-view mirrors constantly, wondering whether she was still being followed. If those two goons were chasing her, they were being careful about it. Remembering what Carlyle had said about Ian, her shadowy guardian angel, Erin didn’t blame them. She felt a little like the bait on the end of a fishhook.
Her mind was spinning with what Kira had told her. If her former squad-mate was right, someone inside the NYPD was trying to sabotage her. She couldn’t even begin to guess why. Jealousy? Spite? Loyalty to the dirty cop she’d brought down? Or something else?
It was a relief to shove her personal worries to the back of her brain and turn her thoughts to a simple subject like murder. She walked into Sterling National Bank, Rolf trotting beside her, and flashed her shield to a teller.
She ended up in a manager’s office. He was about her dad’s age, well-dressed and very polite. She accepted a cup of coffee and took a seat. Rolf sat next to her chair and kept his eyes on Erin.
“What can I do for the police department, Detective?” the manager asked.
“Sir, over the past week, there have been three withdrawals, totaling thirty thousand dollars, made from this bank,” she said. “These were made from the account of a Ronald Whitaker, who is a person of interest in an ongoing homicide investigation. All I need to determine is whether Mr. Whitaker himself made these withdrawals, or whether someone else did it in his place.”
“Detective,” he said, “we require photographic identification for every cash withdrawal. The individual requesting the transaction would have to have been a holder of the account. Is anyone else named on Mr. Whitaker’s account?”
“No, sir.”
He spread his hands on his desk. “Then the customer must have been Mr. Whitaker.”
