Crime & Counterpoint (4 page)

Shelley exited the echoic chamber of her building’s stairwell and ambled towards apartment 2C, key in hand. Unlocking the door, she hesitated in the hallway for a moment, neither inclined nor disinclined to enter. The tepid, half-hearted air that lazed across the threshold didn’t help. It was familiar, but that was all. A cold comfort.

She stepped inside and shut the door, oblivious to the grungy state of her living quarters. It had been in a mess for a while now, but she’d become numb to the disorder, not caring enough to do anything about it. If the apartment wanted to look like an indolent street beggar, far be it from her to get on a platform about it.

Moral decay aside, however, it was really quite an attractive, spacious, two-bedroom flat. Amazing for an Upper West Side residence, especially since she wasn’t the one footing the bill. Polished, wooden floors, an entire wall of windows, and an open kitchen with modern appliances and honey oak cupboards. French doors in the back of the living room led out to a small but cozy balcony where she enjoyed sitting with a good book in warmer seasons.

The first thing Shelley noticed was that a number of items were strewn from the entryway to the sofa. Book bag, purse, shoes, keys… Surprise, surprise. Ashleigh was home.

As if on cue, blonde and petite Ashleigh Greene emerged from her room to the right of the kitchen. “Hey, Shell. How come you’re home so early?” she asked in her perky voice, kneeling down to sift through all the paraphernalia on the floor.

“I quit,” she replied, with a nervous but dull edge to her tone.

Ashleigh looked up sharply. “What happened?”

Pensive and listless, Shelley didn’t answer as she sludged over to the counter and set her keys down. “You headed out?”

“Mm hm. Wanna come? Erik’ll be there. And you can meet Carrie.”

“Ugh. No thanks.”

“So what? Did your dad find out or something? Or was it James? I thought you said it was easy money. A place nobody would recognize you.”

“Governor Larson’s youngest son was there.”

“Ew, Kevin?” Ashleigh scrunched her face. “Oh my God, he’s like a walking STD.” She shuddered. “So what did he do? Hit on you?”

Shelley groaned. “Ugh, never mind. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“By the way, have you seen my old pink iPod?” Ashleigh didn’t wait for an answer. “There’s this song on it that Carrie wants for the reception, and I told her I’d bring it – Oh wait!” She held up the discovered device and dropped it in her purse along with her keys and iPhone. Standing up, she shook her glossy bangs out of her face and looked at Shelley. “So did you say you were coming?” She eyed her roommate’s chic attire. “Super cute dress.”

“No, Ash.”

Ashleigh tilted her head and pouted, stroking Shelley’s long tresses like she was a pretty dog. “What’s really wrong? The job? I’m sure your dad could get you another –”

“That’s not the point!”

“Shel-ley,” Ashleigh whined. “I want you to have fun with us like you used to. You know, Melissa’s coming in early. We should all do something. Maybe go up to the cabin in the Catskills.”

Shelley dropped her elbows onto the counter and grimaced, burying her face in her hands. Thus, her “I don’t know” came out muffled and rather pathetic.

“Oh please, don’t tell me you’re reconsidering the wedding. If you don’t go, it’ll be way worse than if you did.” Shelley said nothing, and so Ashleigh sighed, but a text came and she chippered right away. “Oh awesome, Tanner’s going to be there.” Even as she typed out a reply, she explained, “He’s this super-hot Harvard Law student, and he’s totally into me.” She bit her lip and let out a minor squeal as she hit send. “Okay. How do I look?” She stuck out her chest, purse dangling from her elbow, waiting for inspection.

Shelley peeked through her fingers and gave her a once-over and straightened up to fix Ashleigh’s tight shirt. “Perfect. Now be careful. Don’t sleep with him. And try to come home before three. Okay?”

Ashleigh beamed naughtily – a Chihuahua on espresso. “I can promise two out of three.”

Shelley groaned. Ashleigh gave her an affectionate peck on the cheek and then whirled out the door like a cheerleader tornado, leaving the apartment to choke on her perky aftermath.

As soon as she was alone, Shelley dumped herself onto the couch by the wall of windows. She shifted her frame until she was reclining on the tan microfiber couch, staring blankly at her empty environs, the depressing silence screaming in her ears.

Steeped in emptiness, Shelley drifted off into an exhausted slumber. A man in a leather jacket with feral blue eyes seeped into her waking dreams, and for a vague, incoherent moment she thought she knew exactly who he was.

Voices kept drifting in and out of focus, but he’d grasped enough to know the men were speaking some Slavic or Eastern European dialect. No telling what they were up to. But a peek around the corner revealed weapons in air-tight cases. It looked like they were taking inventory. Between the rows of giant metal containers, a black Suburban snoozed, out of plain sight.

Zach crouched behind a sea green metal crate; the shimmering mantle of the river flowed steadily to the right of him. Hot breath unfurled from his mouth meeting the cold air and foggy darkness. He’d ditched his jacket, his badge, wallet, cell phone, and anything else that might make noise. But his gun, he wouldn’t part with. It wasn’t his off-duty Glock 22, however. It was his personal firearm – a modified .357 Colt with custom sights and a slightly extended barrel for the longer range shots.

He felt safer with it.

Although, now that he was feet away from assault rifles and the like, his semiautomatic wouldn’t buy him much.

Thus, he’d been staying hidden in the shadows. But the temptation of seizing such a stockpile of illegal weaponry nearly overpowered him.

The dock lights sheened and danced atop the river’s surface but didn’t penetrate the bed of ink. The smell was several bouquets shy of appreciable. He could almost taste the bitter toxicity as drops splattered on his face, flicked by the overzealous, childish wind – the wind that kept him from hearing what went on.

Snap!

Zach’s head spun to his left. He peered into the darkness but didn’t see anything. Just glittering black, faint lights on the foggy horizon, and the outline of a giant sleeping crane.

Slightly unnerved, he came to a slow, stealthy stand, gripping his gun, legs buzzing.

The wind died down again, and he realized they’d stopped talking. He tensed. Either they were done or…

Zach eased around the corner of the container towards the exposing beams, towards the Suburban. Taut silence hung in the air. Blood pumped into his ears despite his cocksureness.

He pressed his back up against the wall of the crate, felt its icy cool seep into his back, chilling his marrow. He craned his ears.

Some scuffling along the cracked pavement. Then nothing. Wind. Water. Whining of a distant siren which evaporated with the next querulous gust.

It was quiet enough to feel his own heart beating – steady, strong, but louder than before.

Drawing a cold breath, he peeked around the edge of the crate. No one. But the SUV’s doors were open wide. Making certain the coast was clear, he jogged on swift, silent feet, legs slicing through the dense air. He reached the back of the vehicle and crouched low.

Listening. Waiting. Ignoring his thundering pulse which told him he was a fool.

His head stuck out two inches past the bumper to peer at the open container up ahead and to the left. The cases were all there, neatly stacked. Begging him to take a closer look. Just a quick peek. Serial number, model number, manufacturer. Anything to help him figure out where they’d come from, keep tabs on them if they surfaced on the black market.

As a last nod to caution, he scanned the area before standing and creeping alongside the Suburban. But the moment he passed the long black vehicle and stood in the clear, he knew he’d made a big mistake.

Crosshairs. He could feel them.

Adrenaline slammed through him as he charged for the nearest opening between the ten-foot tall crates.

Ping! Ping! Ping!

The bullets missed him by a narrow inch. Though, he felt their impact as if they
had
hit him instead of glancing off the rippled metal. His breath came fast. But he was running in the wrong direction now. Away from his car.

He weaved into the next opening.

His ears pricked. Running feet pounding the pavement.

Coming from where? Down both aisles to either side.

Feeling along the cold metal wall, his hand came across rungs. Tucking his gun into the back of his jeans, he started climbing. Fast. He gripped the rusty beams. One hand over the other. He slipped on the fifth rung but caught himself, clambering to the top just as both sets of footsteps converged upon the exact spot he’d been.

He lay flat, belly first. The cold metal saturated his core. The men circled the crate, didn’t find him, and then spoke to each other in a smattering of nearly-silent Russian.

Zach stayed down until he heard them pass. Quickly, he judged his options. The jump to the next container was not far, but it would be noisy and kill his knee. Turning, he eyed the path on either side. He could see the receding forms of the two men – they each had rifles. He cursed under his breath.

Climbing back down, he hit the cement with a soft thud, gripped his Colt for comfort, and then…

Ran.

His body pumped hot with adrenaline. He streaked across the aisle to the opposite side. For brief seconds, the containers hid him again, giving him thin relief. He peered out and continued on, dodging, running, stopping, then running again until he was within yards of darkness and freedom. 

But he heard the doors of the Suburban slam shut just as he made another zigzag. Panic rising, he kicked into high gear.

The engine revved, and tires screeched, burning rubber. But it sounded distant. Like a clouded dream.

Breathing hard, legs on fire, chest bursting, Zach darted out into a passage but realized his error too late. Bright headlights suddenly blinded. Shots rained, spitting into the ground at his heels. Hot lead ripped through his left shoulder, drilling into muscle, scraping bone.

On instinct, he aimed his Colt straight for the driver and fired.

The windshield fissured into a spider web. The beast careened to the right with a terrible screech of agony. Zach didn’t wait to see whether his bullet had found its mark. He turned and raced down the street – just two blocks, and he was home free. But then–

BANG!

A venomous Jaguar F-TYPE Coupe in liquid gunmetal skin prowled into the dark shipyard. The city lights on the opposite bank caressed the luxury vehicle with colorful streaks as it crunched gravel to roll up next to the desecrated Suburban.

The SUV sat quietly now, engine cooling down, windshield eye broken, licking its wounds after the accurate shot. But some distance away, on the ground, wading in and out of consciousness, was the trespasser responsible. The rogue. Bleeding from his chest.

The F-TYPE’s barely audible engine powered off.

A man by the name of Djurdjanovic went quickly to open the driver’s side door, speaking in Russian to the shadowed interior. “He has no identification, but it’s him alright.”

From the inside of the vehicle, an enigmatic Slavic voice answered. “Did you contact my son to verify?”

“Yes. He has confirmed. The Fisher was on the money.” He paused. “Do we kill him?”

An immediate reply failed to come. But the man inside the Jaguar emerged, stately, and wearing a fine wool suit, white shirt, no tie. He had a slight smattering of grey to his black hair. But he wasn’t old at all – at least not more than forty-seven. Tall, slim of figure, possessing few wrinkles, straight Roman nose, and narrow of face. Handsome by scientific standards. However, his sharp eyes held no compassion or veracity.

He shrugged and adjusted the lapels of his suit. “Where is he?” he asked, taking out a cigarette and lighting it, cupping his hand around the flame.

“Over here,” Djurdjanovic replied, gesturing to the man on the ground, draining of life.

The owner of the Jag nodded once, pulled the cigarette from his mouth, and let the smoke plume from his nostrils before he took a step. But instead of following Djurdjanovic, he walked around to the passenger’s side and opened the door.

A beguiling beauty in a sea green cocktail dress turned her sapphire eyes to him. Her creamy hand toyed with a golden oval locket, drawing attention to her plunging neckline and enticing swell of her breasts.

He peered into the coupe with a familiar smile. “Join me,
ptichka
.”

She bristled at the pet name. Little bird. “It’s cold,
Ivan
,” she bit off in accented English.

Ivan replied in Russian, “I’ll keep you warm.” He held out his left hand to her. Insistently.

Knowing it was no longer a request, she relinquished her sapphire-studded locket and took his scholar’s palm. She stepped out, a jade goddess with sunshine hair – even at night. He hooked his arm around her svelte waist and pulled her against him. “I wouldn’t want you to miss this.”

Her breath fogged the air as he kissed her. And then he took a drag from his cig as he walked her over to their victory, surrounded on all sides by men in black, carrying guns, who tried hard not to look at her.

Ivan relinquished the girl, and she at once resumed fingering her locket, as if she needed something to occupy her hands. He stood over the near-to-dead man who bled freely from two locations. Handsome to a fault. An exceptional athlete. One of the
good
guys. But Ivan wagered their souls were comparably shaded. Black. Marked for destruction.

“Having fun yet, Detective?” he sneered. But remorse swiftly clouded. After years of trying to be rid of this stubborn cockroach, Ivan felt slightly…
uncomfortable
at the thought of dispensing with him in such a blasé manner. A bullet to the head would be effective. But where was the satisfaction? “What do you think,
ptichka
? Burn him or drown him?”

She set her gaze upon the bed of the Harlem. “You would burn him next to a river? Would you also drown him alongside an inferno?”

Ivan let out a startling laugh, full-bodied, deep-throated. He grabbed her again – “That’s what I love about you.” – and stamped his lips upon her neck. Noting she was indeed frigid, he removed his jacket, gallantly, and draped it around her shoulders with a showman air.

She didn’t acknowledge the gesture and looked elsewhere as Ivan put the cigarette in his mouth again. “Pick him up,” he commanded his men with an undercurrent of excitement. “Take him to the pier.”