Delta Ghost (17 page)

“Yes.”

“Now hand the kid to the Feds, get the hell away from that database, and find something else to do.”

“Sir.”

Venn put the phone in is pocket. He took a moment to compose himself, too angry to breathe.

When he turned, Harmony said: “Uh oh. Something tells me our captain isn’t going to be pleased with you.”

“Damn right.” He began to pull on his jacket. “Come on. Shut off that computer. We’re going to find this Franciscus guy.”

“Am I going to regret this?” she said.

“Quite probably.”

“Great.” She slipped on her own lightweight jacket over her shoulder holster. “Every day, I wonder to myself:
why the hell do I work for this guy?
”

“Short answer? Nobody else would tolerate you.”

They headed out the door.

I
t took Franciscus thirty minutes to locate the prisoner, Ramon Espinoza. Thirty minutes and a couple of judiciously placed phone calls through his secretary.

On his way to the jailhouse in his BMW, Franciscus received a phone call from the senator he’d called earlier.

“Your cop, Venn,” said the senator. “He’s just tripped a wire on the system. He used the search terms Salazar and Oscar Flowers.”

“Mm.” Franciscus was a calm man, who’d learned long ago that there was little point giving vent to strong emotions. It didn’t provide catharsis, but merely stoked up feeling. And feeling generated a lot of heat, but very little light.

“The cop’s been ordered to cease his inquiries,” said the senator. “You’ve met him. Do you think he will?”

“No,” said Franciscus.

The senator said nothing, but the silence carried a clear instruction, Franciscus knew.

At the jail where Espinoza was being held, Franciscus found the Public Defender, a harassed-looking young woman whom he’d met a number of times before.

“Hey, Peter,” she said distractedly. “Up to my ears in it.”

“Maybe I can lighten the load,” he offered.

She glanced at him.

Franciscus said, “I hear you’ve picked up a guy named Espinoza. One of the shooters in the Ninth Avenue market yesterday.”

The PD sighed. “He’s a pain in the balls. Won’t say a word. One of these honorable gangbangers, sworn to uphold the code of the brotherhood. Been watching too much
Godfather
. He’s a lost cause, but I’ve got to go through the motions. Particularly because of the race angle.”

“Let me take him,” said Franciscus.

“Peter, thanks, but I -”

“Hey. I need more pro bono work to keep up my reputation as a nice guy. What could be better than a hopeless case? A Mexican gangster facing serious time for hostage-taking?” He beckoned with his fingers. “Come on. Hand me his file. I’ll square it with the cops. By the sound of it, you and Espinoza haven’t exactly established a warm, trusting professional relationship, so he won’t care if I take over.”

She exhaled deeply, looking profoundly relieved. “I owe you. Big time.”

“You sure do,” said Franciscus dryly, taking the slim file from her.

*

N
othing registered on Espinoza’s sullen face, apart from a mild flicker of surprise, when Franciscus stepped into the cell and introduced himself.

He said the PD was no longer able to represent Espinoza, and asked if Espinoza would be willing to have him, Peter Franciscus, as his counsel instead. Free of charge.

Espinoza glanced at him, then resumed his truculent stare into the middle distance.

He was seated on a bench along one side of the cell wall. Franciscus hunkered down next to him.

With a swift movement Franciscus slid the man’s sleeve up his forearm. Espinoza jerked away angrily, but not before Franciscus had seen the tattoo.

“Salazar’s man,” Franciscus said conversationally, and in Spanish.

He watched the side of Espinoza’s face. Was there the faintest trace of a reaction there? A tightening of the small muscles around the eyes and the mouth?

Franciscus said: “He won’t let you live, you know, Ramon. I mean Salazar. However tightly you keep your mouth shut, however proudly you protect the organization... Diego Salazar will never be free from the nagging worry that you’ve squealed. And so he’ll make sure you’re silenced. A shank between the ribs, a throat-slashing in the showers. Who knows, he may even pay a warder to kick you to death.”

The man’s absolute impassivity had taken over once more. Franciscus couldn’t help but admire him for it. Espinoza’s profile was like a granite bas-relief.

“But I can see that doesn’t scare you, Ramon. So I’m not going to waste my time with further warnings about the fate that awaits you. Instead, I’m going to frighten you where it really hurts.”

Franciscus took out his phone.

After getting the case file off the grateful ADA, and perusing its meager contents briefly, Franciscus had found a private room and had made a call to San Antonio. He’d texted a photo of the mug shot on Espinoza’s arrest papers.

Then he’d waited, for fifteen agonizingly slow minutes, until his phone chirped to herald the arrival of a new text message. With an attached photograph.

It was this photo Franciscus now brought up on his phone’s screen, and held up close to Espinoza’s face.

“Take a look, Ramon,” he said gently.

The Mexican didn’t turn his head. But Franciscus got the impression he was restraining himself from doing so with great force.

Franciscus rose from the bench, moved so that he was in front of Espinoza, held the phone directly in front of his eyes.

“Take a look, Ramon.”

Espinoza’s eyes flicked involuntarily to the picture on the screen. They didn’t flick away. A ridge of muscle bulged along each side of his lower jaw, and he gripped his hands together so hard the knuckles cracked audibly.

Franciscus said: “Juan is nine, yes? And Alicia seventeen. So pretty, both of them. Such smooth, innocent features.”

He could feel the rage building in the man like an electric current. He saw the quivering limbs, the mask of the face threatening to dissolve and reveal the primal fury beneath.

“Stay seated, Ramon,” said Franciscus softly. “If the guards have to come in and haul you off me, I’ll leave, and it’ll be the last time you’ll ever see me. You know what will happen next. Alicia and Juan will be paid a visit. By some men who are barely human, who lack the normal empathy you and I take for granted.”

At last, Espinoza’s composure collapsed. He hunched forward, his knuckles kneading his forehead, his lips moving in silent pleading, or prayer.

Franciscus took a calculated risk and squatted down in front of the man, within striking distance.

He murmured, “I need just two things from you, Ramon. Two things, and your family will be left unharmed. The first is: you need to tell me why you’re here in New York. You, and all the rest of Salazar’s crew.”

Franciscus waited.

After a silence so prolonged that Franciscus began to wonder if the other man had in fact heard him, Espinoza said in a whisper: “A British man. Young. His name’s Danny Clune. He robbed Mr Salazar of one million dollars, and he’s here in New York. We’ve come to find him.”

“Describe him,” said Franciscus.

Espinoza jerked his head feebly toward the door. “Just look on the posters out there,” he grated. “The cops are looking for him too.”

Franciscus put out a hand, gripped Espinoza’s. “Thank you, Ramon. You’ve shown yourself to be a man. You’ve looked out for your family. And I’ll keep my word, as a man. They will not be harmed.”

Espinoza’s lips moved again, and his voice was so quiet that Franciscus had to tilt his head.

“Say that again?”

“Two things,” Espinoza rasped. “You said you needed
two
things from me, to ensure my children’s safety.”

“Yes,” said Franciscus. “I did.”

He leaned in even closer so that Espinoza had to present his ear.

Franciscus told him.

He slipped a tiny object into Espinoza’s hand, closed the man’s fist over it.

Then, without looking again at Espinoza, he stood, went over to the door of the cell, and knocked for the guard to let him out.

S
alazar had searched homes before, and with such great stealth that the occupant would never have known any intruder had been there.

Today, though, there was no need for such finesse.

With his six men, Salazar ransacked the house. They did it wordlessly, methodically, starting by securing all of the rooms, making sure nobody was home, then taking apart the rooms one by one.

One hour after they’d entered the house, they stood amid the debris of overturned drawers and ripped cushions and smashed crockery, and Salazar reflected on the things he’d learned.

Two people lived there. Elizabeth Colby, who was a physician. And Joseph Venn, a cop.

Somebody else was staying there with them, or at least had been the night before. There was a carelessly folded blanket on the living room couch, together with a dented pillow. And there were three coffee cups in the drying rack beside the basin in the kitchen.

Apart from that, there was no sign of the British kid, Clune.

The single-car garage was empty. The Colby woman probably worked at one of the city’s hospitals and would most likely have taken the subway to work. On a shelf, among the rows of tools, Salazar found a couple of Mustang GT maintenance manuals. Venn’s car, it had to be.

Salazar gathered his men together in the wreckage of the living room.

“We need to find this Venn,” he said. “He’s a detective. Not a uniform cop. All the photos suggest this. Probably fairly senior, judging by his age.” Salazar had a sudden thought. He selected a framed photo of Venn and the woman from a shelf, prized the frame away and ripped the picture in half so that he had Venn’s face.

With his phone he took a picture of the photo, then texted it to all of the men on his contact list who were currently in New York. He added the message:
This is Joseph Venn, a cop, probably a detective. If you see him, notify me immediately
.
He may be driving a Ford Mustang GT.

Salazar pointed four fingers at an equivalent number of men. “We’re going.”

To the remaining two he said: “You wait here. In case anybody comes home.”

O
n the way to the parking lot, Venn called the second number on the business card Franciscus had handed him. The office number.

A woman answered briskly. “Franciscus and Associates. How may I help you?”

“My name is Detective Lieutenant Joseph Venn,” said Venn, as he got behind the wheel of the Mustang, Harmony sliding into the seat beside him. “I need to speak urgently with Mr Franciscus. I’ve left a message on his cell phone, but I wonder if you could tell me where he is?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the woman said. “Mr Franciscus is out of the office this morning. The only contact number I have for him is the cell number you tried. He’s expected back early this afternoon. May I take a message?”

“Just tell him I called,” said Venn. “Thanks.”

Venn pulled out into the mid-morning traffic. Harmony said, “Where are we going?”

“To his office,” Venn replied. “Charm his receptionist a little. See if she’ll give us a clue where he is.”

“
Charm
her. You mean, shake her down.”

“Whatever.” He checked the address on the business card.

As he negotiated the traffic, Venn made a second call. This one was to a colleague of his in the Marines, Mike Crowe. He and Crowe had lost touch over the years, but Crowe had re-established contact with Venn two years ago when he’d learned he was in New York. Crowe was a trainer of recruits now, at Marine Corps Base Quantico in Virginia. He’d been invalided out of active duty with the Corps after his left foot had gotten blown off in Iraq during Operation Phantom Fury, and  his bravery under fire had earned him serious respect within not only the Marines but the armed forces as a whole. As a consequence, he’d established a network of contacts throughout the Pentagon.

Venn lucked out, Crowe’s secretary putting the call through immediately. He heard the man’s familiar, cheery baritone booming down the line. “Venn. Too long. What’s up?”

“Love to chat, Mike, but I need a favor.”

“Sounds ominous,” said Crowe.

“Could you run a check for me? An Army Ranger vet named Peter Franciscus. Spelled like San Francisco but with a US at the end. Third Battalion, eighty-five to oh-four. I don’t know his rank, but he’d have to have been a major at least.”

“Okay,” Crowe said breezily. “Anything in particular I should look for?”

“No... I just want to confirm he’s who he says he is,” said Venn. “But if you can dig up anything on his career after the Corps, I’ll owe you big time.”

“You already owe me, Venn. But I’ll see what I can do.” Crowe paused. “You driving?”

“Yeah.”

“Damned big city cops. No respect for road safety.”

“Call soon, Mike.” Venn rang off.

Next to him, Harmony said, “You think Franciscus was bullshitting you about his military record?”

“No,” said Venn. “It’s too easily verifiable. But there’s something about the guy. Something that’s not right. A feeling I have.”

*

F
ranciscus’ office, a block away from Wall Street, was cool and quiet, the airconditioning so silent and unobtrusive it was like stepping into a forest glade.

Venn and Harmony took the stairs to the third floor. The reception was silent and empty, apart from the woman behind the desk.

She looked up, a smooth practiced smile on her face. “May I help you?”

Venn flipped his shield. “Detective Venn. This is Detective Jones. I spoke to you a little while earlier on the phone.”

Her eyes flicked for a moment as she searched her memory. Then she said, “Of course. You wanted Mr Franciscus. I’m afraid he’s still not –”

“We need to know where he is, Miss, uh –” Venn looked at the name plate on the reception desk. “
Ms
Archer.”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose –”

“Ms Archer. Listen,” said Harmony. “My partner and I could have talked to you on the phone, but we wanted to meet you face to face. Mr Franciscus’ kid is in trouble.”