Delta Ghost (3 page)

She turned O’Dell toward the door. Venn followed.

“Hey.” One of the men on the floor, the one named Righteous, pushed himself up. “What about us?”

“A social worker will be along shortly,” said Venn. “Don’t go anywhere. You’re not in any trouble. And you may be called to testify against this guy.”

*

A
patrol car took O’Dell away. Venn started heading for his own vehicle, a four-year-old Mustang GT parked up on the curb ten yards from the apartment block.

The woman, Jones, said, “Wait.” She pointed a thumb at a taco outlet across the street. “Before anything else, I need to eat. All I’ve had for the past week is skell food, what there was of it.”

The place was dingy but clean enough. Nobody gave them a second glance as they went in, even though they made an odd pair: a big white man in a leather jacket and a short, lean African-American woman in filthy denim. Venn guessed a lot of the patrons had seen it all, and were no longer surprised by much.

At the counter Jones ordered the works: beef enchiladas with extra chilli and cheese and a side of tacos. Venn hesitated, his stomach rumbling. He pointed to a chicken salad with low-fat dressing.

“Get the hell out of here,” said Jones in disgust. She helped herself to a Coke from the refrigerator.

Venn took a mineral water.

They sat at a corner table, below the listless airconditioning unit. Jones shook her head.

“You’re whipped,” she muttered.

“Shut up,” said Venn. But she was right, in a sense. Beth had persuaded him to change his diet, to recognize that a man pushing forty needed to start taking note of what he ate. He’d resisted, but she’d gradually and gently worn him down. Now, though he allowed himself the occasional splurge on a steak and eggs and fries, he generally stuck to grease-free fare.

And he had to admit, he felt better for it. More energetic, mentally sharper.

They ate in silence for a couple of minutes, Jones wolfing hers as if she had a plane to catch. Between mouthfuls she said: “By the way, if you’re waiting for me to apologize for calling you a cracker motherfucker, it ain’t gonna happen.”

“The thought never crossed my mind,” said Venn.

“Because you were a goddamn racist yourself back there.”

Venn frowned. “How so?”

“I heard you in that bathroom. You sneered at that guy’s name. ‘Righteous’. A brother has an unusual name, and you people get all superior.”

“Bullshit,” said Venn. He wasn’t always sure when she was joking. “You’ve got a weird name yourself,
Harmony
. And I don’t make fun of you. No, the thing I found so ridiculous about the guy’s name was that it was so obviously ironic. Whereas yours... ‘Harmony’ fits your nature perfectly.”

She snorted.

Gradually they began to talk about the case. O’Dell had been suspected for some time of running a low-grade extortion and protection racket in his properties. Finding anyone who’d be willing to admit they’d been a victim was difficult, because most of them were addicts, or illegals, and shied clear of the law. Harmony had gone in undercover a week ago, posing as a tenant, while Venn tried to find a way into O’Dell’s confidence. His lucky break came when he saw the advertisement in the
Voice
.

Venn headed a small, three-person outfit named the Division of Special Projects. Technically a branch of the NYPD’s Anti-Crime Unit, or Taxi Squad, it was a fledgling operation set up a year earlier to investigate cases of a potentially sensitive nature, such as those involving local politicians or other people of influence. The DSP was the pet project of Venn’s boss, Captain David Kang, who’d created the outfit specifically with Venn in mind to head it.

A year before that, Venn had been a private eye living in the East Village, near-broke and with few prospects, when he’d inadvertently become caught up in a situation that had led to the downfall of several members of the US Congress as well as a major pharmaceutical company. Venn himself had been seriously injured during the events – had barely survived, in fact – and had spent the next nine months walking with a stick and wondering if he’d ever have the full use of his limbs again. But he’d pulled through, and despite a recurring ache in his right leg and a degree of residual stiffness in his shoulder on the same side, he was back to full fitness within a year.

In other circumstances, he’d have been given the freedom of New York City and a ticker-tape parade down Broadway for his part in the situation. But there were reasons for his involvement in the whole affair to be hushed up, reasons that Venn accepted. Instead, he was headhunted. By his old employers in the Chicago Police Department, by the Marine Corps, and by the NYPD. He felt he’d moved on from the life of the Corps, and his bridges with Chicago were well and truly burned as far as he was concerned. So he took the New York offer, as a Detective Lieutenant heading up Captain Kang’s Division of Special Projects.

His office and budget were small, and the cases he’d handled in the last year had been of modest importance. But Venn liked the job. He was given a degree of independence few lieutenants in any police department anywhere in the US enjoyed. He got to hand-pick his staff, and thereby to work with people he could trust.

And it meant he got to stay in New York, where Beth’s career was really starting to take off.

“He’ll make bail,” said Harmony.

“O’Dell? Sure he will. But it doesn’t really matter.” Venn gazed at the window beside their table, studying the vague figure he saw reflected there. “He’s small fry. The point is, he’ll probably cut a deal with the DA and give her Marshall.” Without a pause, but dropping his voice a fraction, he said, “We’ve got company.”

Harmony managed to survey the room without directly looking at anybody. “Yeah. So we have.”

“Is he approaching?”

“Yes.”

Venn tensed, preparing himself to turn suddenly, his hand on the Beretta inside his jacket. From behind him he heard a voice: “Officers?”

Venn twisted in his seat. “Well, well. Righteous. What a coincidence. I thought I told you to stay put.”

The man was wearing an outsized duffel coat that emphasized his skinny frame. His earlier defiance had been replaced by a wary look.

“Hands out your coat pockets,” snarled Harmony. “Kind of a dumbass approaches two cops looking like he’s about to draw a gun?”

Righteous held his hands away from his sides apologetically. “I just... look, can I sit down for a minute?”

Venn studied him, up and down. Then he hooked a chair with his foot and turned it toward Righteous. The scrawny man sat, uncertainly, as if he thought Venn might have rigged it to collapse.

The two cops waited.

Righteous muttered: “I followed you.”

“We kind of worked that one out,” said Venn.

“You could of busted me back there. But you didn’t.”

“Because we’re nice guys,” said Harmony. “Also, because you’re not worth the paperwork.”

Righteous shuffled his chair forward, refusing to be cowed. “I figured, since you seem reasonable cops, and not the usual assholes, I could be useful to you.”

Harmony sighed. “An informant? No thanks. Got enough of them already.”

“Wait,” said Venn. “Go on. Useful how?”

The man licked his lips as if they’d suddenly got dry.

“Mr O’Dell wasn’t just planning to shake us down. He was supplying us with the junk too.”

“The junk?” said Venn. “You mean smack?”

“Yeah.” Righteous glanced about him, not theatrically but with genuine nervousness.

“O’Dell’s a drug dealer?”

“Not him, exactly.” He wiped his mouth. “But when I signed the tenancy agreement, he asked if there was anything I needed from him. The name of a reliable supplier. I pretended I didn’t know what he was talking about. Thought it was a trap. He gave me a business card, told me to call the number any time, day or night. I kept the card, I don’t know why. Then, two weeks later, I got a problem. I need a fix, and my usual guy’s not returning my calls. So I call the number on the card. It goes to voicemail. I’m desperate, so I give my name and address. An hour later, at three a.m., this dude turns up. Doesn’t give his name, doesn’t say anything at all. He’s brought baggies, lots of them. I buy what I can afford. It’s good stuff.”

“Did you call the number again?” said Venn.

“Uh-huh. Three, four times since. Always the same. Voicemail, then somebody arrives within the hour. Sometimes the same guy as the first time, sometimes not.”

Venn said, “You got the card with you?”

Righteous fumbled out a creased, dirty cardboard rectangle. Venn took it. The legend read:
Kruger’s. Your first choice for quality secondhand furniture since 2007.
There was an address in the Bronx, and a cell phone number.

Venn looked at Harmony. She shook her head.

“This isn’t ours, Venn,” she said. “It’s for the narcotics guys.”

“If there’s a link with O’Dell, then I’m interested.” Venn handed the card back to Righteous. “Call the number. Say you need a delivery. Usual address.”

“Dammit, Venn,” Harmony groaned. “I’m not going back in there. One week living in that hole and I’ve had enough.”

“Then I’ll do it alone.” He nodded at Righteous, who found a phone in the pockets of his coat and thumbed the keys.

An instant later, a tinny voice came from the other end. Righteous yelped and dropped the phone in surprise.

Venn caught it before it hit the floor.

“Hello?” snapped a man’s voice.

Venn stayed silent. Down the line, he could hear cars in the background. Voices, too, lots of them.

“Hello? Who’s there?” The voice was abrupt, authoritative. A cop’s.

Venn said, “This is Detective Lieutenant Joseph Venn. Who’re you?”

“Patrolman Jenkins, 44
^th
Precinct. Who did you say you were?”

“Venn. Division of Special Projects.”

“Never heard of it.”

“I’ve never heard of
you
,” said Venn. “How did you get this phone?”

The cop sounded flustered, like he had a thousand things on his mind and wished he’d never answered the call. “I can’t just tell you –”

“You on traffic patrol?” said Venn.

“No, I –”

“You will be if you don’t lose the attitude. Now... how did you get this phone?”

There was a pause. “Lieutenant, I apologize. The heat, I guess.” Another voice said something nearby and the patrolman muttered a reply before speaking into the phone again. “We’ve had a street shooting here. Mott Haven, in the Bronx. One guy dead. We just got here. The phone was in the guy’s hand, and I just picked it up when it started ringing.”

“Any ID on the guy?” said Venn.

“Yeah. Driving license says he’s, uh... Stefan Kruger.”

Kruger.
The name of the furniture store on the card.

“What happened?” asked Venn.

“Well, the handful of eyewitnesses give conflicting accounts, but it seems it was a drive-by. A half-hour ago. Guy was strolling along the sidewalk, talking on his phone, when this car pulls up. Bam, bam. Looks like three shots. Professional ones.”

“You get a description of the car?”

“Yeah.
Lots
of them.” The patrolman’s tone was sour. “Let’s see... it was either a dark-gray Taurus, or a silver Toyota Camry. Or maybe a black Chrysler Neon. Hell, I can just see how those cars could be mistaken for each other.”

“Not everybody’s as observant as New York’s finest,” Venn said.

“Got that right, Lieutenant.” Jenkins spoke off to the side again. Then: “Sir, you mind if I end this call? I’ve got crowd control issues starting up here.”

“Sure,” said Venn. “And thanks.”

He tossed the phone back to Righteous, who fumbled and dropped it. To Harmony, Venn said: “Guy who owns the furniture store is dead. Shot from a passing car a short while ago.”

“Yeah, I gathered.”

As Venn stood up, she said, “Where you going?”

“We’re heading back to the office. Righteous here is going to give Walt a description of the guys who delivered the smack to him. Meanwhile, you and I are going for a ride.”

“Venn. It’s not our turf –”

“We’re gonna check out this furniture store. Before the precinct guys are all over it like a rash.”

T
here were two things Danny Clune resented about being mugged.

The first was that this was New York City. It was supposed to be one of the safest cities of its size in the world, a far cry from the seedy, violent hellhole depicted in
Taxi Driver
and other seventies films. He wasn’t even trespassing on a rough area late at night. Instead, it was broad daylight, the July sun blasting down, and he was strolling down Vandam Street, earbuds in place and the Rolling Stones’
Let It Bleed
playing at full volume on his iPod, when the mugger stuck a gun in his face.

You just weren’t supposed to get mugged in New York any more. Especially if you were a British tourist.

The second thing that bothered Danny about the mugging was the nonchalance with which it was carried out.

He stopped dead, a frozen knot deep in his bowels, as the barrel of the foreshortened gun swelled to the width of a tunnel entrance in front of his eyes.

Oh my God
, he thought.
This is it. After everything that I’ve been through, I’m going to die like a stray dog on a Manhattan street.

Then the muzzle dropped a fraction, and Danny saw what was behind it. A young man, perhaps twenty, only three or four years younger than Danny himself. The mugger wore baggy low-slung jeans and a 50 Cent T-shirt under an unbuttoned check shirt. He too had buds in his ears, and his hair was buzzed short.

“Wallet, yo.” He said it almost indifferently, barely making eye contact.

Danny’s fingers scrabbled at the Velcro seal on his bumbag (fanny-pack, he was learning to call it). He reached in delicately, trying to demonstrate that he wasn’t drawing a gun of his own. Awkwardly, he tossed the wallet towards the other man. The mugger caught it deftly, prised open the compartments one-handed, peeled out the single credit card and the trio of twenty-dollar bills.