Delta Ghost (8 page)

Franciscus half-rose, taking O’Dell’s elbow and guiding him to his feet. “As I said, Lieutenant. This interview is over.”

“See you in court,” said Venn, standing with them.

Franciscus ushered O’Dell out the door ahead of him. Before following him into the corridor, he turned.

“Lieutenant Venn. I’m hazarding a guess here, but... Marines?”

“That’s right,” said Venn.

“May I ask when?”

“Ninety-six through 2000. The 26
^th
Marine Expeditionary Unit.”

“Ah,” said Franciscus. “Bosnia, Kosovo?”

“Yes. Both.”

“I’m a Ranger. Third Battalion. Nineteen eighty-five to 2004. It was before your time, but during Operation Just Cause in ’89 my life and those of many of my Company were saved by the Marines.” Franciscus drew himself up, snapped a salute.

Venn returned it.

“Sir,” he said. Franciscus hadn’t given his rank, but with nineteen years’ service he had to be a senior officer.

Franciscus said: “It doesn’t mean I’ll allow my client to be pushed around, though.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Venn.

*

V
enn arrived at the Ninth Avenue precinct house an hour later, after stopping by his townhouse in the Upper West Side to change his clothes. This time he put on a light cotton summer jacket. Beth was always encouraging him to dress like that -
you look more like a cop, and less like a gangster
, she said - but without his leather coat he felt exposed, vulnerable, as if bullets could actually hurt him.

On the dresser he found a note from Beth. He’d left before her, this morning, while she was still asleep after a late shift at the hospital. Even in this age of text messages, she liked to leave old-fashioned handwritten notes. It read:
Home by 8 pm. Thai takeout OK? Love you.

Venn smiled, put the note in his pocket.

The precinct house swarmed. Venn guessed they hadn’t had a multiple shooting like this for a while. His shield got him past the harassed desk sergeant in quick time and he found Harmony in a side room, talking with a couple of plainclothes detectives.

“Everything okay?” she said, eyeing him with concern.

“O’Dell wanted to plea-bargain, giving up Kruger. I spoilt his day when I told him we knew about the guy, and that he was already dead.”  Venn gestured at the door. “We ready to do this guy?”

The prisoner was seated in an eight-by-ten interview room with a two-way mirror on one wall. His left shoulder was bandaged where Venn had winged him with the Beretta. Whatever influence Captain Kang had exerted, it left Venn and Harmony doing the interrogation with the local detectives watching through the mirror.

The guy’s name was Ramon Jesus Espinoza, and he was a Mexican national. They knew this from the Seasonal Agricultural Worker visa he’d produced. It was, Venn thought, probably forged. Other than that, he’d volunteered nothing so far. He hunched over the scarred table, his fingers splayed on the surface, and stared at the wall opposite.

“Ramon,” said Venn. “You’re asking for a lawyer, I hear. But I somehow doubt you have an attorney of your own waiting on your call, and the Public Defender’s office is jammed up. It’ll take a couple of hours, minimum, before a PD arrives. Then, they’ll have to brief themselves about your case. Another thirty minutes. Now, you may not give a shit about that. You may think the delay will work to your advantage. Allow you more time to come up with whatever bullshit cover story you’re concocting.”

Venn was seated across the table from Espinoza, just as he had been a short while earlier from O’Dell. Harmony lounged against the wall near the door, her arms folded. Before going in, Venn had asked the other detectives if Espinoza had been told what happened to his three comrades, namely that they’d all been killed. The detectives said he hadn’t.

So Venn decided on a bluff.

He said, “But here’s the thing, Ramon. You’re facing more felony charges than there are crabs in a hooker’s panties. You’re going to jail, and I don’t mean some rinky-dink hotel out in the boondocks. I mean Rikers. Attempted murder of a police officer. Hostage-taking. The rest of your life will make Purgatory seem like a party, and hell like a mild hangover afterwards.” He paused. “Now, one of your buddies got away. He took the young British guy, and he’s disappeared. I assume the kid is going to be killed, probably after being worked over till he’s begging for death. It may be too late for him. But if you tell us where the kid is, tell us
right now
, before you lawyer up, it may buy you some appreciation. It could mean a reduced sentence.”

Espinoza was still staring at the wall, but he appeared to be listening. Slowly, he turned his head and gazed at Venn thoughtfully.

He raised a middle finger and said, “Kiss my ass.”

Venn returned his stare for a few seconds. Then he signaled Harmony with a flick of his fingers.

She leaped forward as if propelled by a spring-load mechanism and grabbed Espinoza by the hair and slammed his face down on the desk. At the same time Venn lunged and seized the man’s arm, the one he’d used to flip Venn the bird. Venn pushed the man’s rolled-up sleeve all the way up his arm.

It was a tattoo that had caught his attention, on the inner aspect of the man’s forearm. An intricate one, done by a skilled artist. It depicted two snakes entwined around an assault rifle.

It was familiar to Venn, and in a second he got it. Back during the gunfight earlier, when he’d rolled on the hood of the Honda to avoid getting shot in the face by the man who’d briefly abducted Clune, he’d glimpsed the gunman’s forearm. The same symbol had been tattooed there. He hadn’t registered it at the time, but it had been imprinted in his unconscious.

Espinoza snarled and tried to shake his head free, but Harmony held on, grinding his face into the desktop. She hissed, “Drop the attitude, asshole.”

Venn straightened. “Nah,” he said. “Come on. We’re wasting our time. Let Ramon here face the music.” He pulled out his cell phone, took a quick photo of the tattoo, released the man’s arm.

Harmony slammed Espinoza’s face on the desk once more and followed Venn to the door, wiping her hands on her jeans. Espinoza lifted his head and glared after them, blood streaming from his nose.

Outside, one of the detectives who’d been watching through the glass approached. Venn said, “Might as well wait for the PD. He’s not gonna give us anything.”

“Okay.”

“By the way,” said Venn. “Whatever you think you saw back there, you didn’t.”

“Hell of a thing, nosebleeds,” said the detective. “They can happen out of the blue, just like that.”

*

V
enn and Harmony made their way to his Mustang in the precinct house’s parking lot. It was five-thirty p.m., and the heat had crested the curve of intolerable and was beginning its slow slide into the cool of the evening.

“Bitch of a day,” said Harmony. “What now?”

Venn thought of the paperwork awaiting him. He could put it off until tomorrow, but...

“I gotta do the necessary,” he said. “Let’s go back to the office. I’ll give the tattoo picture to Walter. He’s good at that stuff.”

“You seen it before?” she said, peering at the image on his phone.

“On one of the other guys we took down today. But before that – no. Might be a gangbanger symbol, might be political.”

He’d do as much of the paperwork as he could stomach, but he’d make sure he was home by eight. Evenings with Beth were few and far between lately, with the demands of her job and his, and he wanted to take the opportunity. Plus, it’d be good to discuss today’s events with her. She was smart, intuitive. She sometimes saw connections between things that he’d overlooked.

As he and Harmony climbed into the Mustang, Venn’s phone rang.

“Yeah.”

“Joe, it’s Kang.”

“Yeah, Cap.”

“Any luck with the interrogation?”

“No.” Venn told Kang about the tattoo.

“Can’t say it sounds familiar to me,” said Kang. “Anyhow, I’m calling about something else.” He paused. “O’Dell’s dead.”

“What?”

“Looks like suicide. Jumped from his sixth-floor condo a half hour ago.”

“Shit,” said Venn.

A
s Peter Franciscus waited for the electronic gates to swing open, he reflected once again that he couldn’t live anywhere in New York City but Staten Island.

He and Marcia had bought the property, a five-bedroom modern build with decent acreage, four years earlier, when the real estate bubble had burst and prices were low. The location was ideal, with easy access to Lower Manhattan where Franciscus had his office and great schools in the area for the girls. Franciscus was a product of suburbia, having grown up in Wildwood, St Louis, and the noise and pace of the city wasn’t something he wanted to experience twenty-four-seven. Luckily, Marcia was the same.

Marcia greeted him at the door, smiling, aproned, her figure still trim after all these years. She barely had time to kiss him before seventeen-year-old Madison and her sister, Cody, three years younger, crowded in the doorway and began to jabber about their day. Laughing, he hustled them into the house, trying to make sense of the babble of information assailing his ears. Madison had been selected for the school tennis tour, while Cody’s career counselor had advised her that she had the grades and the aptitude to apply for premed studies.

“Defend anybody famous today, Dad?” asked Cody, as Franciscus slung his suit jacket over a chair. It was her standard question, one she asked every day, and he was finding it increasingly difficult to come up with the expected zinger of a reply.

But today he’d thought of one beforehand.

“I did defend a guy who’s been charged with drowning six people in bowls of oatmeal,” he said.

“Really?” Cody was at an age where she could never be quite certain if adults were joking or not.

“Yeah,” said Franciscus. “He’s a cereal killer.”

Amid the groans and whoops, he dropped into his favorite recliner and took in the landscaped lawns dropping away beyond the huge picture window. Despite the hubbub around him, Franciscus felt peace flood through his arms and legs and the muscles in his neck. Some men took a whiskey after a hard day to achieve the same effect. Franciscus just needed a comfortable armchair and the view from his living room window.

And it had been a hard day, that was for certain.

When he heard the timer of the oven go off in the kitchen, he made a half-hearted move to get up, but his daughters shooed him back into his chair and skipped into the kitchen to help Marcia. Franciscus let his head drop back on the support of the recliner, closed his eyes, and allowed the scene to play itself out in his mind once more.

*

F
ranciscus had offered O’Dell a ride back to his home in Queens, and O’Dell had accepted. They sat in silence for a few minutes as Franciscus took the BMW through the late afternoon streets. O’Dell gazed out the window, the smell of stale sweat and despair hanging round him like smoke.

Eventually O’Dell said, “It’s put me in a bind.”

“What has?”

O’Dell looked across at Franciscus. “Councilman Marshall posting bail. Sure, it’s got me out of the cells for now. But I can hardly use him as part of a plea-bargain now.”

“He didn’t post bail,” said Franciscus. “I did.”

O’Dell’s mouth hung open. “You –”

“Call it a loan, at no interest, repayment flexible.” Franciscus waved a hand. “Look, Sean.  You’ve been a valued client over the years. This is a one-off, and next time I’m leaving you in jail. So there better not be a next time.”

“Peter, I –” For a moment Franciscus thought the other man might burst into tears. “Thank you.”

“Also, you need to start taking my advice. I mean, seriously, as your counsel. When I say talk to the DA, not the cops, you do it. Clear? You’ve already told me you’re willing to give up Marshall, and that’s fine. I’ll set up a meeting with the DA for tomorrow. But this other thing, this drug dealer guy – forget about it. He’s dead anyway, as we just heard. And even if he weren’t – Marshall’s a bigger fish. The DA, and the cops, aren’t interested in some scuzzy drug dealer. Don’t get greedy.”

“Okay,” said O’Dell. “Got it.”

Franciscus took the BMW into the underground parking lot below O’Dell’s building. They rode the elevator, O’Dell stealing glances at Franciscus as though he was still overwhelmed by his generosity.

Inside the condo, Franciscus laid out a bunch of papers on the dining table for O’Dell to sign. He saw the man head straight for a drinks tray. “A little something?”

“Sure, why not,” said Franciscus. “Vodka, straight, no rocks.”

O’Dell handed him a glass, knocked back his own whiskey. Poured a second, then a third.

Franciscus made a show of sipping his drink, but didn’t touch it. He glanced around. He’d been in the apartment before.

“You install that CCTV outside, like I suggested?”

O’Dell looked rueful, the booze already mellowing him. “Nah. Keep meaning to. Been too busy.”

Franciscus shrugged. “Your call. Your possessions at stake.”

While O’Dell read through and signed the paperwork, Franciscus strolled to the glass sliding door that opened out onto the balcony. He stepped outside, feeling the soft breeze filtering through the heat. The view wasn’t great, and consisted mostly of tenement buildings and construction sites.

“Gentrification,” said O’Dell, who’d made his way over and joined Franciscus on the balcony. “It doesn’t look like much now, but just you wait. Two, three years, this’ll be the new Brooklyn.”

His speech was slightly slurred, and he bumped against Franciscus. “Sorry.”

Franciscus leaned over the railing and peered down. On the street below – an alley, really – a couple of people wandered on foot, and a desultory car or two crawled along.

In one swift move Franciscus grabbed O’Dell’s shirt collar with one hand and the waistband of his pants with the other, and heaved him up and over the railing. His muscles burned as he hefted the man’s bulk.

“Hey,”
was all O’Dell managed, before his voice tailed off into a drawn-out scream. Just before he disappeared from view, Franciscus saw his face in profile, one of his eyes staring straight at him.