Footsteps of the Hawk (32 page)

"We got the Mole's…truck, I guess it is," Frankie said. "He picked me up in it."

I knew what he meant—the beat–up old panel truck with the name of a kosher butcher on the side that the Mole used to get around in.

"Let's go," I told them.

T
he Mole drove like he always did, with bat–blind incompetence, like he had a sonar system in his head but it wasn't working too good. The panel truck yawed around corners. Every pothole sent my head toward the roof.

"You have any trouble with the locks?" I asked the Mole.

He gave me a "Don't be stupid" look, sawing at the big steering wheel to negotiate another corner.

We drove up Van Dam slowly, seeing if…Nothing—the street was quiet. Morales' screaming–red sports car was parked right in front of the loft. I used Frankie's flashlight on its windshield—it was empty. We turned on Greenwich and doubled back, parking on Charlton—the loft on Van Dam was just through the alley.

"You got a piece?" I asked Frankie.

"No. I mean, you didn't—"

"That's okay," I said. "Mole?"

"I have some grenades," the lunatic replied. In his world, the subject of individual targets doesn't come up much.

"Stay here," I told him. "Frankie'll be back in a minute. Then take off, okay?"

The Mole nodded, as miserly with words as always. I took off down the alley, Frankie right behind. He may not have been a world–class burglar when he was doing houses, but he knew how to move: quick and careful. I located the building, eye–checked it, taking stock. A rusty fire escape ran up the back of the building. The loft was on the second floor. I looked to the rooftops. The buildings were so close together you could travel the length of the block and never touch the street.

No way I was going to ring that bell, ask Belinda to throw down the key. I knew what she'd throw down if she saw me coming.

Frankie saw the look on my face. "What can I do?" he asked, hard truth in his voice.

"One more thing, brother," I told him. "I gotta get on that fire escape. Get on
quiet,
understand? And it's too high for me to jump."

"I'm with you," Frankie said, planting his feet, bending at the knees, cupping his right hand. I stepped into the cup with one foot, jumped off with the other one just as Frankie heaved up with all his strength. For a second, I was floating….Then I grabbed the base of the fire escape with both hands and hauled myself up. I turned from my perch, looked down at Frankie. I made my right hand into a fist, held it right next to my face. Frankie made the same gesture from below, answering. I moved both hands in a "Get the hell out of here!" gesture. Then I turned my back on Frankie and went to work.

I
took a black shadow–marker out of my pocket, smeared it over my face in a random pattern. I pulled a black wool watch cap over my hair, slipped the black gloves on my hands. The window into the loft was closed, pitch black from years of city soot—I couldn't tell if it was dark inside or if I just couldn't see through the glass. No bars on the window—strange in this neighborhood. I got my hands under the frame, shoved up slowly. Nothing. I braced myself, shoved with all my strength. It didn't budge. I pulled a black silk handkerchief from my jacket, spit on it and rubbed a clear circle on the glass. Still couldn't see anything.

I ran my fingers over the window. Old plate glass, not even Thermo–paned. No wires in it either. In this neighborhood? Maybe a motion detector…

I took a deep breath. Let it out slow. Then I took off my jacket, pulled it open like a shield over my face, and kicked in the glass. It shattered easy enough. I came all the way through behind it, the jacket protecting my face and arms. I rolled into the room, staying low, the plastic knife in my hand.

For a second, I didn't move. Didn't breathe. Then I heard footsteps, running. Heard a door slam. I moved along the wall, heading for a patch of light I saw off to my right. I peeked around the corner, looked into that big room with all the Retro crap scattered around. I heard a grunting sound. Who…?

Morales. On his back, head propped against the base of the couch. His shirt was white, but his chest was red, a spreading stain. I ran over, dropped down next to him.

He opened his eyes, looked at me. If he was surprised, he didn't show it. "Bitch shot me," he said through clenched teeth. "Got the drop on me, took my piece. Told me the whole story—like she was getting her rocks off, telling me. Then she just stepped back and fucking shot me."

"Don't talk," I said. "I'll—"

"Bitch shoulda known I always carry a spare," he said, straining with every word. That's when I saw the pistol in his fist, a cheap–shit .25–caliber Raven automatic—the favorite of low–level gangbangers, a perfect throw–down piece. "She had the gun up, ready to finish me—bitch didn't see this one. I was just about to take my shot when I heard the glass go. She took off."

"They'll get her," I said. "It's all over now. Just—"

"I'm done," Morales said. "She caught a fucking lung—I can feel it. She gets away, you're done too. She won't go out the front door—she's gonna use the roof, make a run for it. Take…"

His head slumped on his chest, lolling to one side. I put my ear close to his face. I could hear him breathing, but it wasn't much.

"Don't give me up," I said, dropping the cellular phone next to his hand—the same hand I pulled the pistol out of. Then I straightened up and started for Belinda.

I
found the inside staircase to the roof at the end of the hall. Flattened my back against the wall and pushed it open with the barrel of the pistol. It moved easy. I counted to five in my mind, then slipped inside. Still nothing. Up the stairs, step–by–step, slowly, slowly…all the way to the roof.

She'd be running now. Running hard. She couldn't be sure Morales was dead, couldn't go back to her apartment. Did she have a car stashed somewhere? Money? A passport?

It didn't feel like that. She'd gambled everything on a pair of murders—she'd left me staked out, went off to do Morales…but the bridge she built had collapsed under her feet.

I crawled out onto the roof, snaking my way forward using my elbows and feet. Nothing. I stopped, went quiet, listening to the night. The sound of breaking glass wouldn't bring the cops in this part of town—the other apartments were empty anyway. And she'd had enough time to get completely off the block. I couldn't stay around, not with Morales maybe dead right beneath me. I stood up to wide–angle a look at the other roofs, trying to spot a flash from her yellow turtleneck. A piece of brick flew off the chimney a couple of inches from my face. I hit the ground, rolled to my right fast as I could just as another pair of shots smacked into the brick where my chest would have been. No sound…She must be using her own piece—the one with the silencer.

I couldn't tell where the shots had come from, but they had to be close.

No more footsteps to hear—now the hawk was on the ground, talons out.

I crawled backward until most of my body was behind the chimney. Would she think she'd hit me, come over to finish me off? No…she couldn't be sure. Time was grinding to a stop, everything in slow motion. But I knew it was an illusion—knew time was the enemy too. I counted my options, came down to one.

"It's me, Belinda," I called softly. "I got out of your place. Morales is dead—your plan is shot. We have to do this together now, girl. You and me."

"You're a liar!" Belinda's voice, a viper's hiss slashing through the night. I couldn't follow the sound to the source, but she had to be close. Real close.

"I'm not lying," I said out of the darkness. "I'm too scared to lie. It's over now You pulled it off. All I want to do is get out of here alive."

"
Liar!
" she hissed again, a robot, locked in by its programming.

"I just want some of the money," I called to her. "Just a piece, okay? We can't stay up here. Sooner or later, the cops are gonna come. I can alibi you. Foolproof. The Chinese restaurant, that's where we were tonight. Together. A dozen people saw us. You were right—Morales wouldn't have any notes. It's you and me now."

"You swear?"

"I swear on my mother's life," I told her.

"Stand up where I can see you," she called back.

"No way. You've got a gun—I don't. I'm not getting myself—"

"I'll throw it away," she promised. "Watch."

Something silver flashed to my left, a high arc. I heard the sound of metal hitting the roof. "I gave it up," she called, her voice closer now. "Now stand up where I can see you."

"You first," I told her. "I can't see where it landed—I'm not letting you run over and pick it up."

"I'm coming," she said, stepping out from behind a maintenance shack, hands in the air.

I stood up too, letting her see me, holding my hands high, easily palming the little .25. We walked toward each other, feet crunching on little stones and litter, maybe ten feet apart, hands still in the air like we were going to slap each other high–fives.

"It'll be okay," she said. "Don't worry. We can still—" Her right hand flashed toward her waistband but mine had less room to travel—I cranked off three rounds into her chest. The cheap little pistol made
pop–pop–pop
sounds. She staggered, fell to her knees, pulled Morales' gun out and fired—missed—just as I put two more into her. She fell on her face. The pistol dropped from her hand.

I ran over, reached under her arm and rolled her over. Her yellow turtleneck was still clean—I couldn't see where the bullets had gone in. "You're liars," she said, voice drained. "Dirty fucking liars, all of you."

I picked up Morales' revolver, knelt down by Belinda. Her raptor's eyes flamed at me. I pointed Morales' pistol at her forehead, squeezed the trigger. The explosion shut off my hearing. Her forehead disappeared.

I ran then, ran hard. Across the roof, down the stairs, Morales' pistol held ahead of me like a talisman against evil. The apartment door was standing open. I found Morales, still in the same position, knelt next to him.

"She's dead," I told him. "I shot her with your throw–down gun. I put another one into her with this," I said, holding up his pistol so he could see it. "I'm taking off—the cops'll be here in a minute."

"I didn't…call," he said. "I waited…in case you could—"

"Give me five minutes, then," I said. "I'm going back out over the roof."

"You…got it," he grunted—in pain, but he was going to make it, I could see.

"I'm out of here," I told him, standing up.

"Your prints…"he whispered.

"I was covered," I told him, spreading my hands so he could see the gloves.

"Give me my piece," he said, craning his neck so he could look up at me.

I bent down, handed it over. He took it. Carefully wrapped his hand around the butt, slipped his finger into the trigger guard. "
Now
you're covered," he said, closing his eyes.

I
went back to the roof, moved shadowy past Belinda's body Her eyes were open but the light was out. I walked softly, the tiny flash out in front of me, going from roof to roof. I was almost to the end of the block when I heard the sirens.

I stopped in an alley, reached down, pulled the detachable soles and heels off my boots and walked away on the new ones. A few blocks over, I dropped the pull–aways down a gutter sewer.

A few blocks later, I took off the gloves and tossed them into a Dumpster. Once I slipped a token into the slot for the Spring Street subway, I was gone.

H
auser never got his story. By the time he came back from Chicago, it was all over the news. TV, radio, the papers, everything. Hero cop Jorge Morales had cracked a serial murder case….A rogue female detective was the culprit, and he'd taken her out in a vicious gun battle that saw him catch a slug in the chest. He lost a lung, but he was going to make it. Politicians knocked each other over trying for photo ops standing next to his hospital bed. NYPD loved him. If they had questions about the bootleg cellular phone or the extra gun, they kept them to themselves.

I
called Helene from a pay phone. "The contract's back on," is all I said.

W
hen Hauser called the prison to set up another interview with Piersall, they told him Piersall wasn't going to be having any visitors. Seems he was out of PC only one day when somebody shanked him—he was DOA by the time they got him to the prison infirmary.

F
rankie's got another fight coming up in ninety days—Ristone got him a match with a tomato can. The big buildup had already started. No more real fights for Frankie until he had a string of setup KOs under his belt.

Hauser told me he wasn't done. "This Adelnaws Foundation stinks," he said. "Did you know this guy Capshaw had a conviction for child molesting? Almost forty years ago, in Toronto. And this foundation, it's on the Internet, the server's over in Finland somewhere. I'm gonna take a look."

"Be yourself," I told him.

I
t was good advice I gave Hauser. But it was a couple more weeks before I took it myself. Vyra called from the Vista. And I climbed in the Plymouth and drove over to see her new shoes.

About the Book

A pulse–quickening new crime novel featuring Burke, ex–con, private investigator, and rumored hit man who harbors a pathological hatred for those who prey on children.

In
Footsteps of the Hawk
Burke himself is in danger of becoming a victim. Two rogue cops are stalking him. The coolly seductive Belinda Roberts wants him to free a man charged with a grisly string of rape–murders. The brutal and half–crazy Detective Jorge Morales may be trying to frame Burke for the same crimes. What ensues is a novel of high–wire suspense and nightmarish authenticity informed by an insider's knowledge of the city where everything—from flesh to other people's cellular phone numbers—is up for sale.