House Reckoning (24 page)

It was, he realized, a really shitty plan for getting away with murder, but he couldn’t think of a better one.

He also would have preferred to look Quinn in the eye before he shot him. It wasn’t just that shooting a man in the back seemed cowardly; it was also because he would have liked the opportunity to tell Quinn why he was killing him. He would have said that it wasn’t just because Quinn had killed his father. This was about more than revenge. He couldn’t allow a man like Quinn, a man without a conscience, a man willing to kill if necessary to advance, to become even more powerful than he already was. But DeMarco knew that he wasn’t going to have the satisfaction of making a speech before he killed Quinn; as distasteful as it was, he was going to have to simply shoot the man in the back and run.

DeMarco didn’t go into the Greek restaurant across from Weinman’s apartment building because Dombroski had said that it was a place where cops sometimes took their breaks. Instead he entered a Thai place that was just a couple of doors down from the Greek restaurant. He could see the entrance to Weinman’s building from there. He ordered a meal—one that he intended to linger over for as long as he could.

As he was waiting for his meal, he studied the apartment building. It was an old four-story brownstone. There was no doorman; it wasn’t a ritzy place because Weinman couldn’t afford a ritzy place in Manhattan on an assistant DA’s salary. There were a few steps leading up from the street to the building’s entrance, and when you passed through the door, you were in a small foyer where the mailboxes were located. A few feet from the mailboxes was a set of stairs.

When Quinn left the building after spending time with his mistress, he would walk down the steps and then probably walk immediately over to the curb to catch a cab. That is, DeMarco assumed that since he’d arrived by cab, he’d catch one when he was ready to leave and not call somebody to pick him up. It wouldn’t take Quinn more than a couple of seconds to reach the curb and then he’d be standing—with his back to the building—only long enough to flag down a taxi. And that’s when DeMarco would kill him.

The problem DeMarco had was that there was no place for him to hide before he shot Quinn. After Quinn entered the building, DeMarco would have to stand a few feet away from the entrance and simply wait until Quinn came out. He was guessing that when Quinn came to see Weinman, he would be inside her place for at least an hour but more likely two or three hours, which meant that DeMarco was going to have to linger outside the building for all that time. DeMarco also figured that Quinn would show up sometime after 6
P.M.
if he showed up at all. The police commissioner of New York would most likely work until at least six every day and probably longer.

DeMarco stayed inside the Thai restaurant until seven thirty—he couldn’t stretch out his dinner any longer—and by the time he left the restaurant, the sun had gone down. This didn’t mean, however, that he would be invisible standing outside Weinman’s building—the street was too well lit—but he was hoping that in the dimmer light, his face would be less recognizable.

After leaving the restaurant, he stood in a couple of different places on the street—places where he could see the entrance to Weinman’s building—and the whole time he waited, he felt totally exposed. At 11
P.M.
, he decided that Quinn wasn’t going to visit his mistress that night and returned to his hotel.

The following day he stayed inside his room watching TV and reading the
Times
. He left his room only once, making a quick trip to a nearby deli to get a couple of sandwiches. He thought it possible that Quinn could have people looking for him and he wanted to minimize the risk of some cop seeing him on the street during the daylight hours. It was hard to do, but he forced himself not to think about what lay ahead. He didn’t want to think about how he’d feel after he killed Quinn and he didn’t want to think about the manhunt that would follow after he murdered the man.

At 6
P.M
., he was back in the Thai restaurant where he’d eaten the night before. It wasn’t ideal to eat in the same restaurant two nights in a row, but he wanted to be off the street as long as possible while waiting for Quinn. He couldn’t go to the Greek restaurant for fear of running into cops and the other restaurants on the street—a by-the-slice pizza place and a falafel joint—were on the same side of the street as Weinman’s building, which meant he couldn’t see the entrance to the building.

He ordered a large meal and ate it slowly, and just as he was finishing his dinner, about 7
P.M.
, he saw a cab stop in front of Weinman’s building and watched Quinn exit the cab. DeMarco finished his dinner, left cash on the table to cover the check, and went into the restroom. The gun was stuck in the back of his pants and every time he’d touched it, he’d worn gloves. He put on the gloves now, almost clear, transparent latex gloves; he was hoping the gloves wouldn’t be too noticeable. He screwed the silencer into the barrel of the gun.

He shoved the gun into the right-hand pocket of his jacket. The jacket had deep pockets and he’d torn a hole into the right-hand pocket so the silencer would fit through the hole. When it was time to shoot Quinn, he’d aim the gun through the jacket. It would be awkward shooting that way but it could be done and he wasn’t worried about not being able to aim well as he planned on being very close to Quinn when he pulled the trigger.

Just before he left the restroom, he looked into the mirror—at the hard, unshaven face staring back at him, the face that looked just like his father’s face.
Are you sure you can do this?
he silently asked the man in the mirror.

He didn’t have any moral qualms about killing Quinn. His conscience wouldn’t bother him at all. But he was about to do something that was going to jeopardize his own life and freedom and, ironically, unless he was caught, no one would even know why he’d killed Quinn. People would think that Quinn had been assassinated because of who he was—a cop who had put criminals in jail and who had prevented acts of terrorism—and DeMarco could already hear the grand eulogies lamenting the great man’s death. But the real question, the question he was asking the man in the mirror, was would he have the courage to pull the trigger when the time came?

Yes, he would. He wasn’t going to back down now.

He left the restaurant, crossed the street, and took up his position, leaning against the wall of Weinman’s apartment building about five feet from the door. He was wearing his Nike baseball cap pulled down low on his forehead. He would like to have worn sunglasses but it was now dark outside, and he figured the baseball cap combined with the sunglasses and his unshaven face might make him look like a mugger. In case anybody was watching him, every few minutes he looked at his watch to give the impression he was impatiently waiting for someone. He wondered how long he was going to have to wait for Quinn.

He couldn’t help but notice that there were a lot of people on the street even though it was now 8
P.M.
Single folks walking rapidly to get to a bus or subway stop; couples strolling holding hands; people walking their dogs, little plastic poop bags in their hands. DeMarco had no doubt that when it was time to shoot Quinn, somebody would be passing within a few feet of him. To occupy his mind, and to keep from thinking about what he was about to do, he focused on the good-looking women he saw—but then he couldn’t help but think that if he went to prison for killing Quinn, he might not see a good-looking woman again for the rest of his life.

Stop it
, he told himself. If he started thinking about prison, he’d never be able to go through with this. Working for Mahoney, he’d been tossed into a cell a couple of times, but never for more than a few hours. He didn’t know if he’d be able to stand spending the rest of his life in a cage surrounded by people who really belonged in cages. Suicide had to be preferable to that.
Stop it
, he again told himself.

John Martinez held his wife’s hand, and she held the hand of their five-year-old daughter. He looked at his watch: 8:10
P.M.
He’d just wasted two hours of his life. As they walked toward the subway, Martinez was wondering if there was any way he could stop these weekly dinners with his mother-in-law. She was a miserable, dour, unhappy bitch of an old woman and the weekly dinners were worse than a visit to a proctologist. But his wife—who wouldn’t admit it, but who didn’t really like her mother, either—felt obligated, since her father died, to visit the old bat so she wouldn’t be so lonely. As near as Martinez could tell, his mother-in-law wasn’t lonely at all and he could also tell that she hated having her granddaughter inside her apartment. The whole time they were with her, the old lady watched Sara like a hawk, terrified the little girl was going to knock over one of her stupid Hummel figurines, which she claimed were worth a fortune.

Martinez’s wife and daughter were jabbering about something, and he wasn’t even paying attention to what they were saying, still thinking that he’d just wasted two hours of his life that he’d never get back, when they passed a guy in a ball cap leaning against a brownstone. Martinez walked about three more paces when he thought:
Whoa! That was the guy.

Martinez had been on the force only two years and being an NYPD cop was a dream come true. He’d always wanted to be a cop. He was currently working the day shift, and twelve hours ago, at the start of his shift, he’d been handed a photograph of a man that looked like it had come from a driver’s license. The sergeant said that finding the man in the photo was currently NYPD’s highest priority—although no one said who the man was or what he was wanted for. All Martinez was told was that if they spotted the guy they weren’t to approach him but were to immediately call their supervisor.

The first thing Martinez needed to do was make sure the man leaning against the brownstone was really the one they were looking for. He’d just gotten a glance at him. He also needed to get his family out of the area. He walked half a block, forcing himself not to look back, then stopped and told his wife, “Honey, I want you and Sara to take a cab home. There’s something I have to do.”

“What? What are you talking about?” his wife said.

“Look, I don’t have a lot of time here, but this is a big fuckin’ deal. I mean for my career.”

“Jesus, John, watch your language,” she said, looking down at their daughter, and Sara looked back up at him, big brown eyes like you’d expect Bambi to have. God, he loved those eyes.

“Yeah, sorry,” he muttered. “Look. I don’t have time to explain, but you and Sara need to get out of here right away.”

“Are you going to be safe?” his wife asked.

“Yeah, sure, it’s nothing dangerous. I just want you out of here before I call this in.”

Before she could argue with him, he stepped into the street and waved down a passing cab. After his wife and daughter were inside the cab, he said to his wife, “I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

“John, I don’t know what’s going on here,” his wife said, “but I don’t like this.”

“Yeah, yeah, me either. Look, I’ll be home as quick as I can, and if I get stuck here, I’ll let you know.”

The cab took off and he looked back up the street. The man was still leaning against the brownstone. He didn’t know if he’d noticed Martinez go by with his family, but he doubted that he had paid any attention to their faces. Martinez pulled out his cell phone and walked back up the street and pretended to have a conversation with somebody. He was hoping that by holding the phone to his mouth the man wouldn’t get a good look at his face as he passed him. As he walked by the brownstone he said, “Yeah, Bob, that sounds good. I should be there in about twenty minutes. Yeah, yeah, I know.”

Martinez didn’t stare as he passed; he just glanced over at him again and kept on walking and talking. Yeah, it was the guy. He was sure—or at least 90 percent sure. The man in the photo had been clean-shaven and this man had two or three days’ worth of beard, but the cleft in his chin was what made Martinez sure it was the hard-looking son of a bitch in the picture. He walked to the corner, still holding his cell phone to his ear, then crossed the street.

There was a boutique on the corner, on the other side of the street from the brownstone, and it was still open. He’d be able to see the guy from the boutique’s windows. He entered the boutique, pulled out his ID, and approached the clerk, a pudgy girl in her twenties with big, ugly eyeglasses. She was reading one of those movie star gossip magazines. “NYPD,” Martinez said. “I’m undercover and I need to stay here in this store for a few minutes. Okay?”

“Yeah, sure, I guess,” the girl said, then started reading the magazine again. She seemed so unconcerned that Martinez wondered if she was stoned.

Martinez punched a number into his cell phone. “Sarge, it’s John Martinez. I’m watching that guy in the picture you handed out at roll call today.”

29

Quinn’s phone rang just as he was handing Pam a glass of wine.

“Quinn,” he said.

“Commissioner, this is Captain Dick Heller, Fifth Precinct. I was told you were to be contacted directly if a certain man was spotted, the man in the photograph that was passed out this morning.”

“Yes, Captain, that’s correct.”