Crosshairs, page 6
Pershing was wanted for drug trafficking, but Trilling’s interest came from interviewing the fugitive’s former girlfriend: an attractive young lady who now wore a glass eye because Pershing had punched her so hard during an argument, he’d popped her real eye. Back in Montana, a guy who did something like that would’ve been beaten by the other citizens. Trilling had decided after meeting Pershing’s poor girlfriend that he was going to bring this man to face a judge no matter what.
Pershing had been arrested several times over the years, but age and some effort on his part had changed his appearance drastically. All Trilling had to go on was a blurry photograph that the girlfriend had provided, and reports that Pershing had a tattoo on his right biceps of a Muslim being hung. Maybe it had something to do with his employment as a contractor in Iraq and Afghanistan.
Trilling found the little bar he was looking for. To say it was a hole-in-the-wall was an insult to holes everywhere. It literally looked like some sort of storage area in the corner of a building. There were no markings over the door and only a little sign on the wall that simply said, MUG AND BOTTLE. This was where Lou Pershing was supposed to hang out. Rumor had it that the bar was also where business off the grid was conducted. Its location was relatively convenient for anyone from the Bronx all the way down to SoHo. A good central spot.
Rob Trilling had been here twice before, looking for Pershing. Even for this expensive neighborhood, the mediocre drinks were wildly overpriced to make up for the small number of patrons who came through the place. Everyone paid without complaint because they needed an establishment like this that they all knew and trusted.
The place was busier than Trilling had ever seen it. Over a dozen patrons. Most of them rougher-looking, middle-aged men. Three attractive women were sitting with a man in a dark corner. A couple of men were watching a hazy TV, trying to keep up with some soccer match in Europe. A few younger men played darts, and the rest were chatting quietly at the bar or one of the few tables. And one guy in the back who could be Pershing. He had a thick, untrimmed beard and hair slicked back with some kind of product.
Trilling made it a point to not even look the man’s way as he eased toward the bar. He wished there was a mirror at this dive so he could covertly look at his suspect, but there was just a bare concrete wall with no decorations behind the bar. He couldn’t risk a direct confrontation here, especially in case the man wasn’t Pershing.
The pretty bartender didn’t fit with the place. She was chatting with a tall guy at the end of the bar and showed no interest in seeing if Trilling wanted a drink. That was fine with him. After his childhood, he barely drank more than a single beer when he went out. It had been tough in the Army, but now he just avoided invitations to go out with people from the NYPD. Easier that way.
As Trilling stood at the bar, something whizzed past his left arm. He looked down at the noise it made as it thunked into the bar itself. He had to squint to make sure what he was really looking at: a dart was buried deep in the mahogany.
It definitely had been intentional.
CHAPTER 23
ROB TRILLING STARED at the dart that someone had thrown dangerously close to his arm. It was a cheap green plastic dart with a brass head. The attractive bartender glanced at the dart and then at him but didn’t say a word.
Trilling worked hard to maintain his composure and not snap his head around. That would give too much satisfaction to whoever had thrown it. He turned his head slightly and looked instead at a framed poster leaning against the wall. In the reflective glass of the frame, he caught a glimpse of two young men laughing at their handiwork. They were both about his age, with a little more muscle and weight than him. He knew guys like these in the military. A lot of time at the gym, the rest of the time bothering people.
Trilling turned his head slowly and smiled at the two men. They were both still smirking. He firmly gripped the end of the plastic dart with his fingertips and jerked it from the wood.
He stood there, watching the men in the poster frame while he held on to their dart. He wondered if it would interfere with their game to be missing one of their darts.
Then he heard a voice behind him say, “Little help?”
Trilling glanced over his shoulder at the two men. He didn’t say a word.
The taller of the two, a guy with shaggy hair and a half-assed goatee, said, “That dart don’t do you much good unless you’re going to clean your fingernails with it. How about tossing it back to us.”
Trilling didn’t hesitate to wing the dart as hard as he could at the table in front of the two men. The man with the shaggy hair and goatee was leaning on the table and the dart landed pretty close to between his hands. That wasn’t what Trilling had intended, but he’d let it ride. That was as good a throw as he was going to make. He risked a quick glance to the back of the bar to make sure the man who might be Pershing was still sitting alone. He was.
The shaggy dart player stood up straight, showing that he was a good six foot two. “Think that’s funny?”
Trilling smiled and let out a laugh as he said, “Yeah, kinda funny.”
“How’d you like it if I shove that dart up your ass?”
Trilling kept his broad smile. “Your mom tried to do that last night. Can’t you think of anything new?”
He let the man rush him. It was almost like when he used to wrestle with his brother. The man was slow and cumbersome. With the smallest of movements, Trilling stepped aside and grabbed the man’s right arm. Facing the nicest part of the lounge—the mahogany bar—Trilling guided the man’s head directly into the wooden bar top. The resulting thud was the only sound from the encounter.
Trilling felt the man’s legs go weak and shoved him so that he landed on a stool in a dazed lump.
Now he gave a hard stare at the man who’d been playing darts with the groggy one.
The second man lifted his hands and backed away to show that he wanted nothing to do with this.
Trilling scanned the bar one more time to make sure his potential fugitive hadn’t walked out. Clearly no one here cared if there was a fight going on or if a semiconscious man was sitting on a stool. Only a few people even looked up.
Trilling’s eyes darted to the rear of the bar.
The table where his suspect had been sitting was empty.
CHAPTER 24
IT WAS A nice surprise when Mary Catherine and I got home to find that all the kids had already eaten and were just finishing up the dishes. I’d like to think my grandfather had something to do with it, but I knew Ricky would have done the cooking, while Seamus was sitting at the end of our long dining table, teaching the twins which hands would win in poker.
My grandfather may look like a kindly old priest, and he is, but he sowed a lot of oats before taking his late-in-life vows.
I was still feeling great after a wonderful meal with my wife. My resilient and understanding wife. The one who wanted to have a meeting to discuss the possibility of bringing a new baby into the family. God, I hoped she was right about a family meeting.
I spent a few minutes chatting with my grandfather, which drew the attention of a couple more of the kids.
Seamus said, “What an easy task it is to babysit these angels.”
I cocked my head. “Okay, that doesn’t sound like you. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, my boy.”
“I can make someone squeal on you if I have to.”
“Are you always a cop?”
“Cop, parent—not that different. Now spill.”
My grandfather leaned in a little closer. “Bridget may have caught me finishing off your cabernet.”
“Not the last bottle of the 2019 Caymus.”
“That’s just it, boyo. I didn’t realize it was the last bottle until it was gone and I couldn’t find any more.” He gave me a smile like a kid who’d been caught in a fib. I just laughed. No one could get angry at an elderly priest who was still mischievous.
When Mary Catherine and I decided we were ready for the family meeting, six of the kids were already in the dining room: the two oldest, Juliana and Brian, who were both starting to find their way in the world as young adults but still living at home for the moment, thank goodness; Eddie and Trent, our younger boys; and Bridget and Fiona, the twins.
I had to call in Shawna and Chrissy, finishing their chores in the kitchen, and Ricky, playing on his phone in his bedroom.
I started counting heads and got to nine, but before I could ask where Jane was, the front door burst open and she rushed in, apologizing for missing dinner.
Mary Catherine said, “Where were you? Holy Name has been closed for hours.”
Jane looked at Mary Catherine, then at me. “I said I was sorry. I’m working on a project and have to spend some time at Butler Library up on the Columbia campus. Sister Mary Margaret worked it out so I have a Columbia ID and everything so I can use the library.”
I said, “What’s the project about?”
A sly smile spread across Jane’s even features. Then she said, “Can I keep it a surprise? I think you’ll like it.”
How could a father deny a request like that? Plus, she was using her sweet tone, not her disillusioned teenager tone. It was enough to convince me.
I turned to the room and raised my voice in a mock shout, saying, “We’re going to have a family meeting!”
The only one who seemed happy about that was Chrissy. “Do I get to vote?”
I said, “Everyone gets to vote. Except, as always, my vote and Mary Catherine’s count as two each.” That earned a few groans and comments from the older kids, who started to make excuses and wander off.
Without confronting anyone individually, Mary Catherine clapped her hands one time. Everyone froze like we were in a Twilight Zone episode. In reality, it was just years of conditioning: when the kids heard Mary Catherine give that single hard clap, they knew they’d better listen.
Mary Catherine said, “Your father doesn’t ask that much of you. One meeting to clear something up will help us all. Everyone take a seat at the table.”
I stood there dumbfounded as, without another word, each child sat down around our long dining room table. Mary Catherine hadn’t raised her voice. She hadn’t even issued a threat. That was power. There’s no way I could’ve done that.
I took a breath and started telling the kids about our appointments with the fertility clinic, what the doctors had told us, and that we hoped Mary Catherine might soon be pregnant. I finished by saying, “We were hoping to get your honest reactions to this news.”
There was dead silence.
My heart sank.
Then Brian started to clap. The others all joined in. Shawna and Eddie added a couple of shouts and hoots. It was a shower of applause.
Juliana was the first to speak. She looked at Mary Catherine and said, “I was worried you were sick. I knew you were going to a doctor, and you seemed so tired. This is great news.”
I let out my breath. Juliana was the oldest and remembered the early days of Maeve’s, my first wife’s, cancer diagnosis. I should’ve been more aware of that.
That opened the floodgates. The twins jumped up from each side and hugged Mary Catherine. Suddenly our dining room echoed with raised voices and squeals of surprise.
Then I noticed one kid wasn’t joining in. At the middle of one side of the table, sitting quietly and looking like she was about to cry, was my youngest, Chrissy. The baby of the family.
I said loud enough to make everyone calm down, “Chrissy, tell me the truth. How do you feel about this?” I was anxious about her reply. One unhappy kid could sour this whole endeavor.
Chrissy’s head snapped up like she hadn’t been paying attention. She said, “I just, I mean, I…” She started to cry and tried to wipe her eyes on the sleeves of her blouse.
I felt disappointment lurch through me. Mary Catherine’s smile fell right off her face.
Then, through her tears, Chrissy wailed, “I’m so happy I can’t stop crying. I’ll finally have a little brother or sister! This is the best day of my life.”
I was correct; we had raised these kids the right way. Next thing I knew we were in a giant hug around Mary Catherine.
CHAPTER 25
ROB TRILLING DIDN’T want to make it obvious that he’d been watching the man in the corner. He knew the guy hadn’t gone out the front door, so he must’ve slipped out the back. Trilling didn’t burst through the back door and race into the alley looking for him. Instead, he eased away from the semiconscious man on the stool and casually strolled toward the rear door.
Out of sight of the bar patrons, though, Trilling picked up the pace, sprinting down the alley and onto the street. He’d like to say it was his keen instincts that led him to turn a corner and catch sight of the man he thought might be Lou Pershing, but that wasn’t true. It was just luck. The same way luck could determine who survived the battlefield.
The suspect walked with a determined pace, but Trilling had no problem staying half a block back. He had to remind himself he was on his own and couldn’t call in help. All he had to do was see the disgusting tattoo on the man’s right biceps and he’d have his best fugitive arrest.
Trilling followed the man onto the 6 train, but almost lost him when he got out of the subway at 116th Street. East Harlem was an unfamiliar neighborhood for Trilling. The crowds in Midtown made it easy to blend in, but here there wasn’t nearly as much foot traffic, and he found it much more difficult to stay unnoticed.
Trilling watched as the suspect met a wiry Latino man. The Latino man introduced the suspect to a young woman. She looked really young. Dressed in knee-high boots and a skirt too short for the cool temperatures.
No matter what happened, Trilling decided he couldn’t ignore this. He watched as the Latino man walked away and the suspect and woman continued north to a questionable-looking building that resembled an old-time SRO—single-room occupancy. Trilling had heard places like this were all over the city thirty years ago but rare now. The nine-story building looked run-down and had no style. Trash blown from the street gathered around a few dead bushes at the entrance.
Trilling raced half a block just as the suspect and the young woman entered an elevator. He flew up the stairs, jumping out of the stairwell at each floor to see if the elevator had stopped there. He kept pushing himself to the next floor. All the way to nine.
Trilling burst through the stairwell door in time to see the suspect step into a room twenty feet away from the elevator. He took a breath and sprinted to the closing door. He blocked it from locking.
There was no turning back now.
The man turned as Trilling pushed completely into the room.
Instantly Trilling realized how formidable the suspect was up close. He stood a little over six feet and had to have forty pounds of muscle on Trilling.
“What the hell?” the man said in a gravelly voice, reaching down with his right hand and grabbing a pistol from his beltline. He had it out and aimed at Trilling’s nose in an instant. Trilling didn’t think he had ever seen someone draw a pistol so quickly.
There was at least six feet between them now and Trilling knew he couldn’t act without taking a .380 slug in the face.
He stayed in place and raised his hands slightly. Then he looked past the suspect to the frightened girl in a corner of the room. He said in an even voice, “You okay, miss?”
The young woman was obviously flustered but managed to nod. She wore a stylish knit cap, and her light-brown hair framed a pretty face.
Trilling knew he needed the suspect to move closer to him if he had any chance of disarming him.
The man was smarter than that and didn’t move. He said, “You got three seconds to tell me who you are and what you want.”
“Otherwise you’ll shoot me?”
“We got a genius on our hands.”
He still didn’t move any closer.
The man said, “Who the hell are you?”
“My ID is in my front pocket. Do you want me to reach for it or do you want to take it? I don’t want to risk you getting nervous with that gun.” He could see the man weighing the pros and cons of each option.
Trilling had no intention of telling the man who he was. He just needed him to get about three feet closer.
CHAPTER 26
ROB TRILLING STOOD with his hands raised, ignoring the SIG Sauer P230 .380-caliber pistol and instead looking closely at his suspect. Based on the blurry photo he’d been given, he really couldn’t tell if this was Lou Pershing or not. The guy seemed to be a little better built than any of the descriptions of Lou Pershing, but the bushy beard was the biggest impediment to identifying him.
Trilling wondered briefly if the man would show him his right biceps if he asked nicely. That was the most efficient way to handle this situation.
The suspect growled, “Do you have any idea who I am?”
Trilling kept a positive attitude. “Yes. Yes, I have an idea that you’re Lou Pershing.”
“Who?” The man stepped closer.
That was helpful, but Trilling wished the suspect would come another foot closer. He decided to make use of his training both from the Army and the NYPD. He wanted the man distracted. Thinking about something other than shooting him. Trilling said, “Are you saying you’re not Lou Pershing?”
The man shook his head and started to say, “I’m not—”
As soon as he started speaking, Trilling lunged forward, slapping the pistol away, then pivoted and swept the man’s legs with his right leg. The bigger man seemed to levitate for a moment then hit the floor with a tremendous thud.
By chance, the man’s arm swung past Trilling’s face. A metal snap on the cuff of the jacket caught Trilling under his eye, causing a moment of pain. But it was outweighed by the satisfaction Trilling felt as he casually leaned across the man and snatched the pistol, disarming him. He dropped the magazine, pulled the slide of the pistol, and ejected a single hollow-point .380 bullet. It made almost no sound when it hit the thin carpet.
