Angel Face, page 10
The apartment was every bit as seedy as Headley had suggested on the phone. The walls were covered with an ugly fake-wood veneer that hadn’t even looked good in the Seventies, when it’d been new. Now it was pitted, scratched, and stained. The whole place stank of stale cigarette smoke and the other undefinable odors of cheap housing. On the way to the bedroom, Erin saw a pizza box lying on the floor. Rolf sniffed at the box with more than passing interest, but was too well trained to try to snatch a slice.
The bedroom contained a battered dresser and end table, and an old bed with a sagging mattress. Calley had Headley up on the bed. The older Marshal’s coat was off. Calley was pressing a towel against Headley’s upper chest. Headley was sheet white.
“Evening, Detective,” Headley said in a faint, slightly watery voice. A little bubble of blood formed at the corner of his mouth and burst, spraying tiny droplets of red onto his chin.
“Jesus, boss, don’t talk,” Calley said. “You’ll be fine, but you’ve got to lie quiet.”
“What happened?” Erin asked.
“I’d just come back with the food,” Boone said. “I ran into the others in the kitchen. Headley said we were leaving. He told Calley and me to stay with the subject while he got the car. He opened the door and…”
The man stopped talking and ran a hand through his hair. He’d looked to Erin like a tough son of a bitch when she’d first met him, but now he looked years younger and thoroughly miserable.
“They must’ve followed me,” he said. “They were waiting in the hallway. As soon as he stepped outside, they let him have it with a shotgun. Headley’s quicker than he looks. He managed to get a little cover in the doorway, but he still caught some buckshot in the chest. Calley grabbed him and pulled him inside. I returned fire and got one of them when he tried to rush the door. I fired six—no, seven times at him. Then the other guy and I shot it out. He was just down the hall a ways, using another doorway. I guess he decided to make a run for it. He went for the stairs and I gave him a couple more shots. Three, I think. I’m pretty sure I hit him.”
“You did,” Erin said. “He was dead when Rolf grabbed him, and I didn’t fire a shot. That was excellent shooting, Marshal.”
The sirens were very close outside now. She heard car doors and police officers shouting.
“So where’s Alfie?” she asked.
“Bathroom,” Calley said. “I told him to get in there, lock the door, and get in the tub. I figured that might give him a little more protection from stray rounds. Easy, boss, easy.”
Headley moved weakly and coughed. Blood spattered from his lips. That wasn’t good. It meant he’d taken at least one pellet in either the windpipe or the lung.
“How come you guys weren’t wearing vests?” Erin asked. She knew there wasn’t much point in asking it, and she wasn’t wearing one herself, but the question just popped out.
“This was supposed to be a low-profile job,” Boone said bitterly. “We were trying not to look like Marshals. Eight years I’ve been doing this and I never shot anybody. Now I just gunned two guys and my boss is bleeding on a goddamn flophouse mattress. What a shitshow this turned out to be.”
“You got that right,” Erin said. “But this wasn’t your fault.”
“Didn’t you hear me? They followed me! I was tailed. If it isn’t my fault, who the hell’s is it?”
She shook her head. “You were already blown. There was a leak. Forget about that for now. We need to take care of the situation. We’ve got cops coming up.”
Boone nodded, but he didn’t look convinced. He’d done great in the heat of the moment, but now his first gunfight was over and he was feeling it.
She went to the bathroom door and knocked. “Hey, kiddo?” she called. “You can come out.”
There was no response.
“Alfie?” she tried again. “The fun’s over. You’re safe. This is Erin O’Reilly.”
Only silence answered her.
Erin frowned. “Alfie? You okay in there?”
It would be just her luck, she thought, if some freak bullet had ricocheted through the bathroom wall and punched Alfie’s ticket. Or maybe the idiot kid had tripped and knocked himself out on the bathtub. Didn’t people say bathrooms were the most dangerous rooms in the home? Or was that kitchens?
She pounded on the door with her fist. “Alfie! Stop screwing around and open up!”
“NYPD!” someone shouted from the hall.
“US Marshals!” Calley yelled back. “We’ve got a wounded man in the bedroom!”
Erin glanced at Boone, who was still having his private pity party. She knew from personal experience that a cop’s first shooting left a mark. But right now she didn’t have the time or spare energy to help him through it.
“Does anyone care what happens to this apartment?” she asked Calley.
“Well, the FBI, I guess,” he said.
“Oh, that’s fine then,” she said and kicked the bathroom door in.
Like most interior doors, this one was hollow-core wood, more of an aid to privacy than a serious barrier. Erin’s kick splintered the door and sent it flying open, rebounding off the wall and swinging nearly shut again. But she was already moving in. It felt very strange to do a dynamic entry without a gun in her hands, but that would definitely give Alfie the wrong idea, and the poor guy had already had more than his share of scares today.
“Happy now?” she growled. But she realized she was talking to herself. The bathroom was small, dingy, dirty—and empty. The little window stood open, letting in the cool autumn breeze. Alfie Madonna had made a run for it.
Chapter 11
Erin didn’t waste time getting pissed off. The shooting had started less than five minutes ago. Assuming Alfie had gone straight out the window, that meant he’d been on the move for about four minutes. Alfie had no car and no money, as far as she knew, but a running man could cover a lot of ground in that time.
“Boone!” she snapped. Uniforms were pouring into the apartment now, but she ignored them. Calley was still tending to Headley, a pair of Patrol cops moving to help him. Boone was hunkered down, leaning against the refrigerator in the kitchen, his head in his hands. He didn’t seem to hear her.
Erin grabbed him by the shoulder with one hand and knocked his hands away from his face with the other. “Marshal! I need you here. With me. You’re still on the clock. Focus!”
He looked up at her with red, puffy eyes. She was looking at a man who was finally realizing what it meant to carry a gun.
“What?” he asked quietly.
“Alfie Madonna’s in the wind,” she said. “I need something he was wearing, or something he was the last guy to hold, and I need it right now.”
“Thought he was in the bathroom,” Boone said. He was acting drunk, slurring his words. Erin recognized the symptoms of mild shock.
“Forget the bathroom,” she said, giving him a shake. “Alfie’s clothes. Now.”
Boone blinked and slowly looked around the apartment. Erin was practically dancing with impatience. So was Rolf. The K-9 could feel his partner’s energy, her urge to be in the chase, and he intended to be part of it.
“Front closet,” Boone said at last, pointing to a sliding door beside the apartment entrance. He carefully enunciated his words, getting them out in small chunks. “Black coat. Loaner. From Headley.”
“Thanks,” Erin said. “You stay here. When the medics get here, have one of them take a look at you. You might be hurt and not know it.”
She doubted Boone had taken any physical injury, but she also thought it’d be a good idea to have him examined by an EMT. He looked like he could use a shot of something a good deal stronger than anything they sold at the Barley Corner.
But that was up to the paramedics who’d be there in a minute. Erin dismissed the Marshal from her mind and hurried to the closet. Sure enough, a black windbreaker hung on a cheap wire hanger. She snatched it down and left the room, Rolf prancing eagerly at her hip.
“Detective O’Reilly?” a Patrol Sergeant hailed her. Erin paused. She couldn’t place his face.
“Do I know you, Sarge?” she asked.
“Know your face from the news,” he said. “That City Center thing last year. What’re you doing here?”
She shook her head. “Can’t explain. No time.”
“Who’s in charge?”
Erin cocked a thumb over her shoulder. “Deputy Marshal Calley. He’s in the bedroom. I have to move, Sarge.”
She and Rolf jogged down the stairs and out of the building, passing more cops. An Officer-Involved Shooting would bring every available officer. The parking lot was a lurid mass of blue and red flashing emergency lights and squad cars. Carlyle’s Mercedes sat incongruously front and center, abandoned. There was no sign of Ian.
It had been a deliberate choice not to ask for Patrol assistance in running Alfie down. The more people who knew he was out in the open, the more likely the Oil Man was to hear about it. Erin had known one cop who’d killed for the Mob, and for every one you knew about, there was a good chance there were two you didn’t, or maybe ten. She hated thinking that way, but her current situation made it the only rational way to think.
Besides, she already had the best search tool in the NYPD running beside her. She led Rolf around the building, looking up until she saw the open window that had to lead to the bathroom.
“He landed here,” she said, toeing the ground. Then she held the coat in front of Rolf’s snout. “Such!”
The scent on the jacket was fresh and sharp in the dog’s nostrils. He’d done this dozens of times, both in training and for real. Following a scent was as easy and natural for him as for Erin to run toward something she could see with her eyes. They were standing on a Manhattan sidewalk. Hundreds of human beings had walked here in the past day or two. Thousands of smells were intermingled.
It made no difference. Alfie Madonna’s smell was distinct from all others. Rolf zeroed it in and started moving.
“Fuss!” Erin said, reminding him to stay close. She still didn’t have his leash or his toy. She should’ve retrieved the leash from the Mercedes, but hadn’t wanted to take the time. She’d rely on his training and obedience to her voice.
The trail led down the street away from the apartment, then angled onto East 14th Street. Erin saw several pedestrians, all going about their own business, but decided not to bother asking them if they’d seen a young Italian guy running away. As long as Rolf had his trail, she didn’t need any other directions.
“Sitrep?” a man said just behind Erin and to one side.
She spun on her heel and snatched out her Glock. Then, as she raised the pistol, her brain belatedly identified the voice.
“Jesus, Ian!” she gasped. “Don’t sneak up on me like that! Not after a gunfight!”
“Sorry,” he said, stepping out of the doorway of a storefront that held a dry cleaner, a nail salon, and a Yoga studio. “No excuse.”
Until he moved, Erin hadn’t seen him. Either he’d been waiting for her, knowing which way she’d come, or he’d followed her so closely and quietly that she hadn’t had any idea he was there.
“I told you to get away!” she said in a low voice.
“Cleared the combat area,” he said. “Thought I’d better hang around in case you needed support.”
“There’s twenty cops back there!” she said, walking quickly while she spoke. Alfie was getting farther away with every passing second. “And you thought I’d need backup?”
“All respect, cops don’t always shoot the right target,” he said, falling in step beside her.
She winced. Ian had been shot repeatedly by a pair of police officers who’d mistaken him for a perp that summer. He still walked with a slight limp from one of those shots.
“Besides,” he added. “Mr. Carlyle would kill me if I let something happen to you. What’s the situation?”
“A couple Lucarellis got into it with the Marshals,” she said. “The shooters are dead, one of the Marshals is hurt pretty bad, and Alfie did a runner. We’re following him.”
“Understood. We expecting resistance?”
“No. Keep your gun holstered. Alfie isn’t armed and he’s not the enemy.”
Rolf led the way to the entrance to the subway. He paused a moment and then started down the steps. Erin and Ian followed.
“Driver got away,” Ian said. “I wasn’t taking fire, so didn’t engage. Maybe should’ve. Could’ve stopped him.”
“No!” she said sharply. “You can’t shoot a man who’s running away, Ian. You’re not a police officer. That’d be murder. You’d go to jail for that.”
He nodded. “Got the license plate. Probably stolen.”
“Probably, but give it to me,” she said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Foxtrot delta mike three four six two,” Ian said, using the military alphabet to designate the letters on the plate.
“Copy that.” They’d reached the bottom of the stairs and were facing the turnstiles. Erin had a Department-issued subway card. It didn’t surprise her that Ian had a card of his own, even though to her knowledge he never took the subway. He was the sort of guy who was prepared for this kind of thing.
Rush hour was over and the platform was nearly deserted. A guy in a business suit stood near the tracks, holding a briefcase in one hand. Over by the far wall, a teenage girl was looking at her phone.
Rolf snuffled his way across the station. But instead of going toward the platform, as Erin expected, he angled to one side. He scratched at the door to the men’s restroom and whined.
Erin glanced at Ian, who nodded. She put her shoulder against the door and shoved it open.
The smell of stale urine hit her like a physical blow. Most of the fluorescent lights actually worked, but that only showed the rest of the room in sharp, horrible detail. The tiles were cracked, several were missing, and a jagged hole gaped where the soap dispenser should have been. Half-hearted graffiti was scrawled across the sheet metal wall of the stall. The floor was stained a muddy brown color in several places. Erin hoped it was only from dirty water leaking in. One of the light bulbs buzzed, giving a hopeless, droning soundtrack to the place.
Alfie Madonna stood in the corner, facing the door, face pale, fists clenched. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see Erin, Rolf, and Ian.
Rolf barked twice and nosed at Alfie, confirming his scent. Then the K-9 looked back at Erin and cocked his head, waiting for praise.
“Smartass dog,” Alfie said. “I knew you’d come after me.”
“Why’d you run?” Erin asked.
“I’m done with this,” he said. “Your goddamn Marshals can’t do shit. They were supposed to protect me!”
“They did protect you!” she retorted. “One of them took a shotgun shell for you! They killed two of your buddy Vinnie’s goons. All you had to do was stay put!”
“And then what?” he shot back. “Wait for the next batch of shooters? They knew where I was! You got a rat!”
“You think I don’t know that? But you know me. Look, Alfie, if I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”
“So what? You ain’t the only cop in this city, and you’re on the take, too! I can’t trust nobody!” Up close, Erin could see the kid wasn’t just angry. He was scared half out of his mind. Why else would he have fled to a New York subway bathroom, one of the most awful places within a ten-mile radius?
“You have to trust me,” she said. “I can protect you.”
“You can try,” he said bitterly. “Since the cops got their hands on me, I’ve been poisoned, shot at, and had guys try to run me down. This is the fourth time somebody’s tried to whack me! Sooner or later they’re gonna get lucky, or your luck’s gonna run out.”
“Alfie, who’d you piss off?” she asked. “Seriously. Did you mouth off to somebody at Riker’s? Did you screw Vinnie’s daughter? Because I’m sorry, but from what I can see, you’re not worth all this effort to them.”
He spread his hands helplessly. “How the hell do I know? I told you before, I can’t give you nothing that’ll put the Oil Man away. I don’t know nothing! And I ain’t nobody! And it don’t matter, because I’m getting out of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m done with your damn Marshals and your cops and your lawyers and your judges and everything. I’ll take care of myself.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Alfie,” she said. “You wouldn’t last a day on the streets on your own.”
“I’m better off taking my chances,” he said stubbornly. “At least if I’m on my own, I don’t have to worry about no goddamn rats.”
“I promised your dad I’d look after you,” she said. As she spoke, she felt the tremor in the floor that indicated an incoming train.
“How are you gonna feel if I get popped?”
“Pretty damn lousy. Look, Alfie, I don’t want to take you in, but I will if I have to.”
“What for?” he demanded. “I’m out on bail. As long as I don’t leave the city, and don’t commit no crimes, you can’t bust me. I’ve got a court date. If I don’t make that date, you can haul me in. Until then, get the hell out of my way!”
The train rumbled into the station. Alfie stepped forward, moving around Erin. Ian silently placed himself in the doorway, blocking Alfie’s escape.
“Who’s this mope?” Alfie asked, sizing Ian up. “He ain’t no cop.”
“His name’s Ian,” Erin said. “He’s Cars Carlyle’s top security guy.”
“He don’t look so tough,” Alfie said. “You gonna move, buddy, or do I gotta move you?”
Ian wasn’t a large man, only about five foot ten. He was very physically fit, but he was built like a runner, not a bodybuilder. But Carlyle had once described Ian to Erin as the most dangerous man in New York, and she believed him. Ian’s expression didn’t change. He shifted his weight slightly, getting ready.
Erin knew Ian was calm under pressure, a lethal shot with any firearm, and as tough as they came, but she’d never seen him in a hand-to-hand fight. This didn’t seem like a good time to start. Knowing the guy, he’d probably break Alfie’s arm at the very least.
