Angel Face, page 2
The judge turned his eyes on the prosecutor.
“Your Honor,” the kid said. “The State agrees to drop the charge of second-degree murder.”
Erin was suddenly wide awake, sitting forward on the edge of her bench. Just like that, they were throwing away the most serious charge? Without even trying for a plea bargain? She didn’t think the case was weak at all. Men had gone to prison on shakier evidence. What was going on here?
“To the remaining charges,” Schultz said, “my client pleads nolo contendere.”
Erin didn’t know Latin, but she knew that phrase. It meant “no contest,” and it was a lawyerly way of admitting guilt without explicitly admitting it. This case wouldn’t go to trial. Now all that was left was for the judge to set bail prior to sentencing.
“Very well,” the judge said. “Defendant is released on recognizance, to appear for sentencing two weeks from today.” He banged his gavel on the lectern, stood up, and left the room.
Erin was stunned. The judge hadn’t thrown Alfie back in a cell, hadn’t even bothered to set bail. That was beyond absurd. Alfie Madonna was a repeat offender, a career criminal. If the murder charge had remained in effect, he might have been held without bail at all, or the judge might have set a prohibitively high bond. But now Alfie could just walk out of the courthouse and go home to await his sentencing—assuming he didn’t make a run for it and flee the state, or maybe the country.
Somebody had put a thumb on the scales of justice, Erin was sure of it. What she didn’t know was who and why. But she intended to find out.
Chapter 2
Erin caught up with Alfie and his lawyer before they’d gotten halfway to the courthouse exit. The kid was moving slowly and was obviously in serious discomfort. He was leaning on Schultz more heavily than he had in the courtroom.
“Mr. Madonna,” she called, coming up behind.
Kingston Schultz interposed himself between them. “My client has no comment on the—Detective O’Reilly! What an unexpected pleasure.”
“It’s okay, King,” Alfie said. “She’s stand-up.”
“How are you feeling?” Erin asked him.
“I’ll live,” he said. “At least a little longer. I’m glad I ran into you.”
“Did the folks at the hospital know what got you?”
“Strychnine,” Schultz said, his dark eyes flashing angrily. “The poor boy went into convulsions in his cell. By the time they got him to the hospital, his back was bent so badly he nearly snapped himself in two. He could scarcely breathe. They treated him with activated charcoal, anticonvulsants, and muscle relaxants, and kept him isolated in darkness for several days. The slightest exposure to light or disturbance of his body caused additional seizures.”
Erin grimaced. “That sounds rough. Are you okay to be up and around?”
“Yeah,” Alfie said.
“Do you have any idea how you were poisoned?”
“Supper,” he said. “But before you ask, I got no idea who gave it to me. I was taking a nap when they shoved a fast food bag through the slot. Burger and fries. The burger tasted a little funny. Bitter. But that’s not the point.”
“What is the point, Alfie?”
“We both know who did it,” he said grimly. “And don’t worry, I remember our talk. You don’t gotta worry about nothing. Thanks for getting me out.”
Erin blinked. “Alfie, that wasn’t me,” she said, nodding back toward the courtroom. Alfie had promised her, when he’d first been arrested, that if she got him out of jail, she wouldn’t have to take down Vinnie Moreno through legal means. Alfie would handle the slick don himself.
He gave her a knowing look. “Of course it wasn’t,” he said, doing everything short of laying a finger alongside his nose and winking. “Glad you’re in the neighborhood. I won’t forget it and you won’t be sorry.”
“You really ought to get some rest, Mr. Madonna,” Schultz said. “You’re only up and about as of today. You need a good lie-down in a dark room. We’ll take my car.”
“King’s right,” Alfie said. “We shouldn’t be talking. Be seeing you, Detective.”
He touched his forehead respectfully and turned away, leaving Erin as mystified as before. She watched him go, wondering how much of her street rep was built on people giving her credit for other folks’ actions. Then, shaking her head, she followed to the security checkpoint.
Alfie and Schultz breezed through security. Erin was delayed a few moments, getting her guns back. She clipped her trusty Glock to her belt and strapped her snub-nosed .38 in its ankle holster. She pulled down her jacket over the waist gun. It was a chilly September day and she didn’t want a draft under her coat. Then she nodded politely to the guards and made her way outside.
Schultz spoke briefly to Alfie and walked away. The young Mafioso sat down on the courthouse steps and dangled his hands between his knees. Erin caught up with him and stood beside him.
“Lawyer ditched you, huh?” she said.
“He’s just going to get the car,” Alfie said. “I’m feeling pretty lousy. King tried to push back the arraignment a couple more days, but the judge said no way. I think they just wanted to clear me off the books. Y’know, if the Family ran the courts, they’d run a lot smoother.”
“Yeah, and your guys would never end up in the system,” she said with a wry smile.
“How’s that different from what we got now?” he replied. “If you got the right connections, you can get away with anything. If you don’t, you can’t get away with nothing. That’s how it always is. Only difference is who’s calling the shots. Thanks again.”
“Look,” she said. “I don’t know what happened in there, but I swear, I had no idea it was going to happen.”
“Then why were you there?”
“Because of your dad.”
“You didn’t hardly know him.”
She shrugged. “I was there when he died. And I don’t think you’re such a bad guy, Alfie. Who knows? If you keep your nose clean and stay out of trouble this time, you might be able to make something of yourself.”
He shook his head. “It’s a little late to be going straight. Besides, I got a job to do.”
“If you’re thinking about revenge, don’t,” she warned him. “That’s a rough, one-way road.”
“You think I care?” His eyes were windows into bitterness, anger, and pain. “They killed my dad. What would you do if it was your old man?”
Erin thought of her father, of his bushy gray mustache and his serious, proud eyes. She heard in her head the way he always called her “kiddo” and remembered the smell of his shaving cream when he’d bent down to kiss her forehead on the way to work when she was a girl.
“I’d feel the same as you,” she said. “But—”
Her attention was caught by a blur of navy blue in the corner of her eye. She’d already subconsciously pegged the approaching man as a uniformed cop before she’d really registered him. If you spent enough time on the streets, you learned to spot NYPD blue. The cop was making straight for the two of them, walking purposefully.
“Everything’s fine, Officer,” she said, thinking he’d noticed Alfie’s obvious pain.
The uniform didn’t say anything. He wasn’t even looking at Erin. And his body language was all wrong.
Erin would have time later to think about what tipped her off. It could’ve been any number of little things, all of them swimming under the surface. Maybe it was the stiff way the man moved. When your adrenal glands kicked into overdrive, fine-motor control went out the window and people started moving in large, jerky motions. Or maybe it was the sheen of sweat on the guy’s face on a day when it was forty and overcast. Or the sloppy way the man had fastened his equipment belt. Or the non-regulation turtleneck peeking over the top of the police windbreaker. Whatever it was, all the signals combined into a big, bright red flag in Erin’s brain.
“NYPD!” she shouted, and knew she’d been right. The man flinched back and his eyes flashed quickly around. He reacted not like a cop, but a perp. It was only for an instant, and the man recovered fast, but to Erin’s streetwise eyes, it couldn’t have been more obvious. This guy was no policeman.
Erin went for her gun. The counterfeit cop grabbed for his own weapon. She got her hand under her jacket and snatched at her Glock. But it snagged on the lining of her coat for a critical instant. She saw the man’s hand come up, a pistol in it, a Glock just like hers, and knew she didn’t have time to take him down.
“Gun!” she yelled. She wasn’t wearing her body armor. Every instinct screamed at her to take cover, but she was halfway down the courthouse steps. They were totally exposed. The fake cop was at the bottom of the stairs, less than fifteen yards away. That was about the standard range for police gunfights, and a lot closer than she ever wanted to be to an armed opponent.
The man started shooting, holding his gun one-handed. He’d been aiming at Alfie, but Erin had distracted him and his aim had followed his attention. The first bullet caromed off the concrete directly between her and Alfie, spraying chips in all directions. The second and third marched closer to Erin, blasting chunks out of the steps.
Alfie yelped in surprise and did the only sensible thing he could, which was to flop over on his side and curl up as small as he was able. Erin dodged away from him, hearing a bullet whine past her ear with a high-pitched zip that set her teeth on edge. She twisted her wrist savagely and finally cleared her sidearm, bringing it on line and wrapping her left hand around her right.
She didn’t have a clear shot. Her background was full of pedestrians, the street jammed with cars. She hesitated an instant.
The gunman, under no such compunctions, fired two more times.. Her opponent’s second bullet dug a hot furrow along her jaw, just under her ear. It felt like taking a lash from a bullwhip. Her whole body jerked to one side. She stepped wrong on the stairs and felt her ankle twist under her. Then she was tumbling down the steps, bumping and rolling, and ducked her head under her arms.She fell all the way to the bottom of the courthouse steps, landing with a shock that rattled her teeth. She rolled over onto her back and tightened her abdominal muscles, sitting up and raising her Glock between her feet.
“Police!” someone shouted from the top of the stairs. That would be the cops—the real cops, courthouse police. Three of them were running down the steps, guns drawn.
Erin paid no attention to them. She saw the fake cop fleeing across the street. She took aim at his retreating back, but he was surrounded by a cluster of startled, staring New Yorkers. If she missed, or even if she hit but got unlucky with the overpenetration, she could easily kill a bystander.
“Freeze!” Erin rasped out, but of course the would-be assassin paid no attention. In another moment, the man was out of her line of sight.
There was no question of giving chase. Erin knew that as soon as she scrambled to her feet. Her ankle screamed in protest and tried to buckle. She winced and tested it. Not broken, but probably sprained. She’d be running again, just not today. Something warm and wet was oozing down the left side of her neck. She brushed at it distractedly and saw blood on her fingertips.
“Drop it!” a man shouted from a few steps above her. “Show me your hands, lady!”
“Take it easy, guys,” she said dully, dropping the Glock and raising her hands. “I’m one of you. O’Reilly, Major Crimes. We’ve got a shooter on foot, making a run for it. He’s dressed in a Patrol uniform.”
“Let’s see your ID,” one of the cops said, approaching her carefully.
Erin slowly used one hand to pull up her coat to show the gold shield at her belt.
“Okay,” the man said, lowering his gun. “You said you got shot at by another cop?”
“No, a guy dressed as a cop, in a NYPD windbreaker,” she said. “Call it in now. I want a BOLO on a lone man in NYPD uniform, lightly built, about five-foot ten. Armed and dangerous.”
A black Audi had pulled up to the curb. Kingston Schultz got out of it. The lawyer stared at Erin and his client, who was still curled into a fetal ball on the steps. Then he hurried toward them.
“Detective!” he exclaimed. “What in God’s name happened?”
“Someone just tried to take out your client,” Erin said. “And me along with him. I don’t think Alfie’s been hit.”
Alfie cautiously raised his head. “Is it over?” he asked.
“Are you hurt, boy?” Schultz’s concern came across like anger.
“I… no,” Alfie said, patting himself on the chest. “No. I’m fine.”
“You need to get him off the street,” Erin said to Schultz. “We can go to the Eightball. That’s Precinct 8, my station house. We can keep him safe.”
“And you think he’ll be safe there, do you?” Schultz was definitely angry now. “Detective, my client has narrowly escaped murder in a police station once. Now a second time, on the very steps of your city courthouse. You will forgive my skepticism when you guarantee his safety.”
Erin swallowed a retort, realizing he had a point. “What do you suggest?” she asked, trying to keep her own voice calm and level, though her heart was hammering and her hands were shaking.
“You’ve been shot, ma’am,” one of the cops said. “We need to get you to a hospital.”
“I’m fine,” she said brusquely. “Forget about it. Where are you taking Mr. Madonna, Mr. Schultz?”
“I do not think I will tell you,” Schultz said stiffly.
“King, she saved my life,” Alfie said quietly.
Schultz’s face softened. “I see,” he said. “Forgive me, Detective. We are all a little upset.”
“Forget about it,” she said again. She stepped away from the courthouse cops and lowered her voice for Schultz’s ears alone. “Look, do you think it’s a coincidence, your client getting off the hook and a guy waiting right outside to waste him?”
“I am a lawyer, not a fool,” Schultz said, his eyes showing a glimmer of dark amusement.
“So somebody’s gunning for him,” she went on. “I can help him, but only if you and he will let me. If you can give me a couple hours, I can arrange a safe house for him. Can you look after him until then?”
He nodded. “I think it will take his enemies some time to regroup for another attempt,” he said. “In the meantime, I will take him to my office. The building is quite secure.”
“Okay,” she said. “I remember it. I’ll get there as soon as I can. It’ll be me, in person, and maybe one or two others. If I’m not there, you don’t let anyone else in. You copy?”
“I copy, Detective. And I thank you. Not everyone in your occupation would take so much trouble over a boy like Alfredo.”
“Maybe I just don’t like guys getting murdered in my city,” Erin growled.
A police sergeant was approaching Erin with the businesslike air of an officer wanting to know what was going on. Erin sighed inwardly. Her immediate future was definitely going to include at least one official statement and a use-of-force report, with all the other paperwork that accompanied it. Now that the shooting had stopped, every muscle in her body was aching, reminding her that she’d just fallen halfway down a concrete stairway. And in spite of the way she’d brushed off the other cop, she should probably get her neck looked at and make sure she didn’t bleed to death or get an infection. So much for a quiet day off. She’d have to call Carlyle and make sure he took her mom out to lunch or something. It didn’t look like she’d have much time for family.
Chapter 3
“I think we need to go over the concept of a day off again, O’Reilly,” Lieutenant Webb said.
Erin smiled wearily at her commanding officer from her perch on the back of the ambulance. “I’ll just tell the bad guys to only shoot at me when I’m on the clock, sir,” she said.
“I swear, it’s a miracle you’re still alive,” he said, shaking his head. “So now we’ve got hitmen running around New York dressed like our guys.”
“That’s a class E felony,” she said. “First-degree criminal impersonation.”
“Somehow, I doubt if that bothered him, given that he was trying to commit murder,” Webb said dryly. “Who was the target?”
“Alfredo Madonna,” Erin said without hesitation. “The gunman only shot at me because I intervened. Nobody even knew I was going to be there, so there’s no way they could’ve set it up to hit me.”
“That’s some relief,” Webb said. “Close call, though. How’s the neck?”
“Just a graze,” she said, touching the butterfly bandage gingerly. “I didn’t even need stitches.”
“Why go to all this trouble to take out this kid?” Webb asked. “Who is he? I know his dad was a big mover in the Family, but Alfredo’s a nobody.”
Erin glanced around. The paramedics were packing up their gear, having tended to her and determined she didn’t need to go to the hospital. Half a dozen uniformed cops were guarding a perimeter around the courthouse, but there wasn’t much point. The only evidence the shooter had left at the scene was a handful of cartridge cases, and they’d already scooped up the spent brass and packed it in evidence bags.
“Vinnie Moreno,” she said quietly. “He’s old-school Mafia. You remember at the beginning of Godfather II, when that Sicilian guy kills Vito’s dad and wants to kill him, too, even though he’s just twelve years old?”
“This isn’t a movie, O’Reilly,” Webb said. “But I see what you mean. You think the Oil Man’s worried about revenge for what happened to Madonna’s dad?”
“I’d be worried if I was him,” Erin said. “Alfie basically told me he was going after Vinnie.”
“You think he’ll succeed?”
She shrugged, then winced as the motion pulled at the bandage on her neck. “I think Alfie’s young and pissed off, thinks he’s got nothing to lose.”
“Can you flip him?”
“I tried back when we first busted him. He said he couldn’t give us Vinnie. He didn’t know anything incriminating enough.”
