Dead Red (30 page)

“Seems like someone was looking for something.” Jack held up the phone to show Fred the picture of the weapons. “Not a big leap here.”

“I had no idea about—”

“Again, it’s not us you’re going to have to convince.” Jack paused to let that sink in. “If
we
can figure out what was going on here, we’ve got a much better chance of getting ahead of this and minimizing the damage.”

Now Jack was really sounding like Charles Golden.

“We can start,” Jack continued, “with you showing us your GPS system.”

Without missing a beat, Fred put his hand on the computer screen and turned it toward us. What we saw was a map of the roads and highways of New York City. I couldn’t quite figure out how it worked, so I waited.

“All six of our units,” Fred said, “are equipped with a GPS module. Their locations are transmitted back here in real time.”

“It’s that simple?” I asked.

Fred smirked. “It involves GPS satellites and individual vehicle antennas, but yeah, it’s all I need to know.”

“Anyone else have access to this data?” Jack asked.

“Just me, or whoever’s manning the shop.”

“And it’s twenty-four/seven?”

“Shop’s not open all that time, but I can access the system from home or the next day to see where the units have been on the late-night shifts.” Anticipating the next question, he said, “I got three units out right now.” He punched a couple of keys, the map got much smaller and moved to the left; a satellite photo filled up the right half of the screen. Both sides displayed a red dot with a series of numbers next to it, which I assumed to be the medallion number. “Others ain’t on the road right now.”

“And only this computer and your home computer can access this data?”

“That’s how I’ve set it up. Why would anyone else wanna know this stuff for?”

“I think someone was tracking your cabs, Fred,” I said.

“The guns,” Jack added.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Fred said, holding up his hands and springing to his feet. “You can’t prove any of that. You trying to put me outta business?”

“Jack was just thinking out loud,” I said in an attempt to keep the conversation civil and focused. I looked at Jack; he didn’t look happy. “But it’s exactly the kind of thinking the cops’re going to put together.” I took a few seconds to figure out what to say next. I came up with, “We need to talk to Mike. You know where we can find him?”

Fred laughed. “Shouldn’t be too hard. Since he got outta the hospital, he’s been home
recuperating.
Which means sitting on his ass in front of the TV, drinking Bud Lights.”

“He
was
shot, Fred.”

“I know, I know.” He picked up a piece of scrap paper and pulled a pen out of his breast pocket. He scribbled something down and handed it to me. “Here’s his new address. You know where that is?”

“Jack’ll find it.”

“You’re not the only one with GPS,” Jack added, snatching the paper from my hand and letting me know he was unhappy I had taken control of the interview.

Fred stepped around his desk, calmer now. “Listen, sorry I got upset about all this shit. It’s just, with Ricky dead and Little Mike recuperating, half my fleet’s off the streets. And now this.” He pointed to the weapons on Jack’s phone. “It’s all too much, y’know?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said.

“What’re you gonna do after you talk with Little Mike?”

“Depends on what he tells us. But outta respect for Ricky and his family, if we have to go to the Feds with this, we’ll give you a heads-up. That’s the best I can do.”

Fred gave me a resigned look. “Thanks. How’s my aunt doing?”

“Why don’t you call her?” I said. “She’s at her sister’s, here in Queens.”

“Better yet,” Jack added, “whyn’t you swing by with a fucking coffee cake or something. Her son was killed—your cousin.” Jack spun around and stormed outside.

I looked at Fred. “That’s just Jack’s way. Go see your aunt. She’ll appreciate it.”

“Yeah,” Fred said. “Thanks, Ray.”

A minute later I was sitting in Jack’s car, and he turned the ignition key. I was about to say something, when he held up his hand. “Don’t. I just wanna drive over to Mike Dillman’s house and see what he’s got to say. I’d like to drive in silence.”

And so we did.

*   *   *

Finding Mike’s apartment building was easy enough. And since the front door was ajar, getting inside was just as easy. Sure enough, Mike was sitting in his living room in front of the TV, a beer in the cup holder of his recliner. All as Fred had led us to expect.

Speaking to him was going to be the difficult part. It looked like someone had put a bullet in the middle of Little Mike’s forehead.

Chapter 25

“HOLY FUCKING SHIT,” JACK SAID AS he pushed me back into the hallway, drew his gun and joined me against the wall outside. With his foot, he nudged the apartment door all the way open. After ten seconds of nothing, Jack yelled, “NYPD!” More nothing. “Police!” Jack yelled again, this time causing Mike’s across-the-hall neighbor to stick her head out.

“Get back inside, ma’am,” Jack told her.

“I’m calling the police.”

“We
are
the police, ma’am. Shut your door.”

She did as instructed, and Jack turned to me. He motioned with his head toward Mike’s apartment. “Clear?”

I held up my hand and listened for any noise from inside. There was none, except the sounds of traffic coming through an open window and Mike’s TV. I shrugged. “I think so.” I took out my phone.

“What the fuck are you doing, Ray?”

“Calling the cops.”

“The old bitch across the hall probably already did. This neighborhood, that gives us less than five minutes.”

“For what?”

He looked at me like I was stupid and stepped inside the apartment.

I followed him. “I don’t think this is a good idea, Jack. It’s a crime scene.”

And another dead body.

“So I won’t touch anything. Just look around.”

“For what?”

“When I find it, you’ll be the first to know, Ray.”

Jack put his gun back in its holster, stepped over to the body on the recliner, and with two fingers checked his neck for a pulse. We both knew there wouldn’t be one. “Taking the concept of La-Z-Boy to a new level.” With the back of his hand he felt the beer can in the holder. “Warm.” He looked around the sparsely furnished living room. “This guy didn’t own a whole lot, huh?”

“He’s only been out of prison a short time.”

“Still. One chair, piece-of-shit couch, and a TV that looks like the one I got rid of ten years ago.” He gave the set a closer look. “Least he got cable.”

“Bedroom?”

Jack walked over to what had to be the bedroom door. “I’ll check it out, Ray. You do the kitchen. We got about a minute or two, I’m guessing.”

“Let’s make it one, to be on the safe side.”

“Right.”

I went into the kitchen, grabbed the only dishtowel I could find, and stuck it over my hand. I checked all the cabinets and found them empty. All the dishes this guy owned seemed to be in the drainer. I opened the stove door and did the same to the fridge and the freezer. Nothing out of the ordinary, except the lack of food in both. Maybe he ate out a lot. I was about to close the door to the refrigerator, when I noticed both vegetable crisper drawers on the bottom seemed to be full. I opened them, and each had at least a dozen baseball-sized tomatoes in them. I moved them around with the dishtowel—
Can crime scene techs get fingerprints off a tomato?
—and found an envelope under each group. I removed each one with the very tips of my pinkie and thumb. Through the towel I could feel the envelopes had money inside. I put them back where I’d found them and called Jack.

“No need to yell,” he said from over my shoulder, scaring the crap out of me. “Whatcha got?”

I pointed to the crispers. “Two envelopes, cash inside.”

“How much?”

“I didn’t bother to count, Jack, but by the size of them, it’s not petty.”

Jack leaned over. I stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“… Ray?” he warned.

“We leave that for the cops. However much it is and wherever it came from, it’s evidence. Let’s get out of here before the real cops show up.”

“You’re right,” Jack said, straightening up. He put his thumb and forefinger on my wrist and removed my hand from his shoulder. He gave the wrist more than a little squeeze. “Next time you want me to do something—use your words.”

“Gotcha.”

*   *   *

We were across the street from Mike’s apartment for about ten minutes, when it became clear his neighbor had never called the cops. My stomach was tightening up again. I had gotten away with vomiting in front of Jimmy; I was not going for a repeat around Jack.

“We had more time than we thought,” Jack said after calling 911 from a pay phone on the corner. He made a point of not mentioning the money in the fridge and hung up. “We coulda found more shit with that time.”

“More than the money?”

“And this.” Jack pulled something out of his pocket about the size of a stick of gum. He held up a flash drive. “Interesting item for Little Mike to have in his possession, considering he had no computer at his place, huh?”

“It is.”

As Jack and I considered that, a blue-and-white pulled up in front of Mike’s building. Two uniforms got out and rushed through the entrance. I knew the place would be crawling with detectives, crime scene folks, and EMTs within a half hour. It was time to go.

“What time is your boy Edgar gonna be at The LineUp?”

I looked at my cell. It was almost four. “Less than an hour.”

“Let’s go grab some beers and dinner. Wanna call him and have him bring his laptop?”

“That’s like calling the pope and reminding him to bring his beads.”

“Good.”

“You sure you’re okay to eat?” I asked.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because we just saw a dead body.”

He laughed, but not the kind of laugh that said he thought I was being funny. More like the kind of laugh that says, “Shut the fuck up.” I did.

We started walking to Jack’s car when I realized I should call Allison. We may have had plans for dinner—my memory wasn’t so good at the moment—and I wanted to let her know where I’d be. Like most times when I called her these days, I ended up leaving a message. When I was done, Jack grinned at me and made a whipping noise.

“That’s funny,” I said. “I can’t remember the last time I heard a guy with an actual girlfriend make that sound.”

He opened his door, looked over the car’s roof. “Fuck you, Ray.”

*   *   *

We were on our second beers when Edgar showed up. I could tell by the look on his face he was happy to see me, but confused by Jack’s presence. Edgar didn’t do well with the unexpected. It took a few seconds for the smile on his face to go from anxious to something approaching pleasant surprise. He shook our hands and took the empty stool between us. He got Mikey’s attention and ordered a pint of Bass and a small can of tomato juice. When Mikey brought them over, I told him to take it out of my pile of cash on the bar.

“Thanks, Ray,” Edgar said. To Jack, he said, “How are you doing?”

“I’m fucking great.”

After waiting for some follow-up that never came, Edgar turned back to me. “Ray, I’m sorry, man. I need more time to look into those TEC-Nine thefts. The military intel on this stuff is tight as a drum.”

Jack took the flash drive we had found at Mike’s out of his pocket. “How much to tell me what’s on this thing?”

Edgar looked at it. “You mean how much money?”

“No, how much Chinese silk?”

Edgar’s face went back to confused.

“Edgar doesn’t charge me when I ask him for a favor, Jack.” I put my hand on Edgar’s shoulder. “Unless you consider a couple of beers and the occasional burger and fries a fee.”

Jack had to take some time to mull that over. In his world, nobody did anything for free. You want something, you pay for it. Somebody wanted something from you, same deal. I liked my world better. By the time Jack had come to terms with that concept, Edgar had his laptop out and booted up. He took his hand and turned it palm up, asking for the drive. Jack gave it to him, and Edgar slipped it in the side.

“This’ll take a few secs,” he said, and poured a little juice into his beer. “Saw a dead fox today.”

“Where the hell do you work again? Parks?”

“MTA. I was underground today checking some signals. Usually I work basic communications, but they were short a guy, so…” When no one said anything, Edgar continued. “Fox probably jumped into a truck upstate, jumped out down here, made his way to the subway, and got hit by a train.” He paused and I knew a joke was coming. “That’s what happens when you don’t pay your fare.”

I let out a little laugh. Jack remained silent. Edgar didn’t notice. When the screen came up, he pressed a few buttons. “This is a GPS program.” Edgar ran his fingers over a few more keys. “For a taxi company.” He turned to me. “The one Ricky T drove for?”

“Yeah. What can you tell me about it?”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Can’t tell you that,” Jack said. “Confidential.”

Edgar seemed okay with that. “Was it from the owner?”

“No. Why?”

“Because there’s no reason for this system to leave the shop. It’s for the owner and maybe the dispatcher, if they have one.”

“So,” I said. “This is a pirate?”

“
Exactamente,
Ray.” He fooled around with some more buttons.

“How far back does that thing go?”

“Let me see.” Edgar touched a few more buttons while Jack and I took sips from our beers. “Looks like it’s on a seven-day program. Sounds normal.”

“You mean, we can use that to tell us where the cabs have been over the past week?” Jack asked.

“Well.” Edgar paused to drink a little beer. When he put his glass down, he said, “
I
can.”

“How much is—?” Jack stopped himself. “What do you want for dinner, Edgar? It’s on me.”

Edgar’s smile took up about three-fourths of his face. He was in blissful business. “Fish and chips would be great, Jack. Thanks.”