Hack (25 page)

Mistake.

I sprang and went straight for him as fast as I could, hoping he didn’t have a pistol. He saw his unarmed victim coming toward him, yelling his ass off, and it shook him. He had already dropped the empty magazine and slammed a new one home and was about to pull the bolt back just as I jumped him. I tackled the gun, not him, and slammed him onto the pavement with the rifle just below his chin. He was still trying to pull the bolt so he could waste me. I faked trying to pull the weapon away from him and when he pulled back on it with all his strength, I added mine and slammed it into his face, breaking his nose. I did it again and saw blood. I did it again. More blood. Some big guy yelling my name pulled me off the gunman before I could smash his ugly face again.

“Down, boy. We need him alive, Ace,” Detective Phil D’Amico said.

Phil had his NYPD gold shield dangling from a chain around his neck and a black Glock in his hand.

“You got him, Shepherd,” Phil told me, taking the assault rifle off my bloody assailant. “Are you hit?”

He had to say it several times before I checked myself and told him I was okay. He sat me on the curb.

“That’s his blood on your hands?” Phil asked.

I looked at my hands, pale, steady, bloody. My shooter started moaning.

“Yeah. His. Mostly. I’m okay, just some scrapes and bumps,” I said.

“There were two of them. The other fucker with the shotgun was waiting on the other side of your entrance door. I had to take him out. Buddy, you are like a fucking shit magnet. I’m calling Izzy. Uniforms are on the way. Just sit there and keep your hands on your knees.”

“Izzy asked you to babysit me?” I asked Phil.

“Damn straight. I’ve been sitting on your building for days.”

“Thanks, Phil. I owe you. Wait. Tell Izzy to get on Badger. If they went after me, maybe they heard about Badger ratting them out.”

“Oh, shit. We’re not on him. That’s the DA’s show. I’ll tell him.”

A lot of nervous cops with guns arrived and I had to hold my hands up until Phil told them it was over. Then I called Mary Catherine, who said she was on her way.

“I was wrong, Shepherd,” she said. “I should have known.”

I called Jane to make sure she was okay. She said she was on her way home from an emergency and that she was fine. I told her I would be at her place after I wrapped it up with the cops and had picked up some clothes from my place.

“Be careful,” I said.

“These people are insane, like mad dogs,” Jane said.

“This is actually good,” I told her. “This is conspiracy to commit murder. Someone hired them. My guy is alive. Maybe he’ll talk.”

I asked Phil to get uniforms over to Jane’s place and he agreed. I phoned the
Daily Press
and got Ginny on the phone to warn her. Then I filed what happened for the website and the final edition.

“Let me get this straight,” Ginny said incredulously. “He chased you, you ran, hid behind a tree, he blasted the tree, some bullets came through and then you came out and ran
towards
him?”

“Yeah. He was reloading and was walking in closer for a better shot. There was no way I could outrun him or the bullets and I was out of trees. My only chance was to close the distance before he could open up again.”

“I could say his gun jammed,” she suggested.

“You don’t believe me?”

“No. Especially the part about the stripper pole.”

“I don’t care. Write what you want.”

Izzy arrived in twenty minutes, walked through the scene and had me tell my story and then told me he had new information.

“This editor, Don Badger, is dead. He was the apparent victim of a mugger, who slit his throat open after he left the
New York Mail
, about an hour before this went down. He was found a few blocks from the paper but the body had no ID. His wallet was gone. Some sergeant had a copy of the
Daily Press
, recognized Badger’s face and called me.”

“Holy shit. There goes your prosecution of Lucky Tal,” I said.

“I don’t think so,” Izzy said. “We have you and we have all those emails, memos, recordings, whatever. I’ll bet once we start charging other staffers with crimes, they’ll line up to testify against their boss. And we have your shooter—the live one anyway. By the way, he said you were very unsporting. He’s finding it hard to talk with so many teeth missing but so far he’s cooperating. He’s an illegal, Turkish, name of Erdem Bayrak. Has quite a habit, judging from his track marks. And from his shitty aim. His dead friend with the shotgun isn’t talking, but apparently his name was Arhan Terzi.”

“Great. Will Bayrak say who hired them to go after me?”

“Yup. Told us the whole thing. You were worth $5,000 in cash.”

“Each?”

“50/50 split.”

“I’m insulted,” I said.

“He had a note in his pocket. He was supposed to leave it on your body.”

That shut me up for a few seconds.

“What does the note say?”

“It claims to be a message from the Islamic Jihad something-or-other, saying you were executed in the name of Allah for your crimes against true believers.”

“Cute. So, who hired him?”

“You won’t like it,” Izzy warned.

“Uh-oh.”

“He didn’t get a name but I showed Bayrak several pictures, some from today’s paper, and he made a positive ID.”

“Tell me.”

“Donald Badger.”

“No way.”

“Way. Can’t shake it. I think he’s telling the truth.”

“What the fuck?” I said.

“That’s what I said.”

“Don Badger hires this clown to kill me and somebody else hires another clown to kill Badger?”

“Or the Hacker got him. Sounds like a real circus,” Izzy said. “I don’t believe the robbery bullshit.”

“It’s got to be Lucky Tal,” I said. “He said he would have somebody kill me.”

“I’d bet on it but we don’t have anybody in Badger’s homicide. Waiting for autopsy and tests. Suspect at large.”

“Think Trevor Todd will hire someone to kill Lucky Tal?” I asked.

“We can hope. Clean sweep. Then God takes out the Big Boy. I think we’ll go see Mr. Lucky Tal now, see where he’s been tonight and when. If he’s alive. Maybe he’s in danger.”

“Mind if I tag along?” I asked Izzy.

“Only if you wash the blood off your hands, Shepherd.”

We soon arrived at the tacky gold and glass Cushing Tower building uptown, where Tal Edgar had a $3 million condo. It obviously hadn’t bothered him to put the owner of his building’s bloody murder all over the front page. The doorman was dressed in a ridiculous red fake palace-guard uniform, complete with gold braid. We entered the glittering lobby and approached the lobby desk. The man behind it was also dressed like the flunky of an Arab prince. When Izzy told him who we were there to see, he put down his large water bottle and looked at his computer.

“Mr. Edgar is not at home.”

Izzy flashed his shield. The man shrugged.

“Mr. Edgar arrived home by car service at 9:16 p.m. According to our records he left about an hour later.”

“Where’d he go?” Izzy demanded.

“I have no idea, sir.”

“Yes you do,” Izzy pressed.

“No. No idea. But he went to the right, north.”

“What’s in that direction?” I asked. “Off the record.”

“Lots of places. Including a bar he goes to,” the man admitted, in a whisper.

“How often?” Izzy asked.

“Every night, like clockwork,” he confided. His eyes were darting around. “He walks. The Crystal Castle, two blocks up. Twenty-five-dollar Martinis, rich, famous drunks. Usually comes back about two, shitfaced.”

“But not tonight?” Izzy said.

He glanced at a fancy gilt filigree clock on the wall near the elevator bank.

“It’s 3:20 now? Nope, not yet. He’s late. Don’t tell anyone I told you anything, okay?”

“Our little secret,” Izzy assured him, turning away to make a call on his cell.

An hour later, uniforms had checked the bar. No one else had seen Lucky Tal this evening. If he was heading to the Crystal Castle, he never made it through the drawbridge. Izzy called the
Mail
City Desk, on speakerphone, but a kid who answered the phone refused to call Lucky Tal’s cell phone or home phone.

“He calls
us
. We can’t call him unless it’s a real big emergency,” the kid explained, like Lucky Tal was the president.

“Has he called in this evening?”

“No, sir.”

“But he usually does?”

“Every night.”

“This is an emergency. We need a number.”

“You don’t understand. I can’t do that. I’ll call Mr. Badger and ask him to call
you
.”

“That’s not going to work,” Izzy snapped.

“Why not?”

Izzy hesitated. Obviously, he was reluctant to give out information. And Badger’s next of kin had not yet been notified.

“This may be life and death, young man. We need to locate Mr. Edgar as soon as possible.”

“I’ll get my boss.”

A new voice on the line. One I recognized.

“Hello?”

I tapped Izzy on the shoulder, miming to hand over his phone. He did.

“Nigel, it’s Shepherd. I’m with Detective Lieutenant Izzy Negron. We’re trying to find Lucky Tal. The cops need to confirm he is safe.”

“Why?” Nigel asked suspiciously.

I had already gotten Nigel Bantock fired and then rehired on a punishment shift. I looked at Izzy to see how much I could say. He held his thumb and forefinger slightly apart. Tell him just a little.

“Izzy,” I said, “it’ll all be on the
Daily Press
website by now.”

Izzy gave a resigned shrug.

“What’s on the
Daily Press
website?” Nigel asked anxiously.

“That Don Badger was murdered and I was attacked tonight. Cops are worried about Lucky Tal.”

“Fuck!” Nigel said. “The
Daily Press
has this already?” He started asking questions. Lots of them.

“This is an emergency, pal,” shouted Izzy, cutting him off. “We need phone numbers for Tal Edgar right now. If you know where he is you need to tell us!”

“He didn’t call in earlier, which is very unusual,” Nigel said. “But the last person to wake Tal Edgar up late at night without a damn good reason got fired and is now selling children’s shoes in a New Jersey mall. I have no idea where he is. Hang on, I’ll get you his numbers and
you
can call him. Don’t tell him I gave them to you.”

Lucky Tal didn’t answer his home or cell numbers or return the voice messages Izzy left. Our new buddy refused to take us up to his condo, so Izzy called for backup.

“Listen, my friend. We are going into Mr. Edgar’s apartment—with or without you. I have reason to fear for Mr. Edgar’s safety and he cannot be located.”

“You can’t do that. I told you, he’s not here. He left.”

“Maybe you missed him coming back.”

“No way.”

“No bathroom breaks between ten o’clock and now?”

“No… well… It’s right here, I’m not gone for long,” he admitted.

“But long enough for someone to walk in and into the waiting elevator?”

“No, well, maybe, but I don’t think so.”

“Are you willing to bet this man’s life on maybe?” Izzy asked.

“And your job?” I added.

He actually gulped.

“Let’s take a look at the security videos,” Izzy said.

“My screens are live only, no playback. The camera room is locked until my boss gets here in the morning. I don’t have a key. I swear.”

Flashing red lights filled the lobby, as two cop cars arrived and the uniforms walked in. One of them was carrying a large, heavy metal cylinder with four handles—a door ram.

“Get on your phone and call whoever you have to notify but in three minutes you are either opening Mr. Edgar’s door—or we are.”

In the end the man caved and opened it with a key.

Lucky Tal’s place was luxurious, a tacky clone of the lobby, Louis the Sixteenth’s place in the city. But His Majesty was not at home. We backed out, closing the door. Two of the cops stayed to guard the door and Izzy called the DA’s office as he drove me to Jane’s.

“What’s next?” I asked.

“We’ll babysit the apartment until Lucky Tal shows up or I get a search warrant.” He sighed. “Call me immediately if you hear from Edgar or Forsythe. Remember, the last time you went off for a secret meeting it didn’t go so well.”

“You’ll be my first call if they get in touch.”

“Remember what my grandmother used to say,” Izzy continued, throwing a Spanish phrase at me.

“You know I don’t speak Spanish or Yiddish, Izzy.”

“It means ‘never get into a tight spot with a crazy person.’ Good advice.”

* * *

I got out at Jane’s, slowly, in pain, my arm and legs sore beyond belief. I woke Jane and Skippy up because I didn’t have a key.

“I just fell asleep,” she said, hugging me. “Thank God you’re okay.”

“You’re not… religious, are you?”

“God no,” she laughed. “It’s just an expression. Like when you sneeze I say God bless you because, in the Dark Ages, people thought your soul left your body when you sneezed and you needed divine intercession to prevent demons from jumping down your throat. I don’t believe that, either.”

“You use a lot of big words for someone who just woke up,” I observed.

“Tell me everything that happened,” she said.

“Too tired. Short version now. Lucky Tal seems to be missing. He’s not at home and he missed happy hour at his nightly watering hole.”

“You think someone got him, too?” she asked.

“Maybe. Or maybe he took off.”

“You mean jumped bail?”

“Possible. We don’t know yet. Stay tuned. I’ve got to crash. We can talk in the morning, okay?”

“It is morning.”

“Later morning,” I mumbled, falling onto her lovely bed.

In the afternoon I stopped by the double desk Izzy shared with Phil at the precinct. According to Izzy, Lucky Tal was in the wind. It was a difficult image to process—the bulky editor being blown about by a breeze. Outside, it was unseasonably warm and there was no breeze at all, just heat baking off the pavement. Lucky Tal did not come home, turn up dead, or go to work. I guessed the staff at the
Mail
were grateful for the temporary relief.