Mad Dog Justice (12 page)

The Navigator slows as it approaches on his right side. Roddy glances in his rearview mirror: the SUV is virtually crawling up on his right. Roddy is certain something will happen when it’s alongside him—a window will slide down and a pistol will protrude.

Roddy grips the revolver’s rubber handle and waits for the vehicle to pull up next to him. He turns his head slightly to the right but avoids a full turn of his neck. He raises the pistol and waits.

The front end of the Navigator is at his right rear. It moves forward—so slowly it seems to be barely moving. Roddy’s heart rate accelerates. The Navigator’s hood is adjacent to the Rogue’s passenger door.

Roddy’s got the pistol ready. He cocks the hammer. It clicks and locks into position.

The Navigator inches forward. Roddy raises the pistol—it
floats upward, easily and steadily. He holds it against the passenger seat back so the men in the Navigator won’t see it. His entire body stiffens. The pistol is level and unwavering in his hand. His finger is curled around the trigger.

The Navigator rolls so slowly, it’s agonizing.

Roddy waits, ignoring the flogging beat of his heart. The Navigator doesn’t have darkened windows. He’ll be able to spot whoever’s inside. The vehicle rolls forward and aligns itself with the Rogue.

The driver’s window is lowered. The guy behind the wheel is about thirty years old with dark, closely cropped hair, a few days’ growth of beard, and rough-hewn features. He could be Italian, Russian, Albanian, virtually any ethnicity. Roddy won’t hesitate; he’ll pump round after round into the Navigator—shooting the driver and whoever’s in the rear seat.

Roddy draws a bead on the driver’s left ear. His eyes flit to the rear of the Navigator. No passengers. The driver’s alone. He turns his head slowly toward Roddy. Without blinking or flinching, he stares coldly at Roddy. The revolver points at his face but seems to make no impression on him; the man’s look is steely, and his dark eyes show no fear.

Roddy holds the revolver on him. He has a bead on the spot between the man’s eyes. The guy’s hands are on the Navigator’s steering wheel; he stares directly into Roddy’s eyes.

The guy’s eyes shift to the gun pointing at his face. Very slowly, he raises his right hand from the steering wheel. It rotates in Roddy’s direction. With his thumb and forefinger, the man makes the sign of a gun and points it directly at Roddy. He holds his hand steadily in position; he never wavers; he doesn’t blink, just stares at Roddy. He makes a clicking sound with his tongue, as though he’s firing a weapon. A moment later, he turns back, sets his right hand on the steering wheel, and looks straight ahead.

When the light changes, the guy hits the gas pedal. The Navigator peels away and makes a sharp turn from the right-turn-only lane. Roddy tries to follow him, but a parade of cars in the right lane prevents him from moving into that lane and turning. By the time the last car turns into the street, it’s too late. The Navigator is far ahead with at least ten cars separating them.

Horns blare behind him. Roddy steps on the gas, and the Rogue leaps forward. Roddy clutches the steering wheel tightly. He suddenly feels weak, depleted.

It’s the drained feeling after an adrenaline surge.

A block farther on South Broadway, he sets the pistol inside the console. At that moment, Roddy realizes he can’t drive the Rogue anymore. They know his car from the garage and a skilled bomb maker would need only a few minutes to install an explosive device and detonator.

W
alking toward Danny’s room, Roddy half expects Morgan to pop out of a doorway, but there’s no sign of the detective.

The door to Dan’s room is closed, so he knocks.

“Come in,” he hears Dan call.

Entering the room, Roddy sees Dan in bed with the head of the bed raised at a forty-five-degree angle. A man stands at the bedside. Roddy thinks it’s probably another detective. But as he approaches and gets a closer look, Roddy knows instantly the guy’s a civilian. He’s probably in his midfifties and is wearing a charcoal-colored, herringbone chesterfield coat draped over a dark blue suit that looks custom made. Truly top-shelf threads. Between the suit and coat, Roddy estimates the guy sports at least $5,000 of cloth on his back.

“Roddy Dolan, this is John Harris,” Dan says. “I’ve mentioned you to each other and you finally get to meet.”

Roddy extends his hand. Harris’s is cold, and his handshake is
a fraction removed from dead flounder-limp.

“Dr. Dolan,” Harris says. “Dan talked about you when you fellows were partners in the restaurant. He said you might be interested in some real estate investments in Westchester County.”

Roddy does his best to smile and says, “I don’t think so.” Based on Harris’s threads and patrician look, Roddy has the distinct feeling Harris views him—and Danny, too—as working-class stiffs, their professions notwithstanding.

Another investment? No way
.

Harris turns to Danny and says, “So don’t worry about a thing, Dan. The Aruba deal’s on hold. We won’t be moving ahead on it, so don’t even think about it right now.” Harris glances at his watch. “I’ve got something to attend to, so, Dan, just get better and get out of here.”

“I’ll probably be discharged tomorrow or the next day.”

“And we’ll get together and talk about some other properties,” Harris adds.

“Sure.”

“And enjoy the truffles,” he says, pointing to a box on the bedside table. Harris looks toward the door, but then turns to Roddy. “Ever taste these?” he asks. “They’re Teuscher … the best truffles in the world. You can’t get them just anywhere, you know.”

“Really?”

“Not at all. I order them from their 5th Avenue store at Rockefeller Center.”

Roddy nods and tries to keep from shooting Danny a caustic smile.

“They’re sublime, especially with a Château Margaux … or any fine Bordeaux, for that matter. Or with a Côte de Beaune like a Puligny-Montrachet. They’re heavenly.”

Roddy thinks,
A fucking wine snob
.

“Well, I’ve got to be going,” Harris says, again eyeing his wristwatch. “I have the jet waiting at Westchester Airport. Have to
look at some houses in Palm Beach, but I’ll be back in a few days. Give me a call, Dan, when you feel ready to get back to work on those Westchester properties. And don’t worry. That Aruba deal’s not working out, so I’m dropping it.”

He turns to Roddy. “Nice meeting you, Dr. Dolan. You might want to think about putting a few dollars into a property I’m developing in Ardsley … an assisted-living facility. You know, the baby boomers are getting old and these facilities are the wave of the future.”

Roddy nods, doing his best not to roll his eyeballs upward.

Harris glances again at Dan and heads for the door.

Roddy watches as he leaves the room and walks down the corridor. When Roddy turns back, he sees Dan has his eyes closed. His head shakes back and forth.

“I know. I know. Don’t say it,” Danny mutters as he shakes his head.

“Say what?”

“What a blowhard he is.”

“I didn’t say a word.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re thinking.”

“That’s because you’re thinking the same thing,” Roddy says with a grin. “The guy’s pretty full of himself, and he’s a braggart.”

Danny shrugs. “He’s an okay guy.”

“You’re damning him with faint praise, Dan.” Roddy pulls over a chair and sits down.

“Look, he came here to visit and brought me something …
personally
,” Dan says, waving at the box of truffles. “Everyone else just sent flowers or cards, but the guy made a trip to fucking Yonkers.”

“That’s stepping down in the world for him.”

Dan chortles and nods.

“He’s the real estate big shot you took to the restaurant when it was still alive, right?”

“Yeah,” Dan says. “I had lunch with him a few times, and now I do some work for him. He means well and, actually, I’ve gotten used to him.”

“So how’re you feeling?”

“Better. A
lot
better. Ketchman says I could be getting outta here tomorrow.”

“Know where you’re going?”

“I’ll know by tonight. I’ll keep you posted. How ’bout you?”

“I’m not sure yet. When I find a place, I’ll call you.” Roddy reaches into his pocket and hands Dan a prepaid cell. “Use this to call me. My number’s taped to the back.”

“Tracy and the kids leave yet?”

“Yeah, this morning,” Roddy says as a lump forms in his throat. “How about Angie and the kids?”

Danny sighs. “They’re in Riverdale. Jesus, I can’t believe it’s come to this.”

“It’s a fucked-up situation, Dan.”

Danny tosses his bedcovers aside, gets up with a wince, and pads over to a nearby chair.

“Look, Dan, I want to apologize for saying what I did about looking into Kenny’s finances. I was out of line.”

“Forget it. I owe you an apology for the shit I threw at you.”

“I wasn’t thinking right, Dan. I’m sorry.”

“Forget it. It’s water under the bridge.”

“Okay. Enough said. Apologies accepted all around, right?”

“Right, kemosabe.”

“So we gotta figure a way out of this thing.”

“Figure what? Just what the fuck are we gonna figure? Some bastards are after us, and we don’t even know who they are. And we—”

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” a voice says.

Roddy looks up and sees Morgan—all six foot four of him in the doorway.

“Did I interrupt anything important?” Morgan says, stepping into the room.

Roddy’s insides jump. His mouth goes dry.

“I see you guys are in conference,” Morgan says, entering the room. “A little powwow, huh?”

“What’s up, Detective?” Danny says. His voice is even. Roddy doesn’t detect any warbling—the vocal betrayer—one of Dan’s giveaways.

“I was just going,” Roddy says, standing.

“So soon, Doc? Why not stay a while and we can have a three-way chat?” He smiles enigmatically, and then turns to Danny. “You’re looking a lot better than the last time I saw you.”

“Yeah. Only the hand hurts.”

Morgan nods and sits in the chair Roddy vacated. “Yeah, a busted-up hand’s gonna take time. How long you gotta wear that cast?”

“At least six weeks.”

Roddy can barely keep from moving in place. His right foot begins tapping soundlessly on the linoleum floor.

“Hey, Doc, how ’bout a little privacy? Mr. Burns and I gotta talk.”

Roddy’s heart shoots into overdrive. He glances at Danny, who suddenly looks pale.

“We could both answer any questions,” Roddy says.

“I don’t think so, Doc. There’re a few things I wanna clear up with Mr. Burns. Maybe you and I can talk another time, huh?” Morgan says with a smile in his voice.

D
anny stays in the chair as Morgan perches on the edge of the bed.

“I always come across you two guys in a huddle,” Morgan says.

Danny gets up, moves to the window, and looks out at the
Hudson River.

“So lemme ask you something, Mr. Burns.”

“Yeah?” Danny turns and faces Morgan. He feels a film of sweat forming over his cheeks and forehead.

“I met three times with your friend, Dr. Dolan.”

Roddy only mentioned talking with Morgan twice. This guy’s toying with us
.

“It was very revealing.”

“Oh yeah? How so?”

“He told me where Egan’s two hundred fifty K came from.”

Morgan’s eyebrows arch and then drop down. The crease between them deepens.

“Yeah, Roddy told me about the Cayman Islands thing, Detective. He said he heard it from
you
.”

“Oh, so you guys talk with each other, huh?”

“Of course we do. You know that. Stop yanking my chain.”

“Sure. Why not? After all, you’re good friends, huh?” Morgan breaks into a Cheshire cat smile and then shakes his head.

“Yeah, we’ve known each other all our lives.”

“So what else you know about getting shot, Mr. Burns?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Detective.”

“Sure you do.” Morgan’s voice is steely. Any hint of a smirk is gone; he gives Danny a hard look.

“Look, Detective. I was shot by some thug and I have no idea why. And you’re telling me I know something I don’t. Why don’t you just tell me what you’re looking for and I’ll do my best to help you?”

A high-pitched squeak comes from deep in Dan’s chest—the first sign of an asthmatic attack. At that moment, Danny feels an insistent itch at the end of his nose. It’s tantalizing, but he resists scratching, afraid Morgan could see it as a sign of fraying nerves.

“So lemme get this straight, Mr. Burns,” Morgan says, standing to his full height. “You had no idea that two hundred fifty of
the three hundred K Egan put up for the restaurant came by wire from the Cayman Islands? You telling me
that
?”

“Yes, I am.” Danny says, aware his voice sounds raspy. Phlegm collects on his vocal cords. He covers his mouth with his palm, coughs, and clears his throat. He swallows the stuff, knowing this could be the start of a deluge of mucous.

“So the bottom line is you didn’t do your due diligence when you looked into Egan’s financing.”

Son of a bitch, talking to me about due diligence. He’s got some goddamned nerve
.

“I did what was appropriate, Detective.”

“And what was that?” Morgan moves closer to Danny. The guy looms over him.

Danny’s casted hand begins throbbing as a swell of anger rises within him. This cop is questioning his business acumen—his ability to determine the net worth of a business or to calculate if it’s a good investment.

“Well, I looked at Kenny’s bank statement, and it was exactly as he represented—more than three hundred K sitting there in pure, cold cash—he had liquidity.”

Morgan says nothing. His eyebrows rise, and that smirk is perched on his lips.

“I checked with two of the three credit rating companies—Experian and Equifax, and Kenny had a very good score. And to top that off, Detective, I made an inquiry with the bankruptcy court in Nevada to find out if he’d ever gone belly-up. And the answer was
no
.”

“And that was it?”

Wiseass … thinks by challenging me he can push me into losing my temper
.