Mad Dog Justice (23 page)

“Crystal’s place is two bedrooms, furnished to the nines,” says Roddy. “It’s on the fortieth floor with a great view. She moved in a few months ago. How much you figure a rental like that goes for in the city?”

“It’s gotta go for eight, nine thousand a month, maybe more.”

“It’s way above her pay grade. She’s working as a trainee for a real estate company … some place called Regency.”

“Never heard of it.”

“She wants to become a real estate broker. But there’s no way Crystal would be making the kind of money it takes to rent a place like that. Not unless she won the Powerball—or has a very rich boyfriend.”

“So who do you think’s picking up the tab?” Danny asks.

“Some sugar daddy.”

“A woman with her looks would have no trouble getting someone to pay her way. She mention anyone?”

“We never got into that, and besides, what’s it got to do with us?”

“She say anything new about Kenny?”

“Nothing we didn’t already know.”

“Anything about mob connections?”

“Nothing new there, either. But something struck me, and it goes along with what I’ve been thinking. She said Russians were flooding McLaughlin’s. It was a Russian hangout.”

“And?”

“The guys I saw in the garage looked Eastern European, maybe Russian. Same with the guy in Yonkers, driving the Navigator. And the guys who were following me when I went to the city …”

“So, maybe Kenny owed big bucks to some Russian honchos.”

“If Russians are after us, why would they want us dead? Wouldn’t they want the money Kenny owed?”

“You’re right, Roddy. Because dead men don’t write checks.”

“True. So just
maybe
something else is going on; maybe it has
nothing to do with Kenny owing money.”

Danny waits. He can almost hear Roddy’s mental gears whirring, as though he’s scanning his brain’s database.

“None of this makes sense, Dan. If Grange was really named Gargano, why would all these guys be Russian or Eastern European? It’s not the way the mafia settles a score. They’d avenge the death of a made man, but there’s no way they’d outsource it to the Russians. We know how the mafia operated back in Brooklyn.”

“Yeah, back in the good old days,” Danny mutters.

“And McLaughlin’s was a Russian hangout by the time it closed.”

“You sure of that?”

“According to Crystal it was, and she was there until the bitter end. So maybe something else is going on.”

“You know, Roddy, I’ve been going over it all, again and again. I’ve thought about every single day leading up to when I got shot. I’ve tried to re-create everything to see if it leads up to that night in my office. Because I’ve been thinking about what you said, that maybe
I’m
the primary target of whoever’s coming for us. I’ve been racking my brains for some connection to something, to
anything
. But there’s nothing, not a thing.”

“Keep at it, Dan. Because I have the feeling whoever’s gunning for us isn’t doing it because of Kenny, or McLaughlin’s, or Grange. It could be something else.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t have a shred of an idea, Danny.”

“Russians, Italians, Eastern Europeans, Kenny, not Kenny. I’m gonna go nuts.”

Danny feels his cheeks burning.

“And, Dan, don’t say a word to anyone—not Morgan, not a priest—nobody.”

“We can’t keep going like this.”

“We gotta do it, Dan. There’s no choice.”

“There’re always choices.
Always
.”

“Not in this. I don’t choose to spend the rest of my life in prison.”

“I gotta say somethin’ to you, Roddy.”

“Yeah, what?”

Dan inhales deeply, letting his lungs fill with air. “Time’s against us, Roddy. We need to end this real soon.”

“Meaning?”

“The clock’s ticking.”

I
t’s nearly seven o’clock in the evening, but Roddy’s not hungry. He feels exhausted. His trip into Manhattan added nothing new to the mix of questions plaguing him since this nightmare began.

It occurs to Roddy that through the entire time he’s been in hiding, he’s never told Dan he’s holed up at the Marriott in Brooklyn. Does he trust Danny, or has he grown so wary he can’t even let his closest friend know where he’s staying? And could Danny actually be the primary target?

Danny mentioned having structured deals for some guy in White Plains. Was he helping someone launder money? Has Danny been part of some illegal financial crap? Roddy thinks back to what Crystal said about the Russians taking over McLaughlin’s. They’re into lots of things, those Russians—much more than just prostitution, gambling, and other rackets. One of their biggest things is money laundering. Maybe Danny was helping them set up some legitimate enterprise in Westchester to cover their money tracks.

But if
that’s
at the root of all this, why is Roddy also being targeted? Wouldn’t they—whoever
they
are—have only Danny in their sights? What’s the connection between Danny, himself, and the Russians? The only possible connection—if it could be called that—was the restaurant. He was involved in that. But like Danny
said, “
Dead men don’t write checks
.” So who—and why—is someone or some group after both of them?

Roddy slips out of his jeans and lies down on the bed. His thoughts turn to Morgan. The guy tracked Danny down in a heartbeat. And he wants to talk to Roddy. So does the BCI. Could they be onto something about Grange and Kenny? Did Danny say something to Morgan?

Roddy feels like the jaws of a bear trap are ready to clamp down. Sooner or later, he’ll be dead or in custody. He’ll be lucky if Danny gives him the week he promised before running to the police. It’s clear: Dan can’t tolerate the cesspool into which they’ve stumbled. And who’s Roddy kidding? He’s not on the offensive; he’s being hunted like he’s a blind animal in the wild.

His disposable rings. It’s gotta be Danny again.

Roddy picks it up from the bedside table. The readout says it’s a call from a Manhattan number—a 212 area code. His heart kicks like a mule. He sits up straight, at the edge of the bed.

“Hello.”

“Roddy, it’s Crystal.” Her voice quavers and sounds nasal, as though she’s crying.

“
Crystal
?” he says as a pang shoots through him. “What is it?” He clutches the cell phone so tightly the plastic creaks.

“Can you come over as soon as possible?”

“What’s wrong?”

“I have to talk with you.” Her voice is shaky.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, but I have to …” She sniffs. “I have to talk with you.”

“I’m listening.”

“No … in person.”

A jolt of adrenaline dumps into Roddy’s bloodstream, the way it did before a boxing match or a street fight years ago.

He waits and says nothing. Static streams into his ear.

“Roddy, are you there?”

“I’m here.”

“Can you come?”

“Crystal, just say yes or no. Is anyone with you now?”

“No, Roddy. No one’s here. I’m alone, and I have to talk with you. It’s too important to discuss over the phone.”

She didn’t answer yes or no. She gave a full answer and didn’t sound surreptitious. It seems she’s alone. Still, there could be someone listening in on the line, using an extension. For an instant, Roddy wonders how paranoid he’s become.

“Crystal, are you alone?”

“Yes, Roddy. I’m alone.”

He strains to hear something: anyone breathing into an extension or a voice whispering, coaxing her. He tries to sense if her voice sounds faint, the way it would if someone’s on an extension, listening in. Does she sound staged, forced, or does she seem genuine? Is she playing a role—the way she did at McLaughlin’s?

“Where are you? How long would it take you to get here?” she asks.

Why would she ask where I am? Or how long it’ll take me to get there?

“Yes or no, Crystal. Are you asking for someone else?”

“No.”

“We were talking this morning. What do you want to discuss now, only a few hours later?”

“It’s important, Roddy.”

“You have to tell me or I’m not coming.”

She sniffles into the phone. He hears her swallow.

“Crystal?”

He waits and hears static and the sound of his own breath.

“I know who’s trying to hurt you and Danny.”

Roddy’s heart nearly stops. His hands go weak. Thoughts rampage crazily through his head.

Is this really happening? Is this some kind of imaginary
conversation? How does she even know he and Danny are being targeted? And what could she possibly know about it?

He’s not sure he can speak, but hears himself say in a small and distant voice, “You know who it is?”

“Yes. I can help you.”

Could this be a trap? What if he shows up at her apartment and some guy puts a bullet in his brain, like what happened to Walt McKay? It could happen right there, in a residential building with a thousand tenants. It could mean he sees a flash of light and hears a low-level popping sound the instant the apartment door opens.

Or he could be blown away after he steps off the elevator; they’d know he’s coming after the doorman announces him on the intercom. It would be a small-caliber pistol with a silencer on its end. It could happen even if he has his own gun ready; they’ll have the element of surprise—whoever
they
are—because they’ll be expecting him. They could lie in wait.

A sickening medley of thoughts swarms through his mind. How could Crystal know about people coming after him and Danny? And why is she calling him now? Why didn’t she say something this morning—face-to-face in her apartment? What’s changed over the last nine or ten hours that makes her say this now?

“I know who’s trying to hurt you and Danny.”

Is she being forced to call him? Is a gun at her head? And how do they know he’d paid her a visit this morning? How long has she known he and Danny have been running for their lives? And exactly what does she know?

Should he call Danny and let him know what’s happening?

Maybe it’s best to move on this alone—reconnoiter the situation. Get a bead on things.

“Okay, Crystal. But I can’t get to your place any earlier than eleven.”

“Why so late?”

“I’m nowhere near you. I’ll be there at eleven, no sooner.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

L
eaving the hotel shortly after seven gives Roddy a nearly four-hour jump start on whoever might be waiting for him.

He glances at his watch: seven twenty. They won’t be expecting him until eleven. With the pistol in his pocket, he walks briskly toward the Court Street subway station. His eyes roam the street. No one is tailing him.

He hustles down the subway stairway and walks to the end of the nearly empty platform. He catches the 4 train heading toward Manhattan. Scanning the subway car, he sees no one suspicious. There’s the usual mix of people and a polyglot of voices amid the subway roar and clatter: English, Spanish, Urdu, and Haitian patois. Roddy makes certain to keep his distance from everyone, which is relatively easy to do because the car isn’t crowded. If anyone approaches too close, Roddy moves away—discreetly. He leans against the car’s middle doors as the train rushes through the tunnel beneath the East River.

Roddy scrutinizes everyone entering the car at each stop. He’s never been so primed, so completely wired, in his life. His senses are on high alert. He’s reminded of a dog with its nose to the wind, sniffing for the faintest hint of danger. His old street moniker—Mad Dog—comes to mind, and he recalls the days in Brooklyn when his life was a daily trek through a minefield of danger.

Emerging from the subway at 86th Street in Manhattan, he walks east and passes Lexington. He decides to head south on 3rd Avenue. It has a wide sidewalk where it’s less likely someone could brush up close to him. And the avenue is packed with bars and restaurants. It’s a hotbed of nightlife every night of the week. Maybe it’s less likely someone would attack him in such a public place.

He walks toward 79th Street on the east side of 3rd Avenue. His eyes shift left and right as he scans the busy thoroughfare. Nothing out of the ordinary, and no one who looks overtly suspicious. As a precaution, he crosses 3rd Avenue at 81st Street, walking past a Con Edison crew jackhammering a hole in the asphalt. Brilliant Klieg-type lights illuminate the area. Roddy glances about and steps into a Korean-owned grocery on the west side of the street. He circles the salad bar and examines the offerings, using his peripheral vision to see if anyone enters the store. An elderly woman comes in and begins picking through the vegetables. There are no other customers.

A few minutes later, he stops near the cash register and picks through some banana bunches, glancing out the store’s plate-glass window. Through the river of traffic on the avenue, he sees a man loitering in front of a pizza stand across the street. Roddy waits, circles the salad bar again, and peers out the front window. The guy is gone. A moment later, Roddy leaves the store and walks quickly to 79th Street.

At 79th and 3rd, he crosses the avenue and heads east toward the intersection of 79th and 2nd Avenue. In the distance—nearly a block away—he sees a swirling medley of red and white lights in the night. As he approaches 2nd Avenue, he notices a crowd. The breath vapor of hundreds of people is backlit by brilliant lights. Something’s going on at the intersection’s northeast corner—in front of Continental Towers.

Roddy slips through the gathered crowd to the front of the horde. Yellow police tape is strewn from one lamppost to another. Wooden sawhorses are strategically placed, keeping the crowd at bay. Lights swirl and flash continuously.

“They’re only letting residents into the building,” a woman says.

At the police barrier, Roddy sees EMT guys and two police officers talking. They peer down at a rubberized tarp on the
sidewalk. Beneath the covering, Roddy sees the outline of a body.

Car horns blare incessantly. Traffic is at a standstill. A siren pops and then woops. The keening sound comes closer.

“How terrible,” a man says.

“What happened?” asks another.