Mad Dog Justice (6 page)

Roddy nods as something cold snakes through his chest. Morgan’s done plenty of digging into the case in a mere two days. He knows almost as much as Roddy about McLaughlin’s and how the whole mess got started.

How much did Danny tell this guy?

“And this Kenny Egan character wanted you to invest as a silent partner in a restaurant. Am I right?”

Roddy nods, wishing he could bolt up from the chair and leave the lounge.

“So, like a smart man, you send him to your accountant and best friend, Daniel Burns, who’s now lyin’ in the hospital recovering from bullet wounds as we speak. And Burns goes over everything. So then you and Burns go into business with Egan. Am I getting this right?”

“That’s right, if you want to call it that,” Roddy says, staring into Morgan’s flickering eyes.

“Well, what would you call it, Doc?” Morgan once again leans back in the chair and crosses his arms.

“We were silent partners. We weren’t involved on a day-today basis. We just put up money as investors. I was at the restaurant maybe three or four times … for dinner. I had nothing to do with running the place.”

“Okay. So you each put a hundred K into the business and Egan puts in three hundred, right?”

“Right.”

“What was Burns’s role in this setup?”

“Same as mine, a silent partner. And the restaurant’s accountant.”

“So Burns looked into everything and okayed the deal?”

“Yes. He thought it made financial sense after he looked at the numbers.”

“Okay, Doc,” Morgan says, pursing his lips. “So you’re in business and things’re lookin’ good for a while. But then the place starts losing money. You know why?”

Jesus, did Danny spill everything to this guy?

“It turns out it was poorly managed.”

“By whom?”

“By Ken Egan. He said there was a lot of stealing going on. Employees were lifting all kinds of stuff—alcoholic beverages, steaks, you name it. It was a thief’s paradise. Kenny said it happens in every restaurant.”

“So let’s assume that’s true, Doc. You and Burns decide to get out, right?”

“Yes.”

Morgan exhales and nods his head. He rubs his chin with his forefinger and thumb. “So you meet with Egan and tell him you’re both pulling out, right?”

“Right.”

“How’d he take that?” Morgan’s bushy eyebrows dance upward, droop down, and then rise again.

“He was upset, but the place was hemorrhaging money.”

“So what happened?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Roddy feels a cramp begin in the arch of his right foot. Soon he’ll feel a wrenching spasm, and he’ll have to rip off his clog and begin rubbing the foot.

“Oh, c’mon, Doc. Sure you do. What happened to Egan?”

“I don’t know. He disappeared.”

“Just like
that
? He disappears into thin
air
?”

“I don’t know.”

“And you guys close the restaurant and the previous owner, McLaughlin, exercises his lien, and that’s it?”

“What can I say? I don’t know.”

“How does a guy just disappear? Huh?”

“Detective, I have no idea.” Roddy’s hands curl in his lap as an image of that last night in McLaughlin’s back office floods his mind: that fat bastard Grange slugging down the Klonopin-laced scotch, the Glenfiddich—
that good shit
, as Grange called it—and then passing out like a bloated sack of shit; the three of them, he, Kenny, and Danny hauling that lard-assed bastard out the restaurant’s back door to the Sequoia; and the insane drive upstate on the Taconic to that shitpit, Snapper Pond.

“When was the last time you saw Egan?”

“The last night I was at the restaurant … that April. Danny and I met him in the back office and decided to end the operation. Kenny had a headache, so we drove him home.”

“Where was that?”

“We dropped him off at a pharmacy near his apartment.”

“And that’s the last you saw of him?”

“That’s right.”

“What’d you do after you dropped Egan off on 9th Avenue?”

How does he know where we dropped Kenny off? What the hell did Danny tell this guy?

“Just give me a timeline of what you did afterward, Doc.”

“I’d driven into the city for the meeting, and Danny took
the train in from Tuckahoe. So we drove in my car to Dan’s office in Yonkers to talk about the tax picture after we got out of McLaughlin’s. It would be a loss on my return.”

Jesus, this guy’s got me talking about the night we killed Kenny and Grange. He’s zeroed right in on things. I’m sticking with the story, just the way Dan and I planned that night in the parking lot of the Tuckahoe station. Is Danny sticking with the story?

“Then what?”

“I drove Dan to the Tuckahoe train station, where his car was parked; then I went home.”

“What time was that?”

“It was late. Probably close to midnight.”

“Can anyone verify all this? That you were in Yonkers and then Tuckahoe before you went home?”

Don’t let it look rehearsed. Don’t overplay it
.

“Actually, I’ll never forget that night. There was an incident at the train station. As I was dropping Danny off, a bunch of police cars pulled up and stopped us. They even frisked us. There’d been some muggings and stolen cars at the station late at night, and they checked us out. I’m sure it’s in the Tuckahoe police records.”

Morgan pulls a small pad and pen from his jacket and jots something down.

An image of the six Tuckahoe cops with their guns drawn flashes through Roddy’s mind. Yes, they were the best thing that could have happened—the stop was iron-clad proof he and Danny were in Tuckahoe that night. Roddy even recalls two of their names—Smythe and Caldwell—etched on their name tags as police lights swirled in the parking lot. He recalls the smell of fumes from the squad cars, the galvanic current streaming through his skin as he wondered if the cops would command him to open the Sequoia’s rear hatch. There were the pink cones of light from the sodium vapor lights, the residue of soil from Snapper Pond on his boots, and the smell of
parking lot asphalt. His heart slammed furiously in his chest. Amid these thoughts, Roddy looks up and sees Morgan’s still writing. How long has it been since the detective’s last question?

“Let’s get back to Ken Egan,” Morgan says, looking up from the pad.

“As a matter of fact, after Kenny went missing, we reported it to the NYPD.”

I should’ve told him this right off the bat. Jesus, I’m rattled. Gotta calm down
.

Roddy takes a deep breath; he knows he’s talking too much—and way too fast. The words are spilling from his mouth—a verbal deluge. He’s talking like a guy with plenty to hide.

“The Missing Persons Squad, right?”

So, he already knows about it
.

“Exactly. Danny and I went down there and spoke with someone.”

“Uh huh. Your friend Burns told me everything.”

I can’t believe Danny would spill everything to this guy
.

“He told me you spoke to a Captain Greene.”

“That’s right.”

Roddy’s thoughts race frantically as he recalls everything about that night and what happened afterward.

Morgan shifts his eyes back to the pad. He writes something down. His eyelids look heavy, almost sleepy. “Let’s get back to Egan,” he says, looking up at Roddy. “How much did he ante up as his share to buy the place?”

“Three hundred thousand,” Roddy says as his throat begins clogging with phlegm.

“What I mean, Doc, is how much of his
own
money did he put up?” Morgan’s eyelids rest at half-mast, like he’s bored with the line of crap he’s being handed.

“I don’t follow.”

“You know if he borrowed any money to buy the place?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a financial guy. I was just a backer. Danny did all the paperwork.”

“And Burns never looked into how Egan got all that dough?”

“As far as I know, it was Kenny’s … from working in Vegas.” Roddy’s heart slams heavily against his ribs.

“Did you know Egan was gambling?”

“Not when we went into business. Captain Greene said they went to his apartment and looked at his computer. He’d been to lots of gambling sites.”

“Yeah, that’s what Burns said. And Captain Greene confirmed it.” Morgan pauses; his head bobs forward and his eyes narrow, as though he’s thinking carefully about what he’ll say next. “And lemme tell you somethin’ else, Doc; Captain Greene’s unit did more research into Egan than you know. Just before you and Burns entered into this deal with Egan, there was a sudden infusion of two hundred fifty K into his bank account.”

Morgan pauses and taps his pen on the little pad.

“What do you make of that, Doc?”

Roddy sighs and shakes his head.

“It was wired to Egan’s bank from a privately numbered account in the Cayman Islands. Meaning it was inaccessible to anyone but the account holder.”

Roddy feels his own eyebrows arch.

Don’t pretend you didn’t know this. Don’t overdo the drama. Keep it real
.

“By any chance, do you know who Egan’s benefactor was in this little deal?”

“I never knew the money wasn’t his. And I never examined his bank account. I only know Danny did a credit check on Kenny, and it was good. And Kenny gave him a certified check. That’s it.”

“But the Cayman Islands, Doc. What does that bring to mind?” Morgan leans forward.

“An offshore account … a tax haven.”

“How ’bout laundered money, Doc?” Morgan’s lips twist slightly.

“Could be.”

“Doc, you ever hear of the Fontana brothers?”

“Captain Greene mentioned them.” Roddy’s skin feels like it’s curdling.

“They’re a Jersey mob into plenty of heavy-duty shit.”

“That’s what Captain Greene said.”

“Prostitution, gambling, garbage hauling, construction … you name it.”

“Greene said that, too.”

“How about the Russian Bratva?”

“Captain Greene said something about messages from them on Kenny’s voice mail, if I recall.”

“Absolutely correct, Doc. So, any idea where Egan’s dough came from?”

“Danny and I didn’t borrow a nickel from anyone.”

“So you’re safe? Is that what you’re thinking?” Morgan’s head tilts back. “You’re absolutely clean in this mess?”

“Detective, I’m a surgeon. Danny’s an accountant. We backed a restaurant as silent partners. Happens every day of the week. I had nothing to do with the place. I didn’t like the deal at first, but Danny’s my financial adviser, so I went for the ride. It was an investment … and it turned out to be a bad one. But I don’t have a clue about all this.”

“So your friend, accountant, and partner didn’t demand to know from Egan where his dough came from? It was just there, so Burns took the deal. Is that it? A sophisticated guy like Burns—a CPA and a certified financial planner—gets snookered so easily? Is that what you’re sayin’?”

“Hey, it’s out of my league, Detective.”

How dumb can I play it? Danny should’ve looked more carefully
into Kenny’s financing. What a fucked-up situation it’s all turned out to be
.

“You know, Doc, I’m a little suspicious of this whole thing. I mean of Burns. He shoulda known better … a lot better. It looks like he didn’t do a thorough investigation of Egan’s finances, right, Doc?”

“I thought he did,” Roddy rasps.

“I’d think a sharp guy like Burns would smell something rotten right off the bat, wouldn’t you, Doc?”

If this guy’s right, Danny didn’t do his due diligence on Kenny. Danny believes in numbers—they always tell the story. Yet he didn’t look into where Kenny’s money came from—especially a snake like Kenny. Did Danny know more than he let on? And there’s no denying, he’s been very distant these last ten months. We don’t get together anymore. Is he hiding something from me? Is it possible … even one hundredth of one tenth of 1 percent possible that Danny was tied up in some way with Kenny and Grange? No. It can’t be. It’s impossible. Jesus, am I really getting paranoid?

“And right now, Doc, your best friend and former partner’s in the hospital after taking two slugs. And you know nothing? I mean … about the restaurant. And you have no idea of Egan’s whereabouts, where Egan got his dough, who was backing him, or who wanted to put a couple of bullets in Danny Burns?”

Roddy shifts in the chair.

“And another thing, Doc. That poor guy in the garage took a bullet a few hours ago, and he was parked right next to your car. Funny coincidence, isn’t it? Tell me, Doc. Am I getting this right?”

“I guess so.” Roddy swallows hard.

“Hey, Doc, the Bratva’s way beyond Brighton Beach now. They’re not just in Brooklyn. They’re everywhere.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.” Roddy feels a railroad train rumble through his chest.

“Oh, they’ve hit their stride these last few years. They’re into loan-sharking, prostitution, sex trafficking, credit card fraud, money laundering—plenty of bad shit. And they’re ruthless. They make the Italians look like candy-asses. They’ll stop at nothing to settle a score. They’ll even go after your family.”

Roddy feels as though his skin is shredding.

The lounge goes silent. Roddy waits, looking at Morgan, who stares directly at him with those unblinking eyes.

“Anything else, Detective?”

“Yeah, Doc.”

Morgan goes silent, just waiting.

“So what is it?”

“What’re you gonna do? Hire a bodyguard?”

Morgan leans forward. That semismirk returns to his lips. His gaze turns hard.

“That’s what I should do? Hire
protection
?”

“It’d be a lot easier to tell me what you know. Because you and your accountant friend could be in a world of trouble. Believe me, Doc. More than you can imagine.”

“There’s nothing more I can say.” Roddy keeps his hands clasped in his lap. He’s clenching his fists so tightly, his fingers are almost cramping.

“You sure about that?”

“And where would I go for protection anyway, assuming I needed it?”

“If it involves organized crime, there’s always the FBI because the Yonkers and Bronxville police can’t protect you from the mob.” Morgan shakes his head. “Hey, remember that scene from
Jaws
, Doc, where that sheriff, the Roy Scheider guy, looks behind the boat and sees that shark burst outta the water and bite down on the chum? Remember what he says?” Morgan pauses and then says, “We’re gonna need a bigger boat.”