Silver Justice (30 page)

The hair. Something about the hair.

She next erased first the top, then the sides, mimicking a very short cut.

Silver froze.

That face.

She closed her eyes and concentrated, straining to recall the brief glimpse she’d gotten. Her eyes popped open, and she gasped.

It was him.

The man in black from yesterday.

She was sure of it.

Or almost sure.

That was the problem with post-traumatic stress disorder
, a small voice inside of her cautioned. After killing a man and then having her daughter kidnapped, black could seem like it was really white, and she could talk herself into believing that the laundry man across the street was really the Pope, or Hitler, or a trained assassin. Lots of crazies went round the bend on killing sprees because they saw the devil in the faces of others, clear as day. It puzzled them why nobody else saw what was obvious to them.

Am I losing it?

She considered the question dispassionately.
No, you’re not losing it. You might be tired and distraught, but you’re not crazy as a shithouse rat
.
Yet
.

Although you have been eating dinner with a loaded Glock as your companion
. Not everyone had a forty-caliber dining guest.

The doubts faded the more she stared at the photo she’d modified. It was him. And he
had
been across the street. Which meant he knew where she lived.

Like the kidnappers, who had never bothered to call, knew where she lived.

The final piece fell into place. If she was right, he could not only be the killer but also could have her daughter. A serial killer imprisoning her ten-year-old.

The thought catalyzed her, and she sprang into action. Everyone else might be too busy to take her calls but that didn’t mean she was helpless. She had over a decade of field experience and was one of the best.

Silver glanced at the time as she strode purposefully into the bedroom.

She pulled her hair into a ponytail and briefly considered calling Art and telling him about her breakthrough, but then hesitated. Put simply, it sounded crazy, or at least highly implausible. He would probably be polite and listen patiently, and maybe send a team over to chat with the nice old man again, but that wouldn’t be the same as him coming face to face with Silver. They would have to follow a host of rules of engagement and would be deeply skeptical of her intuition, which could tip him off in a number of ways. He was obviously extremely smart, and he’d already been through one round of questioning with nothing to show for it.

No, that wouldn’t do any good.

She would need to handle this herself.

Five minutes later, she was taking the stairs to the street, two at a time, anxious to get to Brooklyn as quickly as possible.

Chapter 23

The bar was technically open at ten a.m., but there were no customers yet. When the front door swung wide, the harsh rays of the late morning sun shot through the gloom, bringing with it the shadow of a huge man in worn jeans and a leather jacket. He looked around and spotted his objective – a bald man sipping a cognac in one of the red-upholstered booths.

The sound of his heavy motorcycle boots on the polished concrete floor echoed through the lounge as he approached the drinker, who motioned to him to sit.

“What would you like, my friend? Anything. Say the word.” The bald man’s Slavic accent was thick, but understandable.

“What’s that you’re drinking?” the tall American grunted.

“Hennessy. I like a little eye-opener with my coffee. I highly recommend it.”

“Fine. But skip the coffee part.”

The bald man snapped his fingers and pointed to his miniature snifter, and within twenty seconds another glass appeared alongside it before the bartender scuttled away to the farthest corner in the room.

The two men toasted, and the new arrival downed the drink in a single gulp, then exhaled noisily with a burp.

“What happened? I have some very pissed-off people who want the woman dead, and these are not people you want angry.”

“It was a regrettable oversight. The contractor was careless. You probably read in the papers that he paid the ultimate price for his sloppiness.”

“I saw that. But that doesn’t get our fifty grand back, does it?”

“Do you want your money back? Or do you want us to take care of the woman? I’m still prepared to do this job if that’s your wish. Of course, now that we know she is an FBI agent who has advance warning of danger, it won’t be as simple a matter.”

“I don’t want the money back. I want her snuffed, preferably yesterday. Same deal, only this time you don’t screw it up.”

“I think if you want a better caliber of contractor, you should consider paying a little more.”

The big man’s eyes narrowed to slits. “How much more?”

“I think another ten grand would get you the best in the business.”

“I thought I was already paying for the best.”

“Do you want this done right, or do you want best efforts? Ten grand will eliminate any uncertainty.”

“You’re a crook.” The big man smiled an evil grin, revealing a mouthful of haphazard dental work.

“That I am. But I’m your crook.”

The bald man raised his glass and beckoned to the bartender, who brought the bottle.

By the time it was half gone, enough information had been recorded to put the biker in prison for twenty lifetimes.

~ ~ ~

Silver took a cab to the headquarters’ garage and pulled her car out of the stall, the ugly memories of the shooting lingering as she made her way to the exit. The attendant waved her on, and she pulled out and gunned the engine, intent on making it to Brooklyn without any delays.

A part of her questioned her conviction, debating silently with the other part of her that was sure she’d tumbled across the solution to the case.

She pulled onto the Brooklyn Bridge and watched the New York skyline disappear in her rearview mirror as she headed towards Howard Jarvis’ current address. The familiar bulk of her Glock rubbed against her hip – her thigh-length jacket was cut to conceal it when she was standing. She’d put a second fully-loaded magazine in her pocket, prepared for anything.

Silver didn’t have a plan. Her strategy was to meet with the suspect, see if it was indeed the man who had been shadowing her at home, and if it was…
what
?
Beat a confession out of him? Threaten to blow his head off? Arrest him without having built a case that would hold any sort of water?

She had to admit that part of her approach wasn’t fully formed, but it felt good to be out, taking action, doing something, instead of waiting for the phone to ring while alternating between rage and despair. At the very least, she could get a feel for where the man lived and possibly interview some of the neighbors. Maybe this was all a red herring, in which case she’d wasted part of her busy day following up on an interview. But if she suspected that it was something else…she’d have to play it by ear.

The neighborhoods deteriorated as she made it closer to her destination. Even with the improvement in Manhattan’s outlying areas, some had resisted changes for the better, and this section of Brooklyn appeared to be one of them. Groups of menacing youths cold-stared her as she crept along the streets, following the dash-mounted GPS’ map to Howard’s new address. Graffiti covered most of the lamp posts and street-level walls: gang tags proclaiming turf with vividly-colored flourishes.

She turned the corner onto his street and estimated that it was two blocks up on the right. Unlike the city’s, these sidewalks were largely empty, the residents locked away in their homes behind barred windows, or at work. The only pedestrians were sketchy-looking junkies and the obvious gang members engaged in supplying them with their substance of choice. Even the cars seemed beaten down and tired, mostly older economy vehicles, with the odd German luxury brand, no doubt the conveyances of the dealers.

Silver pulled to the curb in front of Howard’s tiny home, two stories that spoke of decades of neglect and hard times. She shouldered her purse and touched her pistol reassuringly before exiting the vehicle. Taking the stairs to the front door with care, she noted that the drapes were drawn behind the iron-barred, ground-floor windows, making it impossible for her to see inside the house. As she reached for the doorbell, she automatically scanned the surroundings but didn’t see any signs of life.

The buzzer screeched inside as she jabbed the button. She waited patiently but didn’t hear anything from inside. Trying again, she shifted her weight and strained to detect any evidence of the occupant being home. She knocked loudly, and when she got no response, she peered around the porch to the small backyard. Brown patches of ignored grass struggled to survive between the tall concrete perimeter walls.

Silver descended the stairs and moved to the side gate, fabricated out of the same iron bars that protected the windows, and found it open. That surprised her, but not so much that she was unwilling to continue. She peered cautiously up at the neighboring homes, wary of watchers. The buildings extended further back on their lots, so she wouldn’t be visible to them if she was careful.

At the back door, she halfheartedly tried the knob, but it was locked. She shielded her eyes from the light and peered through the dirty glass, trying to make out what was inside, but only saw a kitchen counter with a few water bottles on it, and a backpack.

Her impulse was to try to pick the lock and execute an unauthorized entry, but she reminded herself that she was one of the good guys, and the good guys didn’t break and enter.

Frustrated, she tried the door again, but it didn’t budge.

She looked around and spotted a garbage can. Silver again scanned the surrounding homes and calculated that she could reach it without being spotted. It was worth a peek – she was already there, so the hard work was done.

She opened the lid and looked inside – not a lot of trash – mainly empty bottles, the usual wrappers, and a pizza box. Silver was preparing to lower the lid back into place when she noticed several fingerprint smudges on the outside of the box – grease, or tomato paste.

Small smudges. Like a child’s.

The blood drained from her face.

Maybe Howard had a grandchild, or a nephew or niece? She struggled to remember, but thought it had been just the wife and the daughter. With a trembling hand, she withdrew her phone and took several photographs of the garbage can sitting outside the house, and then a few close-ups of the box in the trash. The time/date stamp would confirm that it pertained to this visit.

Now she needed to retrieve the box without contaminating it. A part of her brain was thinking about evidence chains, due process, and reasonable cause, but another part was shrieking that her baby might be inside, only a few feet from where she was standing. The internal struggle lasted until she picked up a branch and cautiously lifted the box out, holding one side with a tissue she’d fished from her jacket pocket, her breath catching in her throat for fear of dislodging it.

A light breeze tugged at a corner of the empty carton and she watched in helpless horror as it tumbled out of her grasp and landed on the dying lawn, flipping open in the process. She moved to retrieve it but a gust blew it another few feet away from her, shaking three pieces of pepperoni loose from the bottom and sending them tumbling onto the grass.

Silver stooped over to retrieve the container and then froze. She slowly drew her Glock and turned to the back door.

Inside, the slices of congealed meat had fallen away, revealing four unmistakable letters scratched into the cardboard.

The wind pushed the box, now forgotten, towards the far wall, where it stuck in the hedge, propped open by the breeze, the message visible from a few feet away.

Silver thumbed her phone and dialed headquarters, but it still went directly to Sam’s voicemail. She stabbed another number, but Art’s line was busy. At least she had tried, she reasoned. Then her instinct to save her daughter’s life preempted any others, and she kicked in the rear door, the lock shattering on the second blow.

Across the meager backyard, the sun glinted against the glistening tomato sauce that had been used to increase the legibility of the four letters scratched into the carton bottom. They were unmistakable, etched in a child’s shaky script.

HELP

Chapter 24

Silver stepped into the narrow rear hall, the splintered shards of the doorjamb crunching underfoot. Her Glock 23 was clenched in both hands, pointed in front of her. She stopped in the kitchen, tilting her head to detect any hint of movement in the house. A creak sounded from the second story. A few seconds later, another. She couldn’t be sure whether it was the breeze or someone overhead, but she steeled herself to find out.

As she stood motionless, a third creak sounded, and she began to believe it was the wind – the sound came from the same area each time at the front of the house. She turned so that she would present as small a target area as possible and cautiously eased into the hall between the small combination dining/living room and the stairs leading to the upper level.

The floor plan was typical of the older row homes in the area – a modest downstairs forty feet deep by twenty feet wide consisting of the living area, and two or three bedrooms up, usually two, one in the rear and the other facing the street, with a landing and hall between them. She confirmed that nobody was downstairs and then carefully put weight on the first stair tread as she began ascending to the upper floor.

At the third step, the wood beneath her foot emitted a squeak. She stopped, her heart pounding in her ears. Her finger caressed the Glock’s trigger, ready to empty the weapon at anything that moved. She stood like that for a seeming eternity and then heard the creak from the front bedroom again – same as before. She was almost positive it was the wind now, but she still moved with stealthy deliberation as her head, and then her body, moved into sightline of the second floor landing. Both bedroom doors were closed, although the single bathroom between them had its battered door ajar. Now she was faced with an impossible choice – which bedroom to search first?