The Quickie Part 2

I SAT THERE, ROCK STILL, trying to absorb what I had just heard. The fluorescent lights above hummed in my ears like an angry beehive. How many times had Scott called me in the last month? Twenty? Thirty maybe? How was I going to bluff my way out of this one? I pictured the confusion on my partner's face as he spotted my number over and over again. Mike moved his mouse to remove his "Who p.i.s.sed in your gene pool?" screen saver. It sounded like someone stepping on Bubble Wrap when he rolled his neck. "Mike, what are you doing?" I finally said. "Gonna get a jump on those D-D-fives. Keane's about to have triplets. Look at him in there." DD5's were the incident reports we had to write for Scott's case file. I raised my eyebrows. "Um, h.e.l.lo? Earth to Mike," I said. "People are going to actually read these reports, Shakespeare. You're the beauty, remember? I'm the brains. In fact, why don't you go grab a couple in the crash room upstairs. We need your head clear just in case we have to knock down a door with it. I'll bang out the reports in a way that doesn't get us rea.s.signed, and when the phone records come in, I'll start collating them. How's that sound?" Mike stared at me, exaggerated hurt in his red-rimmed eyes. Then he yawned. "Yes, dear," he said, standing. I held my breath as he walked to the exit. The bullpen gate had just swung back into place, when a low, off-pitch ringing sounded.I turned around. It was the fax machine. Jeez, Louise.It rang again, and the sound was followed by an electronic bleep. One of the white sheets started to slowly slide down out of it. Keep going, partner, I thought, not looking at him. Please. For me. But out of the corner of my eye, I could see Mike turn around. My face felt hot. He would see it in a second. My number repeated over and over again! What the h.e.l.l could I say? Nothing came to mind. How could I get out of this one? I turned all the way around as Mike lifted the first sheet out. I watched him squint, watched his hand go to his forehead. That's when I noticed his reading gla.s.ses sitting there on the desk beside me, right where he'd left them. I didn't think. I just acted. I opened my bottom-left desk drawer, and with one of Scott's files swept Mike's gla.s.ses off his desk and into the drawer. Then I quietly kicked the drawer shut. I pretended to ignore Mike until I heard him rummaging around on his desktop. "Didn't I tell you to take a nap?" I said, annoyed. "You're not having another senior moment, are you?" Mike exhaled a tired breath as he gave up the search for his gla.s.ses. He dropped Scott's phone records in my lap. "All yours, sister," he said weakly. "Courtesy of Ma Bell. See you in sixty winks."

Chapter 39.

FOR TWO SOLID MINUTES, I spun my pencil through my fingers like a baton twirler, my old, creaky wooden office chair cawing as I rocked back and forth just staring at Scott's phone records. I turned and squinted through the office gla.s.s at my mercifully still-busy boss, then looked back down at the eight number-filled sheets of paper in front of me. The fact that I'd managed to get my hands on Scott's rec-ords was phenomenal, but after riffling through them, I realized I now had a new problem. I stuck the pencil between my back teeth and began turning it into a chew toy.How the h.e.l.l was I going to remove my number from them?The thirty-three times it occurred! "Lauren," a voice said. I almost swallowed the pencil's eraser as I looked up. My boss had exited his office and crossed the squad room without my noticing. He placed his hands flat on my desk as he leaned over me, his fingernails practically scratching the edge of the fax paper. Could he read upside down? "How we looking on those D-D-fives?" Keane said. "Borough and Detective Division commanders want them ASAP. Any problem with that?" "Give me an hour, chief," I said, bringing the form up on my computer screen. "You've got half," he shot back over his shoulder as he left. I leaned over my keyboard, trying to look busy and at the same time hide what I was doing. My eyes went from the screen to the phone records. From the phone records to the screen. Waiting for something obvious to jump out at me. Then, miraculously, it did. The font of the phone records was a common one. Times New Roman. A second later, an idea occurred to me all but fully formed. Which was good, I thought as I clicked on the Microsoft Word icon on my screen, since I didn't have a second to spare. First thing I did was find the number Scott called the most. It was a 718 area code with an exchange I wasn't familiar with. I checked my notes and verified that it was Scott's home number. I typed the number, hit "print," and compared it to the records. It was a little too big. I blocked the number out and dropped the font size from twelve to ten, printed that out, and compared it again. Perfect, I thought. It would work. I copied the number thirty-three times and hit "print" for the third time. Who knows? I thought, pocketing scissors and tape from my desk drawer. I lifted the records off my desk along with the sheets from the printer as I stood. This just might work. It took me five minutes of nonvirtual cutting and pasting in the last stall of the ladies' room to tape over every incident of my cell number on the LUDs with Scott's home number. Everything important I learned in kindergarten, I thought as I flushed the sc.r.a.ps away. One trip to the copying machine later - with a brief side trip to the shredder - and I had everything the way I wanted it. Scott's new and improved phone records. I was coming out of Keane's office after dropping off my completed crime-scene reports twenty minutes later, when Mike walked back into the squad room. He gaped at the undetectably doctored phone company records I had left on his desk. His reading gla.s.ses sat on top of them like a paper-weight. "Don't worry," I said, giving him a pat on his wide back. "Dropping a little off your fastball is pretty much expected at your age." I lifted my coat from the back of my chair. "Where are you going?" he said. "To see my friend Bonnie," I said. "Try to speed the crime-scene processing along." "Why don't I go with you?" Mike said. "Because you need to get back to the phone company and put faces to those numbers, see who Scott was calling." "C'mon," Mike said as I was leaving. "I'll behave. I'm not just a big ugly man doll, you know. I have a sensitive side. I'm in Oprah's Book Club." "Sorry," I said, knocking through the bullpen gate. "No boys allowed."

Chapter 40.

C'MON, C'MON, C'MON! Let's go, let's go!I checked my watch as a cash register's electronic beep exploded through my skull for perhaps the thirty- seven-billionth time. I had thought my one-purchase stop at the 57th and Broadway Duane Reade would be quick. But that was before I discovered the aisle-long line behind the lone checkout cas.h.i.+er. Ten minutes later, I was one customer away from the promised land of the counter, when another cas.h.i.+er arrived and called, "Next." Taking the one step needed to the newly opened register, I was nearly mowed down by a middle-aged Asian man in a doorman's suit. "Hey!" I said. In response, the line cutter showed me his back, boxing me out as he pushed a bag of Combos at the cas.h.i.+er. The last thing I wanted was to make a scene, but I didn't have the time to be demure. I leaned in, s.n.a.t.c.hed the Combos out of the cas.h.i.+er's hand, and sent them sailing down one of the crammed aisles behind me. Problem solving NYC-style. "Next means next," I explained to the wide-eyed man as my purchase was scanned and bagged. I waited until I was in my squad car, double-parked outside on Broadway, to open the bag. I pulled on a pair of rubber crime-scene gloves and took the men's reading gla.s.ses out of their package. The lenses were round, silver rimmed. Just like the ones Paul had dropped at the crime scene. Just like the ones Bonnie hopefully hadn't processed yet. I wiped them down with alcohol before snapping open an evidence bag and dropping them in. I lit the receipt with a match and scattered its ashes out the window onto Broadway. Then I turned the engine over and screeched away. Next stop, police headquarters in Manhattan.

Chapter 41.

BONNIE HAD HER HEAD in one of her desk drawers when I stepped into her fifth-floor office at One Police Plaza."Hey, Bonnie," I said. "That is you, isn't it?""Lauren, what a happy surprise," Bonnie said, shaking a bag of Starbucks coffee as she stood. "And what perfect timing. How about some French roast?" "So," she said, placing a steaming black mug in front of me a minute later. "How are things coming along?" "I was about to ask you the same thing," I said. "Even though this case is our priority, it's going to take some time. All we got so far is that the tarp Scott was wrapped in was a Neat Sheet, a ma.s.s-market picnic blanket. They sell them in supermarkets everywhere." I sipped my coffee, nodding. I'd bought it at Stop & Shop. "What about the gla.s.ses?" I said. "Not too much, sorry to say," Bonnie said. "There were no visible fingerprints on the lenses themselves. I red-balled them down to the lab to see if they might pick up a partial on the rims, but I wouldn't hold my breath. We're going to have to cross our fingers and see if we can get a hit on a prescription. I just got off the phone with this guy Sakarov, head of ophthalmology at NYU. He's going to a.n.a.lyze them and guide us through the records." I burned my tongue with another sip of coffee, then placed the mug back down on the corner of her desk. "Do you think I could see them?" I said. Bonnie gave me a funny look. "Why?" she said. I shrugged my shoulders. "I don't know," I said. "To get some sort of feel for this guy. Maybe? You never know." Bonnie grinned as she stood. "Okay, Psychic Detective. The lab's just down the hall. I'll go get them for you. You sit there and prime your mysterious powers until I get back."

Chapter 42.

I FINGERED THE GLa.s.sES in my jacket pocket as I watched her walk off. My plan was to improvise, but what would I do? Say, "Look, Bonnie, a bird!" and then do the old switcheroo? I drank my coffee and tried to think. About a minute later, a scruffy-looking young man appeared in Bonnie's outer office. I watched him looking around, clearly lost. Maybe it was David Blaine, come to give me some sleight-of-hand tips. I opened the door. "Can I help you?" I called out. "I'm looking for Sergeant Clesnik. I'm supposed to pick up a package for Dr. Sakarov?" No! He was here for the gla.s.ses. I was out of time.Or was I? The kid stared at me as I debated. Finally, I took the Duane Reade gla.s.ses in the evidence bag from my pocket. I found an empty envelope on Bonnie's desk. I dropped the gla.s.ses in, sealed it with a lick, and handed it over.The kid put the envelope in his shoulder bag and stood there, staring at me. What now? Bonnie was going to be back any second."Anything else?" I said. He rubbed the scruff on his chin. "How about your number?" s.h.a.ggy said with a sly smile. "That'd be cool." As if. Like I hadn't had enough of younger men. Now, what could I say that would make the kid disappear instantly? "What's your take on kids?" I said, looking into his eyes lovingly. "Because my four could really use a father figure." "Take it easy," he said with a wave as he finally left. Bonnie arrived back maybe three minutes later with Paul's gla.s.ses in an evidence bag. "You're lucky you came early," she said. "A messenger is about to pick them up." "Oh, no," I said. "Some guy just came in, and I sent him away. Let me run and catch up to him." I grabbed the gla.s.ses out of Bonnie's hand as I jogged for the exit. "Thanks for the joe, Bonnie. Call me with the first thing you hear," I yelled over my shoulder.

Chapter 43.

THE FIRST IMPORTANT THING I noticed as I stepped back into the Homicide bullpen was that my boss wasn't alone in his office. I had just enough time to put my coat on my chair before his door opened. "Lauren," Keane called out. "Come in here, will you. I need to see you right now." I silenced a groan as I walked across the boss's threshold. Jeff Buslik looked up at me, his dark eyes clear and bright and vigilant. "Afternoon, Detective," he said.For the past five years, the extremely handsome African American Jeff Buslik had been the Bronx DA's office's Homicide Bureau chief. Everybody said he was an actual genius. I'd worked with him three times before he'd become head of the bureau, and three times he'd gotten jury convictions. Bronx jury convictions, slam-dunked with maximum sentences, state prison, twenty-five years to life.I rubbed my eyes as I sat down. "What do you have so far?" the prosecutor said. "Let me hear it all, Lauren." "Give me a break, Jeff," I said. "You have my report right there in front of you. Speed-read it again. It'll be quicker." Jeff smiled. No wonder juries liked him. He looked like a freaking movie star. Jeff had the gift of glib, too. "Humor me," he said. So I told him. When I was done, he leaned back on his chair's back legs. He laid his hands on the lapels of his spotless gray suit as he stared up at the water-stained drop ceiling. His half-lidded eyes moved back and forth as if he were reading something. How many homicides had crossed his desk? I wondered. A thousand? Two thousand? Already he was a.n.a.lyzing and sorting, building up the strengths and weaknesses of the case.Or maybe he was just reading my mind, I thought, stilling the tap-tap routine my shoe had started against the floor. Christ, he made me nervous."This elderly witness, Amelia Phelps, does she seem believable?" he said after a minute. I nodded. "Very believable, Jeff." "Pathology report?" "They're rus.h.i.+ng it," my boss said. "But it'll still take at least a week." "What's your gut on these two dealers?" Jeff said. "The Ordonez brothers?" "They're looking d.a.m.n good," Keane said. "Only, we're having trouble locating them.""You think maybe they could be heading back to the Dominican Republic? I think maybe."Wouldn't that be lovely, I thought. "Who knows?" I said."Do you think these gentlemen are dumb enough to have the murder weapon on them?" Jeff said, creaking the chair back and forth with a flexing wingtip. "My juries love murder weapons. Murder weapons and DNA. Have to give them a crossover episode of CSI and Law and Order these days. You know that. We find the gun, hopefully with a little blood on it, it'll be over before it starts."A vivid picture of the gun and b.l.o.o.d.y bag in my toolshed flashed through my brain. "I've worked in this borough for a while, Jeff," I said nonchalantly. "Dumb is something I never underestimate." Jeff gave me some more red-carpet wattage as he smiled broadly again. "You seem to have your end covered as usual, Detective," he said. "I'll head back to the office and get started on boiler-plating some search warrants. Soon as you get an address, we'll be ready to go. Maybe shoot for the death sentence on this one."

Chapter 44.

I NEARLY IMPLODED in my desk chair after Jeff Buslik had left the building. I thought I could handle this. Because I was in charge of the case, I thought I could get out in front of everything. Now I wasn't sure. In fact, I doubted it. I'd been lucky so far, but how much longer could that last? Not long with clear-eyed Jeff Buslik staring over my shoulder. He could sense guilt the way a shark can smell blood. Twenty minutes later, Mike came in with a dozen Dunkin' Donuts and a Box O' Joe. Wow, a keg of caffeine. I wasn't high-strung enough yet? "What's the word?" I said. Mike shook his head. "Jelly?" he said, opening the box. "n.o.body knows squat. It's hurry-up-and-wait time. Boston cream?" The rest of the day and into the night was spent "no commenting" the reporters, who called by the half hour, and flipping through Scott's case files. Scott had really been a terrific undercover, I soon discovered. He'd been loaned out on stings to the FBI and the ATF and had actually gotten to be the right-hand man of a high-level guy in the Cali cartel.I found a picture of Scott, smiling along with the rest of his interagency task force, as they posed in front of a white sandbag wall of seized cocaine. Oh, Scott.I shook my head as I slapped the file closed and opened another. A born bulls.h.i.+t artist, I thought, and I actually had to go ahead and believe him. The next time I looked up, the squad room windows were dark. What time was it? Mike hung up his phone and growled like a bear awakened from hibernation two months early. "Get this. These DEA geniuses have the Brothers Ordonez's location, and I quote, 'pinned down to this after-hours club they partially own in Mott Haven or to an apartment in the a.s.s end of Brooklyn.' ""That's some or, " I said."My sentiments exactly. Bottom line, we're looking at a long night," Mike said. "It's your turn to crash. Go home and see what that husband of yours is looking like these days. Keep your cell phone on. The second I get the word, you'll get it. Go home."

Chapter 45.

I HEARD THE TV in the den when I came in. A lone voice followed by studio audience laughter. Letterman, probably. Great. He'd be doing a Top Ten about me and Paul soon enough. I put my keys on the pub mirror and looked at the blue TV light spilling through the crack onto the runner of carpet in the hall. Of all the difficult things I'd done all day, this one felt like the hardest. Nothing could quite top off a long day of covering up a murder like having to admit to your husband that you cheated on him. I took a long lungful of oxygen, slowly let it out, and pushed the door open. Paul was lying on the couch with a Yankees throw pulled up to his chin. He clicked off the set when he saw me standing there. "Hey," he said with a smile. He still had a nice smile, even at the most inappropriate times. I stared at him. I don't know what I was expecting, but a cheerful "hey" wasn't it. "Hey, s.l.u.t" maybe. "Hey, yourself?" I said tentatively. I didn't know what the next dance step was supposed to be. Not even a wild guess. I'd never had Paul murder my lover before. "How was work?" Paul asked me. "Work was fine, Paul," I said. "Um, don't you think that maybe we should talk a little bit about last night?" Paul lowered his eyes to the floor. Now maybe we were getting somewhere. "I was pretty loaded, huh?" he said. That's what generally happens when you practically polish off a bottle of scotch by yourself, I wanted to say. But I guess I needed to be supportive. I definitely needed Paul to open up, unburden himself. Tell me exactly what happened. Hear his side of things. It would make things so much easier. He could get it off his chest, and I could tell him that he didn't have to worry, that I was already taking care of everything. "What's going on, Paul?" I whispered. "You can tell me." Paul glanced at me, his lower lip caught between his teeth. "My G.o.d, Lauren," he said. "My flight. It was a nightmare. There was this loud boom, and we started plum-meting. I was convinced it was another terrorist attack. That I was dead. Then it just stopped. The plane leveled out, but the pilot landed it in Groton. I never made it to Boston. "It was like I'd been spared, you know? After we touched down, I rented a car and drove home. I guess I was still in shock when I got back in. I opened the bottle to have a drink to calm myself, and pretty soon, the bottle was my drink. Don't ask me what happened to my clothes. Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." My face burned in the dark. Why was Paul lying to me now? Acting as if he wasn't aware I knew what was going on? On the other hand, it wasn't uncommon for murderers to enter a state of denial. Sometimes it was so impenetrable, it was like they themselves truly believed they didn't commit the crime. Was that it? Was Paul in shock and so racked with guilt that he'd become delusional? "Paul!" I finally said. "Please!" Paul looked up at me, confused. "Please what?" he said. My G.o.d, I thought. As if this wasn't hard enough. Was Paul playing some type of game with me? It was as if he didn't know I'd been there, too. That he thought Scott had been alone and . . . Holy s.h.i.+t! That was it! A hand went to my gaping mouth. I couldn't believe it.Paul didn't know that I'd been there!Paul hadn't come to confront us, I realized. He must have seen an e-mail or two, suspected what was going on, and gone over to Scott's to deliver an a.s.s kicking in order to scare him away from me. That's why he'd left without confronting me! And that was why he was acting oblivious now. He wasn't acting. Paul was oblivious!Paul didn't know I'd cheated on him.

Chapter 46.

NOW, THAT CHANGED THINGS, didn't it? I stared across the room as Paul lifted up the throw. "Get in here with me, Lauren," he said. "You've been working too hard. h.e.l.l, we both have. C'mere."Seeing Paul lying there like that reminded me of the time when I'd thrown out my back, chasing a suspect down a Throgs Neck fire escape the year before. I was laid up for two weeks, and Paul had used his vacation to take care of me. Really take care of me. He'd cooked us three meals a day, and we'd eaten here together watching daytime TV, reading, Paul reading to me. The water heater gave up the ghost in the middle of the second week, and I'll never forget how Paul had washed my hair in the kitchen sink with water heated from the stove.Bottom line was, he'd been there for me. Now he needed me to be there for him. I took a breath and stepped over and lay down beside him. Paul switched off the light. I reached out in the dark until I found Paul's hand, then I held it tight. "Well, I'm glad you made it home to me," I finally said. "Even if your clothes didn't."

Chapter 47.

THE NEXT MORNING, I got dressed quickly after Paul left for work. I'd been waiting for him to leave, actually. More accurate: I couldn't wait for Paul to go.As I was about to dump my handbag into my Mini, I suddenly very distinctly remembered what ADA Jeff Buslik had said about the gun used to kill Scott. How it was absolutely critical to proving the case.I moved away from the car and hurried toward the work shed, a single question racing through my brain. Which river was I going to dump the gun in - the Hudson, the East, or the Harlem? But I swallowed hard as soon as I unlocked the shed's door. I hadn't been expecting this. Not in my wildest dreams.There was an empty s.p.a.ce where the bag of evidence had been! There was just air.I looked behind the rakes, the bags of fertilizer, the watering can. No gun. No b.l.o.o.d.y paper towels. No nothing. What now? I stared at the spot, wondering what Paul might have done with the murder gun. Had he dumped it when he went to return the car? If so, where? That worried me. A lot. The murder weapon still around someplace, probably with Paul's prints on it. I was standing there, stomach churning, when I noticed the shovel. The tip of its blade was dark. I touched it. It was wet with mud. I took it out of the shed with me and jogged toward the backyard. Where would I bury a murder weapon if I were Paul? I thought. I'd want to hide it someplace close, I decided. Someplace where I could glance out my window and see if the area had been disturbed. I scanned my backyard. It got only afternoon sun, so it was still shaded. I paced its entire length, staring at the cool, shadowed ground for twenty minutes, but there were no obvious disturbances. Not in the plant beds, not beneath the hedges or azaleas. About ten minutes later, next to the grill, beside a stack of garden bricks we'd bought at Home Depot a year before, I noticed something a little curious. To the right of the pile, I could see faint indentations of bricks in the dirt. The bricks had been moved slightly over to the left, I realized. I began removing the top row of bricks and placing them back in their original formation. Under the last row, the earth was loose. I dug with the shovel until it squished into something. My breath caught and my heart pumped with relief. It was a plastic Stop & Shop bag. I opened it and saw the .38 sitting on top of the b.l.o.o.d.y towels. I put the gun in my purse and tied the shopping bag and put it in the trunk of my Impala, the cop car I usually drove to work in. Then I went back, filled the hole, and painstakingly put the bricks back the way I'd found them. I was sweating, placing the last brick back down, when I heard something at the corner of the house. I turned. And my heart stopped. It was my partner, Mike.Mike? Here at my house? Now?Behind him were Scott's DETF group members Jeff Trahan and Roy Khuong. All three were wearing full ballistic armor. I could feel my sweat glands open like a drain. This was it - endgame! They'd been surveilling me, I thought. They knew exactly what had happened. Probably from the get-go. Now it was over. My mouth opened wordlessly as I stared at them from where I was, on my knees. "What's up, Lauren? Don't you answer your phone?" Mike said, pulling me up. "We just got word from a confidential informant that the Ordonez boys are at their club right now. We decided to just come by and pick you up. Marut and Price are waiting in the van." He slapped the dirt from my hands as if I were a naughty child he'd caught playing in the mud. "You can plant your perennials later, Martha Stewart," my fired-up partner said with a grin. "It's time for us to bag some cop killers."

Chapter 48.

RIDING IN THE BACK of a speeding van disguised as a plumbing company's, which the Bronx Narcotics Drug Enforcement Task Force used for surveillance, I studied the black-and-white photographs of the Ordonez brothers that Mike had brought with him. The pilot, Mark, was a year older than his brother, Victor, but the hard-eyed, pock-marked tough guys could have been twins. I handed the pictures back to Mike, who was crouched next to me. He was sheathed in Kevlar, a tactical shotgun held port arms across his chest. I was wearing a full vest, too, and it felt incredibly heavy across my back and shoulders. Or maybe it was just my head-about-to-explode guilt and anxiety dragging on me. "Couple of real lookers," I managed to get out. "Did you notice how light-skinned Victor is? Six foot. He matches Amelia Phelps's description almost to a T. He did it, Lauren. He's our guy. He just about killed a cop fifteen years ago, and he finally got his chance with Scott. The son of a b.i.t.c.h was Scott's shooter. I can feel it." I stared at my partner. There was a far-off look in his eyes, a malevolent gaze. "These two are going to wish their mother strangled them at birth," he whispered. I raked my hair back with my fingers. I remembered again that Mike's dad had been killed on The Job. Now we were going after cop killers. I wondered suddenly if this was such a good idea. Actually, I knew it wasn't. "We're here," Trahan called from the wheel as the van slowed. "Lock and load, ladies." There was a heady metallic smell in the van's enclosed s.p.a.ce. Adrenaline probably. Or maybe testosterone. Things were happening way too fast. The click of weapons echoed off the stark, steel walls. We were parked on East 141st Street somewhere off Willis Avenue. I guessed the Manhattan real-estate bubble had yet to blow in this direction, looking out at the weed-filled lots and crumbling buildings. Anything to keep my mind off what was happening now.Across the desolate street, a wind-blown page of El Diario caught against the skeletal b.u.mper of a stripped-to-the-bones Escalade. The only structures that looked semi-sound around here were the housing projects across the gun-metal strip of the Harlem River behind us.Trahan pointed at an ancient, listing, four-story walk-up midway down the block. "There she blows," he said. "That's the club."Club? I thought, confused. What club? What Trahan was pointing at were just two graffiti-covered steel shutters bookending the shadowed doorway of an anonymous-looking storefront. The crumbling tenement windows above it were empty. Not just of people. Of gla.s.s and aluminum frames, too.Trahan caught my dumbfounded look. "You have to see this place inside," he said with a rueful shake of his head. "It's another world."Trahan took out his cell phone and made a call. He tssked after a few seconds, snapped it shut."d.a.m.n confidential informants," he said. "She's not picking up." "It's a woman?" I said. "Of course," Detective Marut said. "She was sleeping with Mark Ordonez until he left her for another lady. There's no better informant than a woman scorned." "When did you last hear from her?" I asked. "Right before we picked you up," Trahan said. He bit the antenna of his radio in frustration. "I wanted to hit it fast, flash-bang through the front door, get everybody down. Now I'm not so sure. My CI there said that the place was packed. We can't risk somebody getting hurt, especially us, unless the Ordonez brothers are definitely in there. Then, f.u.c.k everything!" "Hey, wait a second," I said. "Where's the Emergency Service Unit? They live for this kind of stuff. Why don't we let them handle it?" "Scott was our brother," Khuong said gravely, his eyes hard and dark as coal. "This stays in the family." Good lord. I didn't like the sound of that. I was getting a scary vibe off everyone, actually. These guys were too keyed up. Letting their emotions get the best of them. This thing felt more like a war party than an arrest procedure. Whatever happened to removing the emotionally involved from the case? Like I of all people should talk. "Did somebody say that the place was packed?" I said, staring dubiously at the desolate establishment. "It's coming on nine a.m." Thaddeus's gold tooth winked. At least I think that's what I saw. He racked his 10mm Smith & Wesson. "Some people never want the party to end, girl," he said. "Wait a second. How are we going to do a recon?" Detective Marut chimed in. "If these guys killed Scott, then they're going to be superparanoid about anybody who looks suspicious. We've all been on surveillance. Who knows if they made us." "I have an idea," I said. I stared at the club. It looked evil, like an inner-city entrance to h.e.l.l. But I was the one whose charade had put us here, and I could barely live with myself at that moment. If somebody else got hurt, I didn't know what I would do. "Wire me up," I said. Trahan shook his head. "No way." "What are you, nuts?" Mike said. "No way are you going into that pit alone. I'll do it."I stared into my partner's eyes. He meant what he'd just said. Like I said, he's the best."You listen to me," I said. "I'm going in. They don't know me from Eve. They won't expect a woman. Oh, and if that's not good enough for you, I'm the primary investigator. And to answer your first question, Yes, obviously I'm nuts."

Chapter 49.

IT TOOK ABOUT A MINUTE AND A HALF for DEA agent Thaddeus Price to attach a tiny wireless Typhoon mike under the b.u.t.ton of my suit jacket. I kind of wanted to tell him I wasn't in that big a hurry, but I kept that particular news flash to myself. "Okay, here's the set," he said. "This place is a s.h.i.+t hole, but believe it or not, on Friday mornings they get a slumming, hard-partying Manhattan crowd. Go up, knock on the door, and tell the bouncer you're looking for your boyfriend, DJ Lewis. Don't worry, he's not there. But the bouncer will probably let you in." "Why's that?" I said. Thaddeus's tooth glittered again as he smiled at me. "Look in the mirror, Detective. Pretty white girls like you don't need to be on the list." "You see either of our buddies, Mark or Victor," Trahan advised, "I want you to call out, 'Code red,' and find the nearest corner. Same goes if there's trouble, if you feel you're in any danger at all. We'll be there before you can draw another breath, okay?" "Code red," I said. "Got it." h.e.l.l, I'd been in code red for the past twenty-four hours. "All right, what else?" Trahan said. "Oh, yeah. Cough up your weapon and badge. The bouncer might want to search you." The walls of the cramped van suddenly seemed to shrink in on me, until I felt like I was lying in a coffin. My own coffin.Dear Holy Christ!I could hand over my Glock and badge without any problem whatsoever. But Scott's gun, the one that Paul had used to murder him, was in my handbag. That might raise a few eyebrows in the van. What the h.e.l.l was I going to do now? I reached into my purse and handed Trahan my Glock. Then I gave him my gold badge. But I left Scott's murder weapon right where it was, under my wallet and a box of Altoids. "Wish me luck," I said. "Code red," Trahan repeated. "Don't be a hero in there, Lauren." "Trust me, I'm no hero." The door of the van suddenly slid open, and I stepped out, blinking, onto the cracked and stained sidewalk. I looked around. I didn't know which was bleaker, the inner-city horizon or my dwindling chances of pulling this crazy charade off alive. "Don't worry, partner," Mike said. "We'll be watching you every step of the way." Yeah, I thought, hefting my bag as the door slammed shut. That was precisely the problem. I stared at the establishment in question, the so-called club. The steel shutters. The lightless doorway between them like a vertical open grave. What in the name of everything holy could happen to me next? Code red was the least of my problems.

Chapter 50.

IN THE SMALL ALCOVE just inside the crummy front door was a crimson velvet rope and behind it, an ink-black stairwell leading down. The bouncer standing next to it was wearing champagne-colored sungla.s.ses and a three-piece suit that could have been made of red Mylar. I silently debated what made me more uneasy as I approached him, the fact that he was six and a half feet tall or the fact that he was morbidly obese. A steady thumping rose from the raw concrete stairwell at his side, as if blasting were going on in the depths of the earth. "Lewis spinning tonight?" I asked. The bouncer shook his huge head almost imperceptibly. Did he understand English? Did he automatically know I was a cop? I felt suddenly very glad Mike and the other guys were just a yell away. "Is it a private party, or can I get in?" I said. Private party, I prayed, glancing down into the black of the stairwell. I had no problem with going back to the van a failure. We could figure something else out. I was leaning toward a nap at that point. Or maybe a three-week vacation out of the country. "Depends," the bouncer finally spoke. "On what?" I said. The bouncer lowered his shades and adjusted himself in a way that made me glad I hadn't eaten any breakfast. "On how bad you want in," he said. "That's really romantic," I said as I turned on my heel. "But there's nothing on this earth I want that bad." "Come back, come back," the unsavory bouncer said, booming nasty laughter as he unclipped the velvet rope. "Don't get so testy, white girl. Just a little joke. Bouncer humor. Welcome to Wonderground."

Chapter 51.

I WAS ALMOST READY to draw Scott's gun for protection by the time I made it to the bottom of the treacherously dark stairwell. Instead, I took a deep breath. Then I stepped toward the amplified throbbing, pa.s.sing through a doorway curtained with crystal beads. On the other side, I stared, amazed, at the flat-screen TVs, the expensive lighting, the packed center bar that looked like it was made of black gla.s.s. The female bartenders behind it wore black rubber cat suits and fake b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Heck, they might have been transvest.i.tes. The Bronx really was back. I had to admit, I was kind of impressed. This could have been Manhattan. The Ordonez brothers had done their degradation research. Among the predominantly Hispanic crowd was a well-represented contingent of upscale white people. They were sweating on the dance floor, faces rapt with foolish smiles as they spun neon-colored glow sticks in both hands. Above gyrating dancers, in a steel cage suspended from the ceiling, a naked dwarf wearing angel wings was banging on the bars with a white nightstick. Who thinks this s.h.i.+t up? I wondered. "I can feel your energy," a bloated, middle-aged bond-trader type said as he spilled off the dance floor and tried to embrace me. I tried to stiff-arm him away, and when that didn't work, I lightly kneed him between the legs. "Now you can - maybe," I said as he backed off in a hurry. I fled toward the bar. "Twelve dollars," the bartender said after I ordered a Heineken. Look at that, I thought, coughing up the money, they even had Manhattan prices. Maybe thirty seconds later, a short, pudgy Hispanic man with a goatee smiled and wedged himself in beside me. "I'm the candy man," he said. I stared at him. The candy man? Was that a new pickup line? I'd been out of it for a while. Actually, to tell the truth, nice Catholic girl that I was, I'd never actually been in it. He placed an ivory-colored pill in my hand. I didn't think it was a Sweet Tart. "Twenty," he said. I gave it back to him and watched him shrug his shoulders and leave. The Ecstasy dealer had to be working for the Ordonezes, right? But I lost him when he stepped into the laser-light kaleidoscope of the dance floor. I looked around for either Ordonez. I scanned the A-list booths at the rear of the dance floor behind the DJ. The strobes and violent waves of ba.s.s weren't exactly helping my concentration. Like it or not, I had to get closer. I was skirting the far edge of the dance floor to avoid any more unwanted advances, when one of the doors in the concrete wall beside me opened. Victor Ordonez stepped out, staring right into my eyes. Before I could move, an iron hand was wrapped around the back of my neck. I turned and saw my buddy from upstairs, the bouncer in dire need of Jenny Craig. "It's only me, lady," he said and grinned. "Why don't you come into the VIP room?" Victor yelled over the music as I was pushed inside. "Private party. But you can be my guest."

Chapter 52.

THE BACK VIP ROOM was actually a tenement bas.e.m.e.nt. Raw concrete walls and floors, cinder-block window frames, the rusted hull of an old boiler. Nice decor. A naked bulb hung above an old grease-caked kitchen table that held a stainless steel electronic scale. Beyond the table, through a dark doorway, was a corridor with something lying on the floor. I swallowed hard. It was a crud-stained mattress. "Get your filthy hands off me right now," I said, struggling to break the bouncer's grip. "Calm down, please," Victor said pleasantly as he stepped in front of me. He was wearing a three-piece white suit, white s.h.i.+rt, and a black tie. I wondered if Mickey Rourke knew one of his suits was missing. "This is a routine security matter," Victor explained. "My employee, Ignacio, forgot to search you upstairs. An oversight on his part." An alarm bell went off in my head. I wondered what else was routine for the violent drug dealer standing in front of me. "Hey," I said. "Go ahead and kick me out for breaking your rules. I was thinking about hitting a diner for some breakfast, anyway." Victor sighed. Then he nodded at the bouncer. My handbag was ripped away. I heard its contents being dumped onto the table as I scanned the room for another exit. I couldn't stop staring at the mattress. Or remembering the attempted rape arrest on Victor's rap sheet. Should I just grab for Scott's gun? I wondered. How many rounds were left? Four? Double-tap Victor, go for a head shot on the behemoth, then get out the same door I came in. "What's this?" Victor said, picking up Scott's .38 before I could. I almost panicked. I had an open mike, and I couldn't let the team hear about the gun. I thought quickly. "That looks like a code red," I said casually. "What do you mean, 'code red'?" he asked."That. The gun you pulled and have pointed at me. That looks like a code red! " I said in a loud voice, hoping my mike had picked me up.My knees stung as Victor suddenly threw me to the floor. "Shut up, you b.i.t.c.h! Who are you to come into my place, shouting your head off at me?" he yelled." Cono! Don't you see?" the bouncer behind me said. "That's a cop gun. She's a f.u.c.king lady cop. And Pedro already sold to her!""Shut up, you useless hump, and let me think!" Victor screamed. My face went numb as the younger Ordonez suddenly pointed the gun at me. I stared into the black barrel. Instead of seeing my entire life, everything that had happened since I'd decided to be with Scott flashed before my eyes. In high-definition clarity, I saw every misstep that had led me from two nights before to here and now. Wait a second, I thought. Where are the troops? I looked at the thick walls. These d.a.m.n bas.e.m.e.nts! I must have been in a radio blind spot."Code red!" I screamed as I scrambled for the door.The bouncer was surprisingly quick for a mountain. I made it only halfway before he grabbed my ankle and almost tore off my entire left foot. Then there was a scream - and the door exploded! Pounding dance music instantly flooded the room. My eyes - tearing in the dust and splinters - were greeted with hands-down the most satisfying sight of my life to that point. My partner, Mike, shotgun to his shoulder, was riding the knocked-down door into the room like it was a surfboard.

Chapter 53.

MIKE CRUSHED THE BOUNCER'S ugly face with a shotgun b.u.t.t to the nose before the monster could even form his first curse word. "Where's Victor?" Mike then said, tossing me my Glock and cuffs. "We lost your transmission outside. Trahan's informant told us Victor brought you in here." "I don't know where he went, Mike," I said, searching behind me. "He was right here a second ago." "Cuff that one to something and give me some backup," Mike said. He leveled his shotgun toward the dark pa.s.sageway where the mattress lay and then rushed toward it. I cuffed the unconscious bouncer to one of the boiler's pipes. His gla.s.ses were shattered and his leaking face was now the color of his suit. Just a little cop humor, I felt like telling him as I ran into the corridor after my partner. I heard the sound of a door slamming ahead of me. Where the h.e.l.l had Mike and Ordonez gone? I banged my s.h.i.+n on some unseen stairs and jogged up them, my Glock leading the way. The door I finally found, pretty much with my face, exited onto a field with high weeds and garbage and broken gla.s.s. Now where was I? I blinked in the sudden, blinding daylight. I saw Mike already halfway across the abandoned lot. A half block in front of him, a figure in a white suit was sprinting along 140th Street. It was either Victor Ordonez or an ice-cream man training for the marathon. I began closing the distance as Mike chased Victor east for two blocks. At the end of the third intersection, they went under an el and in through the gate of a junkyard. Would Ordonez get away? I guess I hoped so. If it were up to me, he could keep running until he got back to Santo Domingo. Unfortunately, Mike kept up his pursuit, rus.h.i.+ng h.e.l.l-bent for glory around an obstacle course of crushed boxes and piled metal. All Ordonez had to do was wait and fire, and Mike would be toast. But it didn't happen that way.Approaching a rusted tin wall at the rear of the junkyard, I heard a loud metal screech. Then a metal- on-metal boom. What the h.e.l.l was that?Half a block away in the farthest corner of the yard, I spotted Ordonez scrambling off the forklift he'd just crashed into the fence. He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled out of sight through a crack that he'd made in the fence. A second or two later, Mike appeared from a wall of pipes and dove through the same hole in the fence, still chasing Ordonez. When I finally got there, huffing and puffing, I could see trains. Lots of trains. Ordonez had fled from a junkyard into a subway rail yard. And I forgot to fill my MetroCard, I thought as I crawled through the fence, keeping my eyes peeled for the deadly third rail.

Chapter 54.

I WAS RUNNING through a narrow s.p.a.ce between two parked number 4 trains, searching frantically for Mike and Ordonez, when I heard a sharp crack. s.h.i.+t! The window above my head shattered. "Hey, white girl! Catch! "I turned in time to watch Victor Ordonez, who was leaning out the conductor's window two cars away, fire again. I felt something zip past my ear and then heard a sound like thin ice breaking. I started emptying my Glock in Victor's direction. I ejected the empty clip before I realized something warm was running down my neck. My legs dematerialized suddenly, and I found myself lying on gravel. There was something wrong with the side of my face. G.o.d, I'd been hit! I felt dizzy. Like I was sliding out of myself, watching myself from a distance.Don't go into shock, Lauren. Move! Do something! Right now! I scrambled upright and began retreating as fast as my shaky legs would carry me. I pressed the sleeve of my jacket to my head where it was bleeding.I fell to my knees one more time and had to pick myself up again before I reached the end of the train. I spotted an open door at the end of the last car. I climbed up, pulled myself inside on my stomach, and rolled under some seats. That's when the shooting really got started! Two or three cars away, a shotgun blasted three times in quick succession. Then it went off again almost on top of me, and the window gla.s.s of the car I was in shattered. I was lying there, curled up on the filthy floor, bleeding and s.h.i.+vering, when I suddenly heard Ordonez scream in the next car. I couldn't see him from where I lay, but I could hear him as clearly as if he were in the same room. "Okay! Okay! I give up!" Victor Ordonez yelled at somebody. There was the sound of something heavy dropping against the floor. Scott's gun? "I want my lawyer," Ordonez said. For a second, everything was quiet. Too quiet. What was happening now? Then a shotgun was jacked.Click-clack."Only thing you're going to need, you cop-killing piece of s.h.i.+t," I heard Mike say, "is an undertaker." No! I remember thinking. Dear G.o.d, Mike. What are you doing? No! I spun onto my stomach, struggled to stand, my mouth gaping to shout at Mike. "Cop killer?" I heard Ordonez say with confusion in his voice. Then the shotgun exploded one last time.

Chapter 55.

I MUST HAVE Pa.s.sED OUT for a little while, because the next thing I heard were the cries of somebody asking, "Where the f.u.c.k are you?" The words were coming out of Mike's radio, which lay beside my head. Mike was on the subway car floor, cradling me in his lap."You're going to be all right, Lauren," Mike said. He had a smile on his face, and there were tears in his eyes. "Your head got nicked. Flesh wound. Honest to G.o.d. You're going to be fine." "I'm not dying?" I asked Mike. "Nope. Not on my watch." Through the open door between cars, I could see a hand sticking out of a sea of shattered gla.s.s. Blood was flecked on a white sleeve. "What about Victor?" I said. "You . . ." Mike put a finger to my lips. "Fired on him after he shot at me. You remember what happened, partner?" I winced. I couldn't believe it. Somehow I'd gotten from my normal life to here. "That's the way it happened. He shot and then I shot," Mike repeated. "That way and no other way." I nodded, looked away from Mike. "I hear you. I got it, Mike." "They're here," a frantic voice called from somewhere outside the subway car. "They're in here." "My dad was killed on a train just like this one," Mike said in a tired voice. "Just like this one."Outside came the chop-chop of an approaching helicopter, then the sound of barking dogs."He used to take me and my brother fis.h.i.+ng out on City Island," Mike went on. "My little brother was so hyper he flipped the boat on us one time. I thought my dad was going to drown him, but instead he just laughed. That's how he was. How I'll always remember him. With us hugging his big neck as he laughed like h.e.l.l, swimming us ash.o.r.e." An awful sound ripped from the back of Mike's throat. Thirty, forty years' worth of grief. "I always knew something like this would happen," he said. "Sooner or later." I patted my partner on the elbow. Then EMTs and cops and DEA agents all came flooding into the shot-up train car.

Chapter 56.

I DEFINITELY WASN'T DYING TODAY. It turned out I didn't need st.i.tches, so the EMTs cleaned my wound, applied pressure to stop the bleeding from my cheek and left ear, and fixed me up with a small bandage. I sat on the edge of the ambulance, watching the fuss and thinking that I easily could have been killed in this train yard. Trahan had finally called the Emergency Service Unit, the NYPD's SWAT guys, and a wagon circle of their diesel trucks surrounded the train yard's wheelhouse. There were K-9 units, aviation hovering, a platoon of detectives and uniforms. After Mike saw me go down, he'd called in a 10-13, "cop in dire need," and it seemed everyone on the force, except maybe the harbor patrol, had responded. Lieutenant Keane hopped down from the train car where Victor Ordonez was still lying and came over. "You did real good," he said. "The serial number on the gun beside our dearly departed friend in there matches. It was Scott's. Just like we thought. The Ordonezes took him out." I shook my head and genuinely couldn't believe what had happened. In a weird way, it had actually worked out better than I could have hoped, or dreamed. Everything was going to be okay now. Despite the stalling, the omissions, the lies. "Any sign of Mark, the pilot brother?" I asked. "None so far," my boss said. "But don't worry, he'll turn up." "Where's Mike?" I asked. My boss rolled his eyes. "IAB. Rat squad practically got here before the ESU. You'd think you getting hit might make a difference to them. Those s.h.i.+t-shoveling a.s.sholes think you shot yourself and dumped the gun maybe." I kept my breathing normal, but only through intense concentration. Meanwhile, my boss rubbed my back like a boxer's cornerman before standing him back up to fight. "Why don't you tell this kid to get you over to Jacobi before the commissioner shows up. After the hospital, go home and unplug the phone. I'll keep the sewer rats away until you catch your breath. Give me a call sometime tomorrow. You need anything right now?" I shook my head. I couldn't even begin to think of an answer to that question. "You did real good, kid," my boss said before he left. "Made us all proud." I sat there, watching him walk away. The department had their shooter. Paul was probably off the hook. Brooke and her kids would be taken care of, as they ought to be. I watched the blue NYPD helicopter skim over the razor wire at the rail yard's fence, then sail into the bright blue sky. Out of the corner of one eye I saw the CSU camera lights pop in the gla.s.sless window of the train car. Everything had worked out okay, hadn't it? This was the end of the mess. So why was I crying?

Chapter 57.

IT WAS SUNNY and cool the following Monday morning. Standing at attention out on the steps of St. Michael's on 41st Street in Woodside, I was glad for the warmth of my dress blues, and for the body heat coming from the officers around me. Though there were maybe three or four thousand cops on the cordoned-off street, waiting for the arrival of Scott's hea.r.s.e, the only sound was the snapping of the honor guard's flag; the only movement, the billow of its bright stars and stripes. The rattle of snare drums began at the first tolling of St. Michael's bells. From around the corner of the stone church came a forty-member contingent of the NYPD Emerald Society, the bagpipes silenced, the drummers sounding a funeral march on black-draped drums. Behind them came a seemingly endless two-by-two line of motorcycle police, their engines crackling as they rode at parade speed. When the sleek black body of the hea.r.s.e finally slid into view, you could almost hear the lumps forming in thousands of throats. Presidents don't get put in the ground with more heart-wrenching cla.s.s than an NYPD cop killed in the line of duty. My muscles in my jaw stood out as I prevented myself from shaking, moving, breaking down completely. From the limo that pulled to a stop behind the hea.r.s.e, Brooke Thayer finally appeared. She was holding her baby and her four-year-old daughter. A member of the honor guard suddenly broke rank and leaned into the limousine with an extended hand. Then Scott's two-year-old son finally emerged, wearing a black suit. A black suit and his father's eight-point policeman's cap. The Ma.s.s was excruciating. Scott's mother broke down during the second reading and his sister during the eulogy. It was even worse when Roy Khuong, Scott's oldest friend and partner, told a story about how Scott had saved his life during a gun battle. He finished it by turning from the pulpit toward the crucifix and saying with a simple yet startling conviction, "I love you, Scott." How I got through the rest of it, I'm not sure. People can survive amazing things. Look at that hiker who cut off his own arm with a pocketknife when it got stuck under a boulder. We are capable of anything, aren't we? Well, I am. I know I am now. They buried Scott in Calvary Cemetery on a high hill overlooking an un.o.bstructed Manhattan skyline. The mayor of New York gestured toward the city as he finished his graveside words. "We ask that Scott do what he did so well in life. Watch over us, Scott. We will never forget your sacrifice." Brooke embraced me like a vise after I had dropped my rose among the hundreds that buried the casket's varnished lid. She touched the bandage on the side of my face. "I know what you did for me," she whispered. "What you did for my family. I can sleep now. Thank you for that, Detective." I pulled the black lip of my cap even more tightly over my eyes to s.h.i.+eld them, nodded stupidly, and then moved along.

Chapter 58.