Haunted (Michael Bennett 10)

Part One

Chapter 1

I looked down the barrel of my Glock 19 service weapon. Lori Armstrong, a tall detective with long blond hair from the Forty-Third precinct, stood across from me. Hector Nunez, a crimes and missing-persons detective, who looked like he should play linebacker for the Jets, was about to knock on the door.

We were three stories up in the dark, musty, hot hallway of an apartment building off Castle Hill Avenue near the I-278 overpass. I could feel the vibration of every semi that rumbled by.

This was an arrest I needed. I desperately wanted something to occupy my mind and satisfy my sense of justice. Some cops found refuge in their homelife. I found that it worked both ways. Right now, I needed to be at work and get some distance so I could be the man I wanted to be at home. I had to get my mind off my son Brian any way I could.

The suspect was a career dope dealer named Laszlo Montez, and I made him for a double homicide in Jackie Robinson Park, near 153rd Street, in sight of Bethany Baptist Church. He’d used a knife on another dealer and the dealer’s girlfriend. The dealer had been stabbed from behind, unaware of the threat. His girlfriend had been slashed over and over. It was messy. Senseless. The guy in this apartment was good for it. And his ass was mine.

Hector looked my way. I nodded, and he knocked. Politely at first. No sense in scaring the suspect.

A voice from inside shouted back in Spanish. “¿Quién es?” Who is it? Like any good NYPD detective, I had a working knowledge of basic Spanish.

Hector said, “It’s me. Open up.”

There wasn’t even an answer from inside. That meant the game was up.

Hector said in a flat voice, “Policía: abre la puerta.” Then in English he added, “Now.”

My sergeant was in the alley behind the building in case Montez managed to navigate the ancient fire escape.

Hector shouted out, “Don’t play, Laz. Open up.” He waited five seconds, then kicked the front door. It splintered in half and fell in pieces onto the hard wooden floor. A cat leaped away from the door and over a ratty couch.

I darted in first, my pistol up. Lori came in behind me. I scanned the shitty little apartment quickly. Bedroom, bathroom, nothing.

The window was open, and I muttered “Shit” as I wedged myself onto the fire-escape landing. It was a long way down. Cops with a thing about heights shouldn’t climb around on fire escapes. But there was no choice. Montez was already a floor down and jumping onto an adjacent apartment’s fire escape. Then he swung down to the second floor. I followed as Lori alerted the sergeant to be ready.

Montez was young and nimble. I was older, and, well, no one ever called me nimble. As soon as he saw me, he did the unexpected. He kicked in a window and dove into an apartment. Immediately I heard screaming. A moment later, I was in the apartment behind him.

A heavy woman wearing some kind of shower cap screamed in Spanish. By the front door, Montez stood with a knife to the throat of a teenage girl with long dark hair. She was shaking like a

wet dog in January.

Montez said, “Get back. I’ll cut her.” He flicked the knife, and a cut opened on the girl’s slender neck. A trickle of blood ran down to her white blouse. The girl let out a yelp.

My gun stayed on target. His face in the front sight. He backed to the door. The woman in the corner screamed, and a bead of sweat rolled into my left eye. I started to time my breathing. His head ducked behind the girl’s face every few seconds. I felt my finger tighten on the trigger.

Then the door burst open behind him. Lori and Hector had their guns on him as well. Montez turned to face them. This time his voice cracked as he shouted, “Get back or I’ll slit her throat.”

His back was to me, so I acted. He had threatened a kid. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen. I was pissed.