Haunted (Michael Bennett 10)

She would never tell me where she got this information. Now it was up to me to do something with it.

Chapter 28

The NYPD policy for an officer-involved shooting dictated that the officer remain at home, off duty, for at least seven days after the incident. That was if it was a “good shoot” and the officer was ready to come back to work. There had been instances of officers staying at home, or “on the bricks,” for months while investigations dragged on.

My shooting involved several good witnesses, the bullet hole next to my head, and a suspect who had been tied to a brutal murder of a high school student. No matter what people inside the library thought, it was a good shoot.

I hadn’t been completely idle during my time on the bricks. I had given the information Mary Catherine had found out, even if she wouldn’t say how, to one of my friends in a Manhattan North narcotics task force.

Now I sat in the front seat of Tim Marcia’s car in Fordham Heights, not too far from the Bronx Zoo. We had the heat up in the roomy unmarked NYPD Tahoe. It was cold and messy outside, and snow fell on and off as ice built up on the sidewalks.

Tim was a sergeant in charge of a Manhattan North narcotics task force that was trying to stem the growing tide of heroin in the city after a crackdown on prescription drugs.

The fifty-year-old veteran looked like a cop, with a caterpillar of a mustache and sharp, intelligent eyes. But he knew his business.

As we waited for some of his detectives to get into place, he said, “Working narcotics is like being the Dutch boy who plugs a hole in the dike. As soon as one hole is plugged, another leak springs close by.” Then he turned to me and added, “At least this time we might be able to help one of our own.

“This is where your friend Caracortada lives and works. His real name is Albert Stass.”

“What kind of Latin name is that?”

“He was born in Uruguay. Maybe his grandparents were German. A lot of Germans fled the country before and after the war. Not just Nazis.” We watched as a kid left the apartment building. Tim continued. “He’s worked with the Sinaloa cartel and spent time in a Mexican prison. His release is a little shady because his sentence was commuted from twenty-five years to just under two.” He gave a couple of quick instructions on the radio. Then he looked at me. “Luckily, the duty judge lives in the real world and agrees with what our surveillances have uncovered. Now we get to squeeze Mr. Stass.”

We found his apartment on the second floor. I insisted that it be just the two of us at the front door. The other detectives were either downstairs or outside.

I took a moment to dust the snow that had accumulated on my shoulders during our short walk into the building. Even with the gray skies outside, I had something resembling hope growing inside me. This was the first proactive thing I’d been able to do for Brian since this whole mess had started.

As we stood on either side of the door, I noticed that Tim looked concerned. I said, “You got something to say?”

Tim said, “I’ve got to go in first.”

“Why?”

Tim looked serious. “Because Mary Catherine called me and told me to look out for you. I’m more afraid of an angry Irish woman than I am of this asshole.”

I nodded and said, “I know the feeling.”

Chapter 29

Tim knocked on the door. We both had our pistols in our hands, down by our sides. There was no one in the narrow hallway, and we stood off to either side of the door. I was shocked to see the handle turn and the door open almost immediately. As soon as I saw the scar on the face of the man who opened it, I knew we were in the right place.

But before we could officially identify ourselves, the door slammed shut. Tim muttered, “Shit.”

I tried the handle. It was locked, and without thinking I threw my weight into the door. The lock held, but the hinges broke off. That was common when people spent a fortune on a lock but ignored the rest of the door.

We both darted into the room and stepped away from the door. In police work, putting your silhouette against an open door is a sin. It’s called the fatal funnel. You’re a target to anyone in the room. So now I was crouched low, to the side of the door, with my gun up. I scanned the entire room and heard Tim yell, “Bedroom.”

We hustled past the tiny kitchen to the open bedroom door. I carefully peeked around to see as much of the room as possible, then Tim bolted in with me right behind him.

It was empty.

I said, “He’s here somewhere.” The room was messy, but there were no mountains o

f laundry or closets for him to hide in. Then I noticed slight movement in the corner. A doggie door had been built into the wall. Rocking back and forth gently. It couldn’t be.

I said, “Tim—on the rear wall to the left of the bed.”

Tim advanced carefully with his pistol up in front of him. “I’ll be damned.”