Deadly Enterprise Page 14

  “Decide for yourself,” Mike said, holding up his glass and taking a small sip that he let linger in his mouth for several seconds before swallowing. Jason followed suit, then whistled again.

  “Man! That is so much smoother than the first bottle.” Jason took another small taste of The Macallan 18 and smiled broadly. “I could get used to this.”

  “Don’t get too used to it, but I’m glad you like it,” Mike beamed. “You never start with the good stuff. Your taste buds need to get used to handling the whisky flavors before you can truly appreciate the finer scotch. At least, that’s what I’m told. No matter what you’re drinking, the second glass is easier than the first. And when the second is really high-quality stuff, then it’s really good.” Mike took another small sip and made a soft “wooo” sound as he exhaled a long breath.

  “Is this the best you have?” Jason inquired.

  “Yes,” Mike responded. “I’ve had some even more expensive scotch at a friend’s house, and some of it was better, to my taste at least, while some wasn’t as good. But this is really good, so it’s something I’ve kept unopened, waiting for the right occasion.”

  “Is a funeral really the right time?”

  “We’re not celebrating Ray’s death,” Mike said somberly. “We’re toasting to the life of every good cop who went down in the line of duty. And we’re drinking to busting the bastards who made it happen.” Each man took another small sip. Mike put down his glass and looked across the table at Jason. “And I’m drinking with my partner, so I need to share the good stuff.

  “I’ve been seeing the department’s psychiatrist after my injury, and after I killed Randall. Now, everybody agrees that he had it coming and the inquiry on that shooting was quick and clean, thanks to you.” Mike looked at Jason and nodded silently. “You had my back and, in the end, there was no question that the killing was justified as self-defense. Nobody shed any tears over the loss of the Righteous Assassin. But I had to go through the stupid therapy sessions so the psychiatrist could certify me as being mentally fit for return to duty. It’s a pain in the ass, but between her and Michelle, they got me thinking that maybe sharing your feelings sometimes and not keeping everything all bottled up inside is healthy.”

  Jason sat back in his chair. “I’ll drink with you, Mike, but I don’t think I want to talk about my feelings.”

  “Fine. Then just listen.” Mike got up from his chair and started walking toward the window as he spoke, not looking Jason in the eye. He had his glass in his hand and took a healthy hit of the warm amber liquid. “We were chasing down a double murder that looked to be gang-related. The victims were brothers and their parents told us they were both in with a bunch of thugs who were peddling drugs. It was small-time shit, but the idiots all got matching tattoos, so it was ridiculously easy to identify them. We figured that the brothers had crossed somebody, and the other gang members were the prime suspects or prime witnesses since they basically spent all their time together. We went to their hangout at a bar on the Lower East Side. We weren’t there to arrest anyone. We just wanted to take their temperature and get a read on the personalities. It was a public place in the middle of the day. We didn’t figure there would be any trouble, even if they were not likely to be very cooperative.

  “Darren was a little too cocky and a little too sure of his own prowess with his pistol. We’d been together for about two years. I was working on getting him to be more cautious and to follow protocol in unknown situations. We even talked in the car about how we would handle it if any of the gang members got aggressive. It was my job as the senior detective to make sure he followed the plan and stayed under control. He had a tendency to be a cowboy and fly off the handle at times. He was reckless.”

  Mike turned around and finished what was left in his glass, then poured himself another, which he lifted and held in his hand as he resumed his story. Jason took the hint and poured himself more of the dark amber scotch and took another sip, savoring the mellow smoothness of this bottle. Mike was right – it was getting much easier to drink it the more he tried, and he was appreciating the complex flavors as he focused on Mike’s story.

  “We go in and start talking to one of the potential suspects when a little guy comes up to Darren. He couldn’t have been more than five-foot-five, but he was chunky, kinda like Sully – a human fire plug, except this guy had about a dozen more tattoos.” Jason chuckled at the description. “The little guy taps Darren on the shoulder and says something that I don’t hear and the next thing I know Darren and this short guy are going at it. They fall onto a table and then onto the ground, punching and grabbing. I should have stepped in. I should have drawn my weapon and fired one into the ceiling to break it up and restore order. But I didn’t. I let him take the guy. I guess I figured if Darren subdued the punk, he would make a point to these thugs and maybe win a little respect. Maybe it would get us some more cooperation. Maybe I just figured that Darren needed to learn a lesson about keeping his head and not getting into a fight in a room where we were outnumbered five to one. Maybe I was just pissed at him for not following my instructions. Shit – I don’t really know what I was thinking.”

  Mike took another drink. He stared out the window at the fountain in front of the apartment building across 68th Street. A middle-aged woman in a heavy coat was walking her golden retriever down the pass-through to 67th Street. Mike could see the dog’s hot breath against the still-cold March air. He didn’t seem to be talking to Jason as much as to himself.

  “The little guy had a gun on him and somehow got it drawn during the brawl without me or Darren seeing it. Darren was on top of him, pummeling his face. I was just about getting ready to step in and call it a TKO when I heard the shot. Darren rolled off the guy onto the floor, holding his leg. I drew my gun, pointed it at the guy, and told him to drop his and freeze. A couple of his buddies made a move toward me and I shot one of them in the foot, which stopped him and got everybody else’s attention. I called for backup and an ambulance. The rest of the scumbags ran while I stayed with my injured partner. They all got away, including the guy with the shot-up foot. I sat on the little guy who shot Darren and helped Darren use a tablecloth to wrap up his leg until the EMTs showed up.

  “The bullet went in through the back of his thigh, ripping up his hamstring. Then it smashed into the back of his kneecap and lodged there. Poor guy had nerve damage, ligament damage, and loss of muscle tissue after the surgery. He needed a knee replacement and has been rehabbing ever since, but that’s just a dodge to keep him on active disabled status. He’s not likely to get cleared for duty again.

  “I know his wife and kids. They’re a sweet group. Darren was a good cop – is a good cop. He was stupid, sure, but I put him in that situation and I didn’t step in when I could have. It was my job to train him to avoid putting himself in the line of fire. I should not have let it happen. He didn’t die, but his career is over. So, I know a little bit about how you’re feeling. You’re feeling guilty. You think you shouldn’t have let it happen. You think you were supposed to protect your partner and instead you let him get shot. I get it. I think about how I let him down all the time. It eats at me. For a while, it distracted me from doing my job. To tell you the truth, it wasn’t until Sully assigned me to work with you that I got back to any sense of focus. I was sure as Hell not going to make the same mistakes with you.”

  Jason took another drink, realizing that he was starting to feel the effects of the alcohol. He let the silence linger in the room to make sure that Mike was done talking, for the moment. “Is that why you were such a hard-ass with me?”

  Mike turned around to look at Jason. “Yes. I had my other reasons, you know, but the main thing was that I was going to be God-damned sure you stayed inside the lines and followed procedure. You tried to get creative and I slapped you down. I did not want another partner going down on my watch.”

  Jason was silent for a minute. He drained his glass and thanked Mike for sharing the good bott
le. “Your old partner, Darren, his last name is Curran, right?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Nothing important,” Jason replied absently, trying to remember the details of the Christine Barker investigation in his alcohol-impaired state. “I saw the name Curran on a file I was reading. It might not have been him.”

  “Yeah,” Mike agreed. “Curran is not exactly a rare Irish name for a New York cop.”

  For the next hour, Jason and Mike sat in Mike’s dining alcove drinking through half of Mike’s good bottle of Macallan 18 and talking. The more they drank, the more Jason admitted how guilty and angry with himself he felt after Ray’s death. When Jason reached the point that he had trouble putting on his jacket, Mike walked him to the lobby and had the doorman get a cab to take him home. Mike went back upstairs and took a long nap. He dreamed about that day in the bar when Darren got shot. It was not the first time.

  Chapter 24 – Early Returns

  Monday, March 18

  BY MONDAY MORNING, Mike had recovered from the hangover after his scotch binge with Jason. He arrived at the physical therapy room early. When Dolores arrived, she berated him good-naturedly for taking time off from his rehab. She bragged about how much progress she had made while Mike was galivanting around.

  When Terry walked in, Mike said seriously, “I have to confess, Terry. I cheated on you with another therapist while I was away.”

  “Really?” Terry replied, skeptically. “Well, let’s see what you got.”

  Mike did his best to present a positive attitude during the session, and worked as hard as he could to demonstrate strength in his shoulder muscles. But when it came time to be manipulated and stretched on the table, Mike’s flexibility and range of motion was not as good as it had been before his trip to Washington. He grumbled, but had to admit that Dolores was well ahead of him and was likely to win their bet.

  Ж Ж Ж

  After the rehab session, Mike took the subway downtown to the NYPD’s weapons range so that he could get in some shooting practice. He knew that he would need to re-certify as competent with his weapon before he’d be cleared for active duty. Fortunately, firing a pistol required only straight-arm action with his left arm and didn’t involve lifting the arm over his head, which would be a problem at this point in his rehab. He spent a half hour with his Glock and also broke out a strategic assault rifle used by the SWAT team, just for some practice. His shoulder was aching when he was through, but he was generally pleased with his accuracy. Mike whispered a thanks, for the hundredth time, that it was his left shoulder and not his right that was injured.

  When Mike removed his protective gear and retrieved his phone from a locker at the shooting range, he saw a text message from Captain Sullivan. The message just said for Mike to call, which he did as soon as he found a quiet location.

  Sully was typically direct. “Stoneman, we’ve decided to bring you back to active duty sooner than planned because of Detective McMillian’s death. You’ll be on restricted duty until you’re medically cleared, but I want you back with Dickson tomorrow. I’m a little worried about how he’ll react to the situation, so having you around should help. He’s on desk duty until the inquiry is over, so you two can do paperwork together.”

  “OK, Captain,” was all Mike said in response. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Ж Ж Ж

  The next day, Mike strolled in to the precinct building, just like he had done for the past seventeen years. He stopped off at the food vendor cart on 94th and Broadway for a bagel and cream cheese and a coffee, and hopped up the four steps to the door with the bag holding his breakfast and his coffee clutched in his left hand. As he reached for the door handle, he nodded to George Mason, one of the other homicide detectives, who was leaning against the side of the building, wearing a down parka and munching on a muffin. When Mike pulled the door open, Mason called out to him.

  “Hey, Mike! Nice to see you back. Where the fuck do you think you’re going with that bag?”

  Mike laughed and smiled at his colleague. “I’m thinking about going inside to my desk.”

  “What’s in the bag?”

  “A Cadillac Coupe de Ville, what do you think?” Mike took a step into the vestibule.

  Mason reached out and grabbed the back of Mike’s coat, holding him back. “Not so fast, Mister Senior Detective,” Mason called out playfully. “We’re still operating under a food ban.”

  “Oh, Christ. The rats. The no food thing is still a thing?”

  “Yep. The exterminators have been in twice, but until we’re cleared out there’s a strict no-food policy in the building. Leave it outside, bro.”

  “Oh, that sucks!” Mike exclaimed. He took a step back from the door and handed Mason his white paper bag. “Here, knock yourself out.” He took his coffee cup and went into the building, leaving Mason on the stoop, munching his muffin and holding Mike’s bagel bag. Mike walked in and took the stairs up to the bullpen on the third floor. He was greeted warmly by the officer behind the intake desk on the first floor, and by several officers on the stairs, and by nearly everyone on the third floor. He had been back in the precinct to visit while he was out on disability, but everyone knew that this was his actual return to work. Mike smiled broadly as he waved to his colleagues. One of the beat cops he knew flashed him a “V” for victory sign with two fingers. Fellow homicide detective Steve Berkowitz wished him “Mazel Tov.” Jason got up from his desk and walked over to Mike’s space to shake his hand and welcome him back.

  Mike and Jason barely had time to let go of each other’s hands before Captain Sullivan appeared at the door to his office and bellowed out, “Dickson, Stoneman, I’d like to see you both. Now!” Sullivan disappeared back into his lair. Mike and Jason exchanged resigned glances, shrugged, and shuffled off toward the captain’s office. Mike still carried his coffee cup.

  Jason sat down in the one chair in the office that wasn’t covered with debris. Mike stood behind him, calmly sipping his coffee. “I see that you haven’t cleaned up in here since I’ve been gone,” Mike observed casually.

  “Don’t start pitching me shit already, Stoneman,” Sully responded gruffly, but couldn’t help cracking a smile for just a second, before regaining control of his facial expression. “Listen up. I got a call from IA today and the inquiry over McMillian’s death is finished. Jason is clear to return to full active duty.” He paused to look at Jason, who nodded, but said nothing. Mike patted Jason’s shoulder encouragingly.- “Now, Mike, you are not yet cleared for full duty. You can’t carry a weapon until you get recertified. You can go out into the field, but let’s try not to get into any fights or situations where you’re going to reinjure yourself before you’re fully recovered. Is that clear?”

  Mike opened his mouth to respond, but Sully cut him off. “No bullshit, Stoneman. I mean it. If I hear about you doing anything stupid out there, I’ll revoke your permission to be in the field and you’ll sit at a desk until I have a doctor’s certification. You got that!?”

  Once again, Mike opened his mouth, ready to give the captain an affirmative response. Before he made a sound, Jason piped up, “I’ll make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid, Captain.”

  “Thanks,” Mike said sarcastically. “It’s good to know that somebody will be looking out for me.”

  “That’s it,” Captain Sullivan said dismissively, looking down at some paperwork on his desk. Mike and Jason knew the drill. Jason got up and led the way out the door and back into the bullpen. They walked to Jason’s desk.

  “Can I borrow your gun?” Mike deadpanned.

  “Fuck you,” Jason shot back with a chuckle.

  A half hour later, Mike and Jason, along with Steve Berkowitz and George Mason, were in the conference room off the bullpen along with a stack of folders and two cardboard boxes. The cases that Jason and Ray were working at the time of Ray’s shooting had been redistributed to other detectives, but mostly to Steve and George on the assumption that they would be sent back
as soon as Jason cleared the Internal Affairs inquiry. Now, George and Steve handed back the files that were still active, and the four detectives haggled about trading off two dog cases for one easy-to-close case file. When they were done, Berkowitz and Mason left, leaving Mike and Jason to review the files.

  “We haven’t had much of a chance to talk about the Christine Barker case,” Mike began. “I told you about our meeting out west with Christine’s sister. We’re pretty sure that this overdose was not voluntary and that Christine was murdered.”

  “We?” Jason said, raising his eyebrow as high as it would go.

  “Yeah, me and Doctor McNeill.”

  “Is Doctor McNeill your partner now?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do, but I’m not sure that the M.E. should have authority to determine how we investigate our cases.”

  “Of course not,” Mike protested, “but it was Michelle who noticed the irregularities in the autopsy and called it questionable. She has really been interested in this case.”

  “Why is that?”

  “It doesn’t really matter. I’m as convinced as she is that this was no accidental overdose, and it wasn’t a suicide. I know that the case got reassigned downtown to the Vice unit, but I think we should try to get it back.”

  “Not likely,” Jason said simply. “When Sully told me to send them copies of our files, it was pretty clear that the order came from way over his head. He’s not going to have the authority to give it back to us.”

  “We may be able to change that,” Mike offered. “Were you able to get any information on the locations where Christine spent the Starbucks gift cards that her sister sent her? If we know where she was buying coffee, that might help us.”

  “Sure. It might,” Jason said without conviction. “Or it may just tell us where she was getting her coffee without leading us anywhere else. Or she could have sold them to somebody or traded them for drugs and we’d end up chasing down some schmuck who likes coffee. What are we going to do, initiate an unauthorized investigation and start interviewing baristas about whether they recognize her and can tell us where she went after her visits?”