Dave peered through one of the two grimy, wire-reinforced windows. “Then where are they?”
“They’re on the other side of the goddamn explosion. They can’t get here. That’s why Jordan called you with another bullshit story. This time she’s innocent? They’re trying to buy time. Let’s get our shit and get the hell out of here. You load the video equipment. I’ll get the stuff from the back room.”
“What about Rachael?”
“Same as before. She can identify us. We kill her. End of story, Dave.”
“What if she really is innocent?”
“Dave, they’re screwing with your head. She’s guilty. We know she’s guilty. You load the car. I’ll take care of Rachael. Then let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Let’s not,” a voice said.
They turned, and a giant of a man had stepped out from behind the false wall at the far end of the building. Dave knew a lot about guns, and he recognized the Smith & Wesson 5946 nine-millimeter pistol as soon as he spotted it. This one was fitted with an eight-inch Infiniti silencer on the business end.
“We’re cops,” Gideon said. “Put the gun down. Now.”
The big man laughed. “Put the gun down? You got balls, man. How about you get on your knees, put your weapons on the floor nice and easy, slide them here, and then put your hands behind your head. You know—just like in the movies.”
Dave lowered himself to the ground and slid his gun across the room. Gideon didn’t budge. “You’re making a mistake,” he said. “We’re NYPD.”
“Well, that explains why you don’t listen. Now either get down while you still have knees to help you down, or I’ll cap one of them and let gravity do the rest. Right or left—your call.”
Gideon knelt down next to Dave. “If you think you can just walk in and rob a couple of cops,” he said, sliding his gun across the cement floor, “you’re crazy.”
He laughed. “Is that what you think? This is not a robbery.”
“Then what the hell do you call it?”
“I’d call it Judgment Day,” said the silver-haired man who stepped out from behind the wall. He had a gun in his right hand—a black Beretta 85 fitted with a five-inch suppressor. In his left was the choke pear.
“Jesus,” Dave said. “Joe Salvi.”
“And son,” Salvi said.
With that, Jojo Salvi swaggered out from behind the wall, a satin nickel version of his father’s Beretta in his hand.
“Over there,” Salvi said to Jojo. “Opposite Tommy Boy.”
Jojo took his position, and the three men stood there in silence—an ominous triangle of guns and muscle.
Finally, Salvi spoke. “Ingenious,” he said, holding up the choke pear. “Easy to operate, extremely effective—every smart businessman should have one. I think I’ll keep it.” He tossed the pear to Tommy Boy.
Salvi stared at them with the same dark, menacing eyes that had scanned a church filled with people at his son’s funeral. But now he had found what he was looking for. “Your partner looks confused,” he said to Gideon. “But you expected us, didn’t you, Gideon?”
Dave’s head snapped to the left. “Gideon, what is he talking about?”
Gideon stared straight ahead.
“Let me make this easy for you,” Salvi said to Dave. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a dark red Moroccan leather journal, bordered in gold filigree. “Look familiar?”
Dave couldn’t quite put the pieces together fast enough. “Where did…how…”
“Shut up, Dave,” Gideon said. “Salvi, don’t be an idiot. We’re cops. I don’t care what you think is going on, but you can pull a shitload of jail time for this. Put the gun down now, and we’ll drop the whole thing.”
“Oh, you’re cops?” Salvi said, lowering the gun and bringing his arm out to his side. “Why didn’t you say something?” He turned to Rachael O’Keefe, still chained to a pipe, her mouth sealed with duct tape. “Look, lady—the cops are here. You want to go with them?”
Rachael shook her head violently and let out a muffled scream.
“Bad news, boys,” Salvi said. “You’re striking out with the ladies. I guess nobody has any respect for cops these days. Even a damsel in—” Without warning, he brought the butt of his gun down hard against Gideon’s jaw, shattering bone, ripping flesh, and exploding capillaries.
Blood spattered across the room. Gideon doubled over but managed to stay on his knees.
Salvi turned to Dave. “I’m sorry, Detective Casey. I got distracted. Did you have a question? Oh yes, how did I get my son’s journal? Funny thing—Gideon’s mother found it and was kind enough to return it to the family. Lovely woman. Took care of most of the flower arrangements for my son’s funeral.”
Dave turned to Gideon. “Your mother? You said you burned it. Why would you keep—”
“Shut up,” Gideon said, spitting out blood and chunks of teeth.
“You knew your mother gave it back to them?”
“Of course he knew,” Salvi said.
“I just found out about it,” Gideon said. “I didn’t want you to freak out while we were in the middle of this, but I swear I was going to tell you as soon as we finished here.”
“So you spared me the fact that the Mob was gunning for me?”
Gideon looked away.
“There’s no talking to him, Dave,” Salvi said. He walked over to the video equipment. “Nice little setup you got here. You like to tape confessions? So do I. We’ve been here a while, and I think Jojo’s got the hang of it. Jojo, turn on the camera.”
Jojo didn’t move.
“You deaf?” Salvi said. “Turn on the camera.”
“I don’t know, Pop,” Jojo said. “We have to do what we came to do, but videotaping it—I don’t know if that’s such a good idea—”
Salvi held up a hand. “Don’t think,” he said, his voice a menacingly low whisper. “Your mother has been waiting twelve years. Now turn on the fucking camera.”
“Okay, okay,” Jojo said, tucking his gun in his belt. He stepped behind the camera and pointed it at the two men on their knees. He pressed the red Record button and a red light blinked on. “Whenever you’re ready, Pop,” he said.
“Okay, then,” Salvi said. “I guess I’m the director of this little movie. This is going to be the big confession scene—the one everybody’s been waiting for.”
He stood eight feet away and pointed the gun straight at Dave’s head. “Now, start confessing.”
“This place is going to be swarming with cops any minute,” Dave said.
Salvi laughed. “You are cops. You came to torture this woman. What did you do—call for backup?” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Look, Dave, you seem like a reasonable man, so tell me—whose idea was it to kill my son?”
“Your son raped my sister,” Dave said.
“I don’t care if he fucked your grandmother, chopped her up, and fed the pieces to his dog. You both killed him. I know that. Now I want to know which one of you planned it.”
“What’s the difference? You’re going to kill us both anyway.”
“The difference? The difference is that one of you pulled the strings. The other is just a soldier—a follower. One of you made the decision to bash my boy’s head in and hold his face underwater until he drowned. There’s always a leader.” Salvi pointed his gun at Gideon. “Was it him? He acts like he’s in charge.”
Gideon, dripping with blood, stared at Salvi defiantly.
Salvi stared back. “But he’s not,” he said, kicking Gideon in the ribs hard enough to hear bone crack. “He’s not in charge of anything.”
Gideon collapsed to the floor and yowled in agony.
“Aw…does it hurt? Bad news—it’s not the first hit that hurts the most. It’s every breath you take from now on. The good news is you don’t have that many breaths left.” Salvi waved a hand at Tommy Boy. “Pick this piece of shit up.”
The big man grabbed Gideon’s
collar and yanked him to his knees.
Dave looked away, and then he saw it—a shadowy figure popped up and peered through the grimy window.
It was Kylie MacDonald.
Chapter 80
Three mornings a week, I try to work out at the precinct gym—weights, treadmill, elliptical. Once a week, I see a yoga instructor. So I’m in good shape—not as good as the SWAT team, but they were weighed down with so much tactical gear that I was able to catch up with the pack.
“We’re not going to make it,” Kylie said as I fell in place alongside her. “Our five minutes are up, and we’ve still got three-quarters of a mile to—”
My radio interrupted. “Monitor to Red Leader.”
I answered it on the run. “Go ahead, Monitor.”
“I’ve got you on traffic cam. There’s transport on Twenty-First Street a block ahead of you. It’s all yours.”
Sure enough, there it was—a big, beautiful blue-and-white NYPD bus.
“Thank you, Monitor,” I said as the team piled in. “What’s the twenty on our target?”
“Our eye in the sky saw them pull into a garage at Eighty-Eight Crane six minutes ago.”
“We’re rolling,” I said as the bus moved out.
Twenty-First, which runs under the el, is a narrow two-way street, but the driver managed to maneuver his way through morning traffic quickly. I just wasn’t sure it was quick enough. If Gideon kept to his five-minute deadline, Rachael would be dead before we got there.
I briefed Alan Rowe, the SWAT leader, on the latest. We Google-mapped 88 Crane, and by the time the bus stopped at the top of the dead-end street, Sergeant Rowe had a plan.
He split the team into three—one to breach the garage door, a second to come through the rear, and two men to cover the side of the building next to the railroad yard.
Every building on Crane Street was covered with graffiti, and all of them looked to be abandoned, including the four-story warehouse in the middle of the block.
We ran almost noiselessly to the end of the street and took our positions. Kylie and I followed Rowe to the front of the garage.
The garage door was about eight by ten feet and made of corrugated steel. “No problem,” Rowe said. “I just heard from the team in the rear and there’s a small door in the back that’s much easier than this one. The breacher is running detcord around each door. On my command, he’ll blow the back one as a diversion. A second later, he’ll take down the garage door.”
“Jordan and I will go in first,” Kylie said.
“Not a chance,” Rowe said. “You know the drill. Entry team secures the room. It’s what they do.”
“Fine, you go first,” she said. “Do you know what you’re walking in on?”
“No idea.”
“You should.” With that she plastered herself against the side of the building, got down on the ground, and crawled to one of the two almost blackened windows.
“What the hell is she doing?” Rowe said.
“My best guess would be intel,” I said. “Whatever it is, there’s no stopping her.”
Kylie raised her head high enough to look through the grimy window. Five seconds later, she dropped down and made her way back to us.
“It’s a whole new ball game,” she said, taking out a pad and pen. She drew a box. “Here’s the room.”
She put an X in the middle of the box. “Here’s Rachael. She’s chained up, but she’s standing, so it looks like she’s still alive.
“And here,” she said, adding two more X’s, “are Casey and Bell. They’re on the floor on their knees, and there are three men pointing guns at them.” She added three more X’s.
The curveballs just kept coming. “Three men,” I repeated.
“Yeah,” Kylie said. “And one of them is Papa Joe Salvi.”
Chapter 81
“Let me repeat the question,” Joe Salvi said. “Who came home from high school one afternoon and told the other that you both had to murder Enzo? There’s always a leader. There’s always a follower.”
Salvi’s words reminded Dave of his father. “There are chiefs,” his dad would say, “and there are Indians. The problem with NYPD is that there are too many damn chiefs and not enough good Indians. I’m an Indian, Dave. I get an order, and I get the job done.”
And that’s what Dave had tried to do. Sure, it was all Gideon’s idea, but once Dave signed on, he gave it all he had. Enzo, Kang, Catt, Tinsdale, Parker-Steele—every one of them got what they deserved. He only wished he’d had the time to take down more.
But all he had left was twenty seconds. Kylie MacDonald wasn’t out there alone. She and Jordan would be backed up by a SWAT team hell-bent on saving Rachael. They’d blow the garage door, and an army of cops with ballistic shields and assault rifles would storm in.
Twenty seconds. Just enough time to take down one last scumbag.
“I did it!” Dave screamed at Salvi. “Gideon is all mouth and no balls. Enzo raped my sister, and I vowed to kill him. I’m the one who cracked his greasy Guinea head with a bottle of cheap shit vodka. Then I dragged him down to the water, and the whole time he was squealing like the little pussy that he was.”
Dave could see Salvi tighten his grip on the gun. He willed him to squeeze the trigger.
But Salvi held back. He still needed one more push.
“All you Salvis are such hot shit when you have the upper hand,” Dave taunted, “but when the tables are turned, you’re all like Enzo—calling out for his fat whore of a mother—”
Salvi’s gun exploded.
Blood, bone, and gray matter from Gideon’s skull sprayed across Dave’s face.
“You know, Dave,” Salvi said, “you’re not only a lousy cop, you’re a lousy liar. I don’t know why you’d want to take a bullet for that asshole. He fucked you over. I admire you for your loyalty, but I’m going to kill you anyway.”
He was leveling his gun at Dave’s head when the first explosion rocked the room. The back door imploded, sending a shower of smoke and debris through the rear wall. The three mobsters wheeled around. An instant later, a second blast ripped a wide, gaping hole in the metal garage door, and men in helmets, goggles, and tactical vests poured in.
Tommy Boy reacted instantly, firing blindly into the horde of uniforms rushing toward him.
For a smart man, it was a dumb way to die. A barrage of bullets from six different assault weapons tore through Tommy Boy’s body, and he crashed to the floor like a boulder.
“Hold your fire, hold your fire!” Joe Salvi yelled, raising his hands in the air.
“Drop the weapons, face down on the ground, hands behind your head,” a voice barked.
A half smile crept across Dave Casey’s face. The cop giving orders was Kylie MacDonald. Jordan was right there with her.
Two Berettas clattered to the floor, and Salvi and Jojo lowered themselves to the ground. Four cops cuffed them, patted them down, and pulled them up to their knees.
“Hey, take it easy,” Salvi said. “We just captured the Hazmat Killers. My driver shot one of them.”
“Plus we rescued the baby-killing bitch,” Jojo said.
“Really?” Kylie said. “That’s not the way I saw it through the window.”
Joe Salvi looked at her incredulously. “What? You looked through a wire-mesh window that has a hundred years of crap on it, and you think you’re going to be a believable eyewitness? My lawyer will have a field day with that.”
“I don’t think the DA will be needing my testimony, Mr. Salvi,” Kylie said. “There’s a much better eyewitness who was in the room with you the entire time.”
“Who? Him?” he said, gesturing at Dave. “A disgraced cop turned psychokiller? Or how about her? I’m sure she’ll make a fine witness after being chained up and tortured for the last three days.”
Salvi laughed. Jojo joined in.
“No, Mr. Salvi,” Kylie said. “I think we’ve got an unimpeachable witness that will convince any jury what went down h
ere no matter what your lawyers say or do.”
“And where is this so-called witness?” Salvi said.
“It’s right here,” Kylie said, resting her hand on the video camera and pointing at the blinking red light. “And it’s still rolling.”
Chapter 82
Dave Casey was waiting for us in the interrogation room. For a cop who murdered a black drug lord and a Chinese gangbanger and was about to spend the rest of his life locked up among their homeboys and péngyous, he looked remarkably at peace.
“Thanks for coming,” he said as soon as Kylie and I walked in. “Did you watch the videotape?”
“Not yet,” I said. “We came straight here. Are you sure you don’t want a lawyer or a union rep?”
“You’ve already read me my rights. No thanks. The only ones I want to talk to are you.”
“Then it’s just the three of us,” I said, sitting across the table from him. Kylie stood.
“Right. The three of us, plus how many behind the two-way?” he asked, pointing at the large mirror set inside the far wall.
“Seven and counting. Dave, you know how big this is. You’re going to pack a room. Now, should we ask questions, or would you rather just talk?”
“Oh, I’m ready to talk, but first I have a question of my own.”
“Go ahead.”
“That last phone call you made to me. You said that the doorman confessed to murdering Kimi O’Keefe. Was that bullshit?”
“No. It was the real deal,” I said. “We knew you were about to kill Rachael, and we wanted to head you off.”
“Thanks. I couldn’t live with myself if we had…”
He paused, groping for a better phrase than murdered her in cold blood.
“If we had…followed through.”
“But you were okay killing the other four,” Kylie said.
“The other five,” Casey said. “Twelve years ago, back when we were still in high school, Gideon and I killed Joe Salvi’s youngest son, Enzo. He was a vicious, sadistic little punk who terrorized the neighborhood, and we knew it was only going to get worse. Then it did—he raped my sister, Meredith, and Gideon convinced me it was up to the two of us. I’m not blaming Gideon. I was with him all the way.”