Lee Vance - The Garden of Betrayal

“Either that or doing a hell of a good imitation,” Reggie replied. “I need another minute here. You think you can call 911, let them know we’re on-site? Be the perfect finish to a shit day if one of us got blown away by some trigger-happy rookie.”

“I’m on it.”

Reggie returned his attention to me, probing through the hole in my shirt.

“I checked it.”

“Let me check it again.”

The closest of the multiple sirens sounded as if it was only a block or two away. On top of all the questions and fears racing through my mind, I suddenly wondered what kind of trouble I was in.

“Listen,” I said, wincing as Reggie probed a little harder. “I know I fucked up. But this is self-defense, right? I haven’t got anything to worry about here, do I?”

“One thing for a cop to shoot a bad guy,” Reggie said, his voice hard. “Whole different thing for a civilian to do it, particularly when the bad guy was cuffed to a bed and the civilian had a motive. Chief Ellison is going to take that bright light I was talking about and shove it right up your ass, no matter what Joe and I swear to.”

“So, what do we do?”

“Go to plan B,” he said, taking the Ruger from my hand and pulling me roughly to my feet. Glancing down, I noticed a pool of blood spreading outward from Smith’s body, the carpet fibers too worn or cheap to absorb it. My head was buzzing, and I felt faint. I’d killed a man. It was a different thing from having hurt someone. No matter that Smith had deserved it-my body was rebelling against the act. My tough talk in Reggie’s car suddenly seemed laughable.

“You feeling light-headed?” he asked.

“No,” I lied, ashamed to own up to my weakness. I took a shaky step sideways, away from Smith’s body.

“Good. Because the second half of plan B is your disappearing through the bathroom window, like our friend Mohler. Much better if we tell everyone that you took off before the shooting started.”

“So, who’s supposed to have shot Smith?”

“Me. That’s the first half of the plan.”

He squatted down before I could object, pressed the Ruger to the side of the mattress, and fired a fifth shot. The gun’s report was muffled by the bedding, but the coverlet caught fire, releasing a wisp of acrid gray smoke.

“Why the hell did you do that?”

“Gunpowder residue.” He wiped the gun down with his sleeve. “It’s standard procedure to check.”

“This is crazy,” I objected incredulously. “This is never going to fly. You were in the parking lot when Smith grabbed my gun. People will have seen you there at the same time that they heard the shots.”

“Haven’t got much choice, have we? You already said it-you fucked up.”

The look he gave me was withering.

“I’m sorry…”

“I told you to be careful. What were you doing that close to him?”

“Asking about Kyle…” I trailed off, shamefaced.

“No help for it now,” he said, sounding a little less harsh. “And don’t worry about witnesses. Old police maxim: The worse the scene, the less reliable the witnesses. Given the slaughter we got down there, the witnesses won’t be worth a damn. Hell, half of them are going to swear that I killed those men. Big black guys are exactly what most people imagine when they get scared shitless. Even other big black guys. Whatever Joe and I say will stick.”

“All of which puts you on the hook for killing Smith instead of me. I can’t let you do that.”

He laughed grimly.

“You’re a smart guy, but you don’t understand anything about police politics. We got me, three dead bad guys, and a decorated cop with a bullet in his leg.”

“Ex-cop.”

“Even better. A respected former officer who was wounded trying to help his old partner close the unsolved case that haunted him in his retirement. Press will eat that shit up. Every blue suit from the top down-including Deputy Chief Ellison-is going to line up behind us and help paper over any cracks. Hell, I might even get a medal.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond.

“You going to put that fire out?” I asked, pointing at the smoldering coverlet with my chin.

“Nah. More confusion the better.”

The nearest siren abruptly fell silent, and I heard car doors slamming.

“RMP’s here,” Joe announced. “Couple of uniforms sizing things up. We’re out of time.”

“Go,” Reggie said. “You left when Mohler left. Find somewhere to scrub your hands, and make sure you ditch that shirt.”

I looked down at Smith again. His eyes were open and glazed. I felt sick for having killed him, and equally sick that he wasn’t going to be able to tell me what I needed to know.

“Go,” Reggie repeated, giving me a shove toward the bathroom door. “Don’t worry about it. Joe and I will take care of everything.”

• • •

Reggie had wanted confusion, and he got what he wanted. Vectoring south and west through the gritty residential streets behind the motel as I tried to figure out where I could hail a cab, I saw pretty much every type of emergency vehicle in the city of New York pass me by. Police cars, fire engines, ambulances, Emergency Service trucks-even a lost-looking Con Ed van with a flashing yellow light. Maybe Reggie had pulled a fuse for good measure. I kept my face tucked into the collar of my coat, not wanting to attract attention, but none of the vehicles so much as slowed as they raced toward the motel.

I eventually caught a cab about ten blocks away, beneath the overpass for the Grand Central Parkway. The driver negotiated a series of confusing ramps and had us on the Triborough Bridge three minutes later, headed into Manhattan. I called Claire at the Meridien and explained the bare bones of what had happened, speaking low so the driver wouldn’t hear me through the plastic partition.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yes and no. I’m not hurt, but I’m feeling awfully shaky.”

“What about Joe?”

“He seemed okay. I took off before I got much of a look at him.”

She was silent for a long moment, and I felt I had a good sense of what she must be thinking.

“I screwed up, Claire. I know that. But Mohler’s not likely to get far, and we have Smith’s body, and the bodies of two of his men. The police will be able to identify them. It shouldn’t be too hard to figure out who they were working for.”

“We have to put a stop to this,” she said, sounding on the ragged edge of control. “You could have been killed. Joe or Reggie could have been killed.”

“I know,” I said, trying to contain my own distress. “But we weren’t, and it’s in the hands of the police now.”

“It has to stop.”

I gazed down at my lap. My suit pants were torn at the knee where I’d caught them climbing through the bathroom window at the motel. I’d done a lot of things I hadn’t expected to do that day. I’d killed a man. No matter how I felt about it, I couldn’t walk away now until I was done.

“It will,” I said. “I promise. Everything’s going to be fine. You still got Joe’s nephew there?”

“And his partner. They’re playing cards with Kate.”

“Good. You and she should get your gear packed, okay? I don’t like the fact that Smith knew where we were staying. I want to change hotels, maybe move over to the Waldorf. They must have good security-they’ve always got diplomats staying.”

“Fine,” she agreed, still sounding upset. “When are you going to be home?”

“Maybe half an hour. Be ready to go. I don’t want to take any more chances.”

My phone rang forty-five minutes later, as I was getting out of the taxi in front of the Meridien. Crosstown traffic had been terrible. I checked the screen. The number was unfamiliar.