Джеймс Паттерсон - Ambush

That fell in line with what Brian had told me earlier about the Mexican cartel battling with a Canadian group for control of the synthetic drug market in the northeastern United States. Other sources had said the same thing.

The first homicide had occurred near Times Square, and the victim was described as a “tourist.” My research told me he was a moneyman for the Canadian mob. He’d been stabbed once through the heart. According to the medical examiner’s report, the wound was caused by a straight four-inch blade. The word that stuck in my head was stiletto . No one in forensics had ever used that term. They used clinical terms like blade and instrument .

I talked to the detective handling the case. I remembered him from other cases. Nice fella, but maybe not as driven as most homicide detectives.

When I got him on the phone he said, “That was a nasty one. Coroner said she thinks the perp was a male between five seven and five ten.”

“How did she come up with that?”

“The angle of the strike along with the power behind it. She thinks it was someone who really knew how to use a knife or a sharpened spike.”

Again I thought, Stiletto .

I said, “You got anything about the victim or motive?”

“Yeah. The victim was just a tourist from outside Toronto. I figure he was a robbery victim.”

“Did you see his criminal history?”

“I did — so what?” He was annoyed that someone else was snooping into his case.

“Don’t you think that could’ve played a role in the murder?”

The detective said, “No. He was the victim, not the suspect.”

I let it go. Then I said, “According to the report, he still had his wallet and money on him when the body was found.”

“Yeah — so?”

“What kind of robber goes to the trouble of killing you but doesn’t bother taking your money?”

“The kind who gets spooked by something or didn’t mean to kill the victim.”

“How could being stabbed in the heart be an accident?”

“I don’t know. I’ll tell you when we catch the robber.”

I knew I wouldn’t get much useful information from this guy.

The second homicide occurred a few blocks from Bryant Park. The victim was a known enforcer for the Canadian mob named Alain Coush, and he had just left an Irish pub. He’d been shot twice in the face. There were no witnesses and no leads.

I knew the detective on that case well. Her name was Cassandra Max, known as Cassie to her friends and Maximum Cass to anyone who got on the wrong side of her. She was as intelligent and hardworking as anyone — a rising star and considered one of the sharpest homicide investigators in the city. Her ability to speak Spanish and Creole, which she learned from her parents, made her even more valuable. When I met with her, she said, “We got nothing, but I’m still canvassing the area and seeing if we can find any security video.” She flipped open a notebook. “I’d say it was a professional. Someone jammed a toothpick in the car’s lock. Looks like when the victim tried to open the door the killer stepped up and shot him.”

I liked that no-bullshit attitude and work ethic. I’d stay in close contact with her because something would get done on this case.

But even if these murders were part of a pattern — how did they fit in with the ambush that killed Antrole or the attack on Brian?

After my day of research and reading hundreds of reports, I decided to stop by Holy Name to check on my grandfather.

As soon as I walked into the office, I could hear Seamus and his new friend, Father Alonzo, debating one of the deep philosophical questions of our day: whether American football or soccer is more entertaining.

My grandfather smiled when he saw me and motioned me to the seat in front of his desk. He said, “You look troubled, my boy. What’s the problem?”

“Just busy at work. I’ve been looking at a couple of murders connected to the drug trade. No one understands that research can be as tiring as walking a beat.”

Seamus said, “Can you tell us about the cases?”

I gave them a quick rundown about the two Canadians and how they were killed. I left out some of the gruesome details, but they got the gist. I finished, “So it might be a long shot, but I’m working out if there’s any connection to the ambush on Antrole and me. I have this feeling that all this violence is connected, including the attack on Brian.”

I was surprised when Father Alonzo leaned forward.

He said, “I don’t mean to intrude on business that does not involve me, but I have seen things like this before.”

“Where have you seen murders like this?”

“Colombia. It makes Chicago seem tame.” He paused, then asked, “The murder that did not involve a gun. Was it a single blow with some kind of a knife? Perhaps to the heart, or under the chin into the brain?”

That caught me by surprise. “Yes. A single blow to the heart.”

“And the gunshot murder appeared to be well planned? Perhaps some kind of distraction was used?”

Now I was stunned. “Yes. It appears the killer broke off a toothpick in the victim’s car door lock. The theory is it gave the killer enough time to stop and aim carefully.” Alonzo nodded. I continued, “But I can’t tie either of those murders directly to the ambush. There’s nothing about either murder that lines up with the attack that killed my partner.”

Father Alonzo said, “It’s very common for Colombian contract killers to hire local muscle in certain situations. Especially if the killer is from out of town. And I know many hit men that use a sharpened stiletto whenever they can. It goes back to training they received in Bogotá by one particular martial-arts instructor. Many wannabe cartel members trained there over the years. It was a badge of honor to say that was where you obtained some of your skills. Even some police trained there.”

I said, “That’s excellent insight, Father Alonzo. Do you have any other surprises?”

“I’m sorry. I have been completely involved in the Church for some time now. Aside from the occasional racy confession, I am completely cut off from any kind of outside vice or violence. But if you need a soccer coach, I’m your man.”

“And I’m sure you don’t want to share how you know any of these kinds of details.”

“Just observant. Hoping to help.”

It was clear he was going to leave it at that.

I kept my eyes on the fit fortysomething priest with my best police stare. His brown eyes didn’t leave mine.

When I had more time, I had to find out how this affable priest knew so much about the drug trade.

It’s hard to be anything but grateful when a woman like Mary Catherine greets you at the door after a long day. She gave me a kiss that would’ve been longer if Chrissy and Shawna hadn’t run up, chattering like monkeys, waiting for their father to pick them up.

I appreciated the enthusiasm and bundled both girls over my shoulder as I started to march through the apartment, greeting the older children as I went. I was impressed that Jane, Ricky, and Eddie were all studying in the dining room. Books and papers were spread across the table, and all I got was a cursory nod as each of them looked up.

Bridget and Fiona were practicing some sort of stretching routine on the floor of the living room. A PBS yoga person from the nineties was giving slow, deliberate instruction on TV.

A few minutes after I got home, Juliana practically skipped through the front door. Her excitement was contagious. It immediately drew Jane away from her studies.

My oldest daughter squealed, “I got it. I got it.”