Джеймс Паттерсон - Ambush

Willie just stared at her, trying to form a word. He wheezed and coughed. Blood mixed with his spittle as it flew onto the coffee table.

The ESPN music blared from the TV again.

After what felt like hours, but was really only ten seconds, he dropped to his knees, then fell forward.

She got off the couch and checked his pulse. It was weak for a few beats, then faded out completely.

Alex listened carefully for any movement in the hallway or any signs of concern from the neighbors. There was nothing. Just as she expected.

It was a little more difficult than she had anticipated, but the results were exactly what she wanted. She slipped on the plastic gloves she always kept in her purse. The one time a date had found them, she told him the oval case contained a diaphragm. Of all her professional equipment, gloves were the easiest things to hide in a purse or suitcase.

Now was the time for her meticulous nature to come out. She had to arrange the crime scene. She put the Taurus semiautomatic pistol in Julio’s hand. She found the spent casing the gun had ejected when she shot Willie and rubbed it on Julio’s hand and arm, then tossed it back onto the floor. She thought that would be enough to fool people if they bothered to test the dead men for gunshot residue.

Then she picked up the revolver, removed the spent casing from the cylinder, and rubbed it on Willie’s right hand. Then she returned the casing and nestled the revolver in his hand.

She stepped back and admired her work. The time of death was close enough to make it hard for the medical examiner to determine that the shots came fifteen minutes apart. The longer the two bodies stayed here undetected, the more difficult the task would be.

She spent another minute making sure the apartment was in order and wiping down any surface she’d come in contact with.

Alex slipped out of the apartment. That familiar exhilaration sweeping through her. She may not have been paid, but she’d handled something vital, and she had done it well.

As she came down the stairs, Alex noticed the woman she’d helped with the groceries earlier standing in her doorway.

Alex waited a moment until the woman turned back into her apartment. Then she scampered down the last few stairs and darted out the back door without anyone seeing her.

There were no police cars racing to the apartment, so no one had been alarmed by the two separate gunshots. She knew people in a building like this wouldn’t cooperate much with the police. Even if they figured out it was a staged double murder, they had nothing they could pin on her.

She walked along the sidewalk down 129th Street. Now she could focus totally on Michael Bennett.

I was sitting at my desk in Manhattan North Homicide when I noticed a message on my computer alerting me to an active homicide investigation up on 129th Street in Harlem.

Normally I keep my eyes open for homicides in general just so I know what’s going on in the city. I found enough to keep me busy on the homicides I was assigned to, so I didn’t run off to every crime scene.

But the address made me take a second look. It was Julio Laza’s building.

I had a bad feeling.

I arrived on the scene about half an hour later. Before I could pull out my ID, I saw Roddy Huerta step out from the apartment and say, “It’s okay. This old geezer is with me.”

I carefully stepped into the apartment, avoiding the crime-scene techs and photographers.

Roddy stood next to me and said, “Happened sometime yesterday. The neighbors said they were so used to loud noises and men coming and going all the time that they ignored it.”

I said, “They ignored gunshots coming from the building?”

“These two were dope dealers. They were bullies, too. Everyone in this building is just relieved they don’t have to worry about them anymore.”

Roddy pointed across the room and said, “The guy on the floor is Willie Perez.”

He brought up a booking photo of Perez on his cell phone. Then he brought up a photo of the other man.

Roddy said, “The dead man on the couch is—”

I mumbled, “Julio Laza.”

“That’s right. How’d you know that?”

I looked at the younger detective, with his sharp suit and his reputation for following policy to the letter. I had done nothing by the book. I should never have cut a deal with someone who tried to shoot me. I wondered if this would be the last conversation I’d ever have as a detective with the NYPD.

I could see Roddy was angry, so I led him out of the apartment, away from the cops working the scene.

At the far end of the hallway, I had to sit on the stairs as I filled him in on my conversation with Julio and the fact that he and his cousin had tried to shoot me.

Roddy rolled his eyes. “Are you trying to tell me this is all part of your assassin conspiracy? The woman from Colombia who no one in New York ever seems to see coming? Give me a break, Bennett. I think you’re starting to go senile.”

“I wish it was as simple as that. But I have a couple of years of experience, Roddy. I do something the book never tells us to: I follow my gut instincts sometimes. Maybe you should try it.”

“Maybe, but I get good results, and I’ve never been disciplined. Can you say that?”

“Is a letter in your personnel file that important? I know I’m doing what’s right.”

“Cutting a deal with killers? That’s not right. Our job is to arrest assholes like that.”

“Our job is to protect and serve. All you seem to be protecting is your reputation.”

After a few moments, Roddy said, “I’d say for a hot-shit homicide dick, you really screwed this one up.”

Finally I said, “Look, Roddy, I’ve got a lot of reasons to stop this Colombian woman. Not just because of Antrole or that she’s trying to kill me. Someone went after my son in prison. She might be able to lead me to the person who ordered it.”

“Does Lieutenant Grissom know about all this?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t want Harry in trouble, too.

Now Roddy was showing his outrage. “Do you guys understand anything about best practices? I know you laugh at me because I follow procedures on everything, but those procedures were created for a reason. We don’t stop and frisk anymore because some officers took it too far. We have our cars inspected so often because some detectives never kept up with maintenance. And we don’t get involved in cases with a personal connection because it could affect our judgment and it’s a conflict of interest.”

I was about to rebut his argument, or at least ignore him, when I realized he was right. That hurt.

I mumbled, “Any fool can make a rule, and every fool will mind it.”

Roddy said, “What’s that?”

“Henry David Thoreau.” It was a quotation I used to live by, thanks to my philosophy degree.

Roddy said, “Henry who?”

“That Syracuse education of yours didn’t include philosophy?”

Roddy’s surly look told me all I needed to know.

I sighed, stood up, and said, “You going to tell IA about my trek off policies and procedure?”

Roddy glanced down the hallway to make sure no one was close enough to hear anything. The longer he took to answer, the tighter the knot in my stomach became.

Finally he said, “Not just yet. Maybe we can both learn something on this case.”

I sat on my couch, staring out the wide windows at the Upper West Side of Manhattan. I had a hard time believing that a squabble between Julio and his cousin resulted in both of their deaths.

Willie Perez was a terrible person. All the records I could find on him indicated that he was involved in several murders, even though he’d never been charged. Julio Laza wasn’t much better. His records were for narcotics trafficking, but I had no illusions about what he’d do if he had to.