Mad Dog Justice (10 page)

The man nods, gets up, and wheels his pole out of the lounge.

“So what’s this news?” Roddy asks, trying to appear unruffled.

Just take it easy, like you were taught in the Rangers. Interrogation techniques can vary slightly, but they’re all basically the same everywhere. Just stay cool and look calm
.

“The ballistics report just came in.” Morgan waits a couple of beats, obviously gauging Roddy’s reaction. Roddy feels his face tighten, but he tries to stay loose and maintain steady eye contact. An electrically wired feeling ramps through his body. He feels an urge to stand, to do anything besides sit and wait for Morgan to drop a bomb on him.

“Turns out, Doc, the slugs that killed Dr. McKay were fired from the same pistol used to shoot your friend, Daniel Burns.”

It feels like a sledgehammer slams into his chest. The room looks bleached, and Roddy feels light-headed. If he stands now, the lounge will spin. He could keel over in a dead faint.

“It’s something to think about, isn’t it, Doc?” Morgan’s eyebrows form bushy arches above his eyes.

Roddy shakes his head. He feels like he’s choking and tries to catch his breath. His thoughts race wildly, and he’s certain he’s marinating in sweat. He catches a whiff of Morgan’s cologne and feels a twinge of nausea.

“What can you tell me in light of this development?”

Roddy’s mind launches into a hyperkinetic storm.
Who’s coming after us? Is it Grange’s people? Or the Russians? Where can we go? What do we do next? Danny’s still in the hospital, and I haven’t even told Tracy we have to leave Bronxville
. Morgan’s words barely seep through a field of static, like a vague ribbon of sound.

“Huh,” Roddy hears himself say.

“I asked you, what else do you know about your friend getting shot?”

“I don’t really … I don’t …” Roddy’s tongue feels thick, and
he struggles to get words out.

“Doc, are you hearing a word I’m saying? Maybe you’re a little rattled right now, huh?”

“I … I don’t know what to tell you, Detective,” Roddy says through a wad of phlegm. He knows he’s barely hearing Morgan.

“Doc?”

“Yeah?”

“You listening to me?”

“I’m listening.”

But he’s flipping through his mental file cabinet, trying to process a cascade of jumbled thoughts, one on top of another, each intruding on the other in lightning succession.

“So you’re sure you don’t know a
thing
about the attempt on Mr. Burns or the hit on Dr. McKay?”

Roddy can barely maintain eye contact, but he doesn’t look away or even blink. That would be what the cops call a tell.

Roddy says nothing.
Yes, the less said the better right now. Just take it in, look casual, as though it’s no big deal
.

“You wanna know what else we learned about the McKay shooting?”

“What?”

“You know the garage has CCTV cameras all over, right?”

“I assume so.”

Jesus, is there a video of me turning away after seeing those guys waiting at the Navigator the night before Walt was shot?

“And these days it’s all on a chip. You just punch in the date, and up comes that day’s video. Then you just enter the time and up it comes.”

Roddy nods. His pulse thuds heavily in his neck.

“So, the video record shows exactly what happened.”

Nodding his head, Roddy stares straight into Morgan’s eyes.

“It shows McKay approaching his car as a 2003 Chevy Impala moves up behind him. He apparently hears the vehicle, glances
back for a second, and waves his keys in the air, thinking the guy wants his spot. Two men are sitting in the front and one is in the back, on the driver’s side. Turns out the car was stolen, so the plates don’t tell us a thing—and as it pulls up alongside McKay, the left rear window slides down and a hand holding a pistol pokes out. The thing has a sound suppressor fixed at the end. A shot’s fired and McKay goes down like a sack of potatoes.”

Nausea rises from Roddy’s stomach as an image of Walt lying on the concrete floor comes back to him—the overcoat spread on the concrete, Walt lying on his belly, face to one side, the small hole in his head. The blood, the exhaust fumes, cold air, the squealing tires from the level below … it’s all a sickening flash in Roddy’s head.

“Using the video record, we tracked the car coming into the garage,” Morgan says. “It came in through the south entrance soon after McKay entered the garage. It’s clear he was being followed. Maybe
stalked
is the right word. They probably had someone in the hospital watching and most likely communicated by cell phone. After McKay goes down, the car takes off like a bat outta hell. There’s no clear view of the occupants, but they appear to be three white men. There’s not much else to go on. It was a hit, pure and simple.”

Roddy tries not to grimace; he wants his face to be like a mask. To move a single muscle would be a tell—a sign the detective has zapped a raw nerve. He peers at Morgan as hissing begins in his ears.

“But you know what, Doc? There’s something else that’s interesting.”

Morgan waits.

“Tell me,” Roddy says as his mouth goes dry.

“You must’ve noticed it. After all, you discovered the body. McKay was wearing green surgical scrubs, just like
you
were. And clogs, too … like you wore after getting out of the OR.”
Morgan peers deeply into Roddy’s eyes. “But the really interesting thing, Doc, is that McKay kinda looks like you. I don’t mean his features, but his build. You two could’ve come outta the same mold. What’re you, Doc, about six two?”

“Six one,” Roddy says, feeling he’ll cringe in a moment.

“And you weigh in at a good two hundred pounds, maybe a bit more, right?”

“Two ten.”

“That’s just about what McKay weighed before he took one to the brain. So from a distance, and certainly from behind, it looks like they took him for you. Nearly the same height and weight, an athletic-looking guy, with light brown, blondish hair. A fairly close match, don’t you think? And it makes even more sense since you both were leaving the hospital at the same time. Whadda you think, Doc?”

Roddy’s thoughts whirl in a dozen directions, and he struggles to stay on track with Morgan.

“Look, Detective … I don’t … I mean …”

“And there’s something else. McKay’s car was parked right next to yours—a gray Nissan Rogue, correct?”

Roddy nods as bile threatens to crawl up his gullet, where it’ll burn the back of his throat. He tries to swallow, but there’s no saliva.

“So, since they’re clearly related, is there anything you can tell me now about the Burns or McKay shootings?”

“Detective, I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Listen, Doc, you gotta be worried that what happened to Burns is gonna happen to you. The guys who killed McKay were gunning for you, right?”

“I have …” He shakes his head. “I have no idea, Detective.”

Gurgling comes from Roddy’s guts. They’re in full-blown rebellion, squirming and rolling over on themselves. He shifts in the chair, trying to smother the sounds.

“Let’s stop playing games, Doc. You telling me you don’t know a thing about what happened to Burns or McKay? McKay, a guy who’s the same height and weight as you? A guy dressed in scrubs like you, who walks outta the hospital half a minute before you? A guy who works with you and whose car is parked right next to yours? And he’s shot by the same gun used to shoot
your best friend
? Is
that
what you’re tellin’ me?”

“Detective, I have no idea.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Dolan.”

“I don’t get it. Why’re you questioning me like I’m some kind of suspect?”

“Because you’re a material witness.”

“What did I witness?”

“You aren’t a lawyer, that’s for sure, Doc. A material witness is simply a person who has information about a criminal matter.”

“I don’t have any information.”

A zinc-like taste forms on Roddy’s tongue. His mouth fills with thick paste.

“I don’t believe you.”

Roddy sighs.

“You know a helluva lot more than you’re lettin’ on, Doc.”

Something ignites inside Roddy. He feels an insane urge to get in Morgan’s face, to stand up and shoot a quick fist into his gut. And then launch a powerhouse uppercut to his jaw.
Shit. I’m thinking like I’m seventeen again, back in Brooklyn—before the army, when I turned my life around. Everything’s circling the drain. I’m headed back to the tar pits of my past. Jesus, I even have a gun now
.

Roddy shoots up from the chair. “I have things to do, Detective. So, if you don’t have any more questions, I’m leaving.”

“One more, Doc.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t you feel bad for Dr. McKay and his family? Poor guy’s
dead; his wife’s a widow, and his kids are fatherless. Don’t you feel a goddamned thing for these people?”

“Don’t try pulling a guilt trip on me. Of course I feel awful about it. Walt and I worked together, and I liked him. I feel terribly for his family … more than you can know.” Roddy’s face feels hot, flushed. “But nothing’s gonna bring Walt McKay back, and I can’t tell you anything that’d help with the case.”

“Well, Doc, one last question,” Morgan says, standing. He moves a step closer to Roddy. The detective’s eyes are intense, unblinking. They’re only a few inches apart. Roddy holds his stare, though it feels like the mad dog wants to burst out of him.

“Yeah?”

“What’re you gonna do when they come for you? And what’re you gonna do when they come for your wife and kids?”

T
he kids are upstairs in their rooms. Dinner was over a while ago, and the dishwasher is going through its last cycle. Sitting with Tracy in the den, Roddy feels his throat closing off, but he knows he must start explaining some things now. He’ll be serving up a medley of half-truths and distortions, and all the while, he has a revolver in the console of his car.

“Trace, we need to talk about something.”

She looks up from the American Library Association newsletter. Her green eyes glitter in the glow of the gas-lit fireplace. Her honey-blond hair is pulled back in the ponytail he’s adored since the first moment he saw her. Her eyebrows arch as she leans forward. “About what, Roddy?”

“About what happened to Danny,” he says, as tension builds in his legs. He feels like he wants to move them, but he doesn’t want to look as nervous as he feels.

Her lips part as though she’s about to say something, but she remains silent.

“Danny’s getting shot may have something to do with McLaughlin’s.”

Her breath sucks inward in a near gasp. Her eyes widen and she stares at him. “Roddy, what are you saying?”

“It may be related to what happened with Kenny.”

“Kenny? Kenny Egan? Isn’t he in Las Vegas?”

“We don’t know where he is, Tracy.”

She blinks repeatedly. “But … but you told me after the restaurant closed, Kenny went back to Vegas.” Her eyes look wider than he’s ever seen them. Her fingers begin trembling.

“The truth is, we assumed he did, but I don’t … we don’t really know.” It feels as though gauze covers his tongue, and his throat closes.

“I don’t understand. What does Kenny have to do with Danny being shot?”

“I’m not sure it does, but I can’t take a chance.”

“Take a chance? What are you
talking
about?” Tracy’s hand goes to her chin. The newsletter drops to the floor.

“Listen, Trace, I didn’t tell you everything.”

Her chest heaves and her eyes narrow into slits. “Okay, Roddy, what happened?”

“You know the restaurant was losing money.”

“Yes. Kenny was mismanaging it.”

“And we got out. We—”

“I know all this, Roddy.” Her foot begins tapping on the carpet.

“Well, there’s more to it than I told you.”

“There’s
more
? Okay, Roddy, tell me.” She leans forward and stares intently.

“The truth is, after the restaurant closed, Kenny disappeared.”

“
Disappeared
?” Tracy’s head shakes imperceptibly from side to side. Her eyes grow wide.

“Yes. He vanished.”

She blinks a few times. Her lips form a severe line. Her face reddens. “Why did you tell me he’d gone to Vegas?” There’s more blinking; her mouth drops open.

“Because I had no idea where he was, and I couldn’t imagine where else he’d go.”

She stares at him and then looks off to the side as though she’s focused on some distant object. She turns her head and exhales.
“People don’t just disappear, Roddy. These days, anyone’s traceable. He
can’t
be unreachable.”

“Honey, believe me, Kenny vanished.”

Her eyes look hard and steely, and her chest heaves. She lets out a breath and says, “Okay, Roddy, so why are you telling me this
now
?”

“Tracy, you remember last April, that night when I went into the city to meet with Kenny and Danny, when we decided to end the partnership?”

“And …”

His thoughts stream recklessly as he searches for words; he tries sorting them into some linear progression.

“And
what
, Roddy?”

“We discussed ending the partnership. Kenny was upset, but he understood why we were pulling out. Afterward, he had a headache. So we drove him back to his apartment, but he wanted to stop at a pharmacy. Dan and I headed to Yonkers … to his office to talk about the tax implications of the whole thing. You remember that night, don’t you? I left you a note telling you not to wait up for me.”

“Yes, I recall,” she murmurs.

“Well, the next day, Kenny didn’t show up for work.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And he never showed up again.”

Tracy squints. “What do you mean, ‘He never showed up again’?”

“No one ever heard from him again. And you know that McLaughlin exercised his lien and foreclosed on the restaurant.”

“I know all this. But why didn’t you tell me about Kenny’s disappearing?” She leans forward and tilts her head.

“Well …”

“And what does this have to do with Danny getting shot a few nights ago?”

Roddy feels an inner trembling. He hopes Tracy doesn’t notice how jumpy he feels or how high-pitched his voice sounds.