Mad Dog Justice (22 page)

It occurs to Roddy that his previous assumption about Crystal—that she was an airhead who used her sexual allure as currency and had little else to offer—was way off target. Yes, she could use her looks to her advantage, but she’s perceptive and quite smart.

So, I made some asinine assumptions. I’m a typical man
.

“What about the people he hung around with at the restaurant?”

“Oh, you mean those guys who looked like they’d just stepped off the set of a mob movie?”

“Yes.”

“They were the real deal.”

“You think they had hooks into Kenny?”

“Who knows?” she says, shrugging her shoulders. “But if I had to bet on it—another of Kenny’s vices—I’d bet he was into some under-the-table deals with some of them.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“At first I thought it was the Italians. They were hanging around the place. But over the months, it changed. It looked to me like the Russians took over. By the time the restaurant closed, there were Russians everywhere.”

“Anyone specific you can recall?”

“It sounds like you’re more interested in Kenny’s associates than in Kenny.”

“I’m just trying to get a sense of his life.”

“Well, if you’d been there more often, you’d have seen what was going on.”

“Like what?”

“It was a den of thieves. If it hadn’t closed, I’d have left very soon. It was getting seedier by the day.”

“So I gathered.”

“But there were nice people, too … the repeat customers who were there pretty often. Mostly businessmen who came for lunch. There was Mr. Conklin, a big shot in Local 319, a nice man who probably cut some deals with Kenny. And there was Mr. Nolan from the Hotel and Restaurant Workers Union, a sweet man. I’ll bet Kenny was greasing his palm. And there was Mr. Harris, the real estate guy, a real dear of a man. They were all good customers and nice men, not copping cheap feels or trying to get into my panties. Men make certain assumptions about a hostess in a restaurant like that—not all men, but some—like those mobsters from Brooklyn and Jersey.”

“You mentioned John Harris,” Roddy says, recalling Harris standing at Danny’s bedside only a week earlier. An image forms in Roddy’s mind—of Harris’s patrician face, his high-end threads, and his name-dropping: Teuscher truffles and Puligny-Montrachet and Château Margaux. What a snob, and no doubt, a high-end foodie—a real gastronaut.

“Oh, Mr. Harris is a kind man … if you can get past that white-bread country-club manner of his. I met him through your friend Mr. Burns. Mr. Harris became a regular because his Manhattan office was nearby, on 57th Street. He had lunch there at least once a week.”

Roddy nods, wondering if he was a bit too quick to judge the man; in medicine it’s called jumping to a
concussion
. Yes, Harris was a pretentious connoisseur, but that’s not a crime. Roddy realizes he sometimes lets his Brooklyn past—the flotsam and jetsam of growing up near Sheepshead Bay—taint his view of others,
especially braggarts dripping lucre.

“In fact, Mr. Harris helped me change my life,” Crystal says.

“How’s that?”

“I’m thirty-two years old and I’ve been around plenty of blocks. He thought I had potential for something much more than being a restaurant hostess. Through him, I landed a job at Regency Realty on 86th and York Avenue. Right now, I’m an intern and I’m taking courses so I can pass the licensing exam. I’d like to be a real estate broker. The Manhattan market’s very hot right now, and I’d like to tap into that.”

“How’d he help you?”

“He made a phone call, and the next thing I knew, I was working at Regency. I’m very glad there were some legitimate businessmen at McLaughlin’s because I had plenty of seedy offers—some that were quite substantial, if you know what I mean.”

“I do, Crystal. But, just so I’m clear, you don’t know anything else about Kenny Egan? His connections either in the restaurant or somewhere else?”

“Just that he was in way over his head. He was always doped up and trying to make a score. But he was gambling and losing lots of money. And those mobsters? Who knows what arrangements Kenny had with them? Actually, there were times I was scared to go to work because you never know what could happen with men like that.”

Roddy gets up from the table knowing there’s nothing more to be learned.

“Thanks, Crystal. I just thought I’d give it a shot.”

“I wish I could be more helpful.”

Roddy reaches into his pocket for a pen. “If you think of anything, call me.” He rips a piece of paper from a pad on the table and writes the number of his prepaid cell.

Walking toward the elevator, Roddy realizes he still has no idea who’s trying to kill Danny and him—or why they’re targets—and
he’s learned nothing from talking with either Omar or Crystal. And to make matters worse, Danny won’t hold out much longer. He’ll break down soon and end up calling Morgan.

Roddy’s hit a dead end, and if he isn’t very careful, he’ll be a dead man.

D
anny sits at the desk in his hotel room, thinking about the conversation he had with Natalie, his office manager.

“Dan, Detective Morgan called. He wants to speak with you. He wants to hear from you within the hour.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“Like we agreed … you’re not in the office. He asked where he could contact you. I told him I’m not authorized to give out that information.”

That was nearly three hours ago. Danny wonders what Morgan wants. To hassle and harass him again about how he and Roddy actually know who’s after them? Okay, so the whole setup with Kenny and McLaughlin’s was ripe for mobsters and now some mob vendetta. He can understand Morgan’s thinking. He’s taking the most logical path to arrive at his conclusion.

Danny feels a tug of fear-filled temptation to blow it all wide open. In a way, it would be a relief to tell Morgan exactly what went down that night—and
why
it happened. It’s so tempting to pick up the phone, dial the Yonkers police, and ask for Detective Morgan. It’s so much easier to tell the truth than live a life of lies and deception. Because when you lie, you have to be true to your lie, and one untruth inevitably leads to another and then another after that. It’s a never-ending series of evasions and distortions, and you’ve got to remember everything you said so there’s no
contradiction. But if you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember a thing.

You just tell it like it is … or like it was.

Yeah, if he tells Morgan what went down, he and Roddy’ll be chin deep in shit, but their families will be safe. And that’s the most important thing … Angie and the kids. Actually, they’re the
only
important thing. The rest is nothing but bullshit.

Jesus, this whole thing is torture. Danny knows he made a very bad decision about Kenny and McLaughlin’s. And it was an even worse choice—and Roddy’s right; it was a
choice
Danny made—to go along with Roddy and kill Kenny and Grange. He should’ve put his foot down and refused to be part of it.

So now it’s payback time, and the big guy in the sky is calling in his chits. The way Danny’s living now—holed up in a hotel room, fearing for his family’s safety and for his own life, doing his best to keep away from Morgan—is its own kind of hell. Yes, he’s living in hell, and when he dies, that’s where he’s going anyway. So what’s the difference?

Live or die … hell is where you are
.

What was it Ma used to say? “
May the grass grow long on the road to hell for want of use
.”

Danny’s certain he’ll tramp down that pathway to the fiery gates. It’s where he is right now.

There’s a purposeful knock on the door. It borders on being a solid thump. Then another two raps—very hard.

Danny’s heart freezes. He stands stone-still.

A fourth thump resounds—even louder than the others. It penetrates Danny’s skull.

“Who is it?” he asks as he begins trembling.

“Detective Morgan. Let me in, Mr. Burns.”

Dan feels a shiver in his neck as he unlatches the safety lock and opens the door. Morgan fills the doorway. He gives Danny a hard look. “You think you can hide from the police?”

“How’d you find me?”

“Easy, but I’m not gonna give away any trade secrets.”

Morgan strides into the room along with a cloud of cologne. “You get my message?”

“Message?”

“I spoke with your office manager and told her to have you call me within the hour. Can’t you tell time?”

“What’s so urgent? Any developments?”

A torrent of thoughts rushes through Danny’s mind.
What else has Morgan learned? What new factoid or theory is he gonna come up with? Who has Morgan talked with? Has he interviewed former employees of McLaughlin’s? Do I have to keep up this charade forever?

“The only development is that my material witnesses are holding out on me and they’re hiding.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning I don’t like when someone with information about a capital case disappears.”

“Detective, I don’t know a thing. I was—”

“Know what you’re doing?”

“I don’t get—”

“You’re obstructing justice. I can have a judge issue a warrant for your arrest. Or I could haul you down to headquarters and have you questioned.
Extensively questioned
. Then we’ll see how little you know.” Morgan runs his tongue over his upper teeth. His eyebrows reach for the sky.

“Look, Detective, I’ve been thinking—”

“Ever been in jail, Mr. Burns?”

Danny’s heart feels like it’s stopped. He grows light-headed.

“I asked you a question. Ever been in jail? A holding cell?”

“No, but I’d like to tell you—”

“Because I can have a judge issue a warrant for your arrest in a heartbeat. Just say the word and it’ll be done.”

“I think I’ll call my lawyer,” Dan says, moving to the telephone. He reaches for the phone, trying to keep his hand from shaking.

“Yeah, you do that. Ask him to define obstruction of justice.”

Dan turns to Morgan and says, “I’ve already told you everything I know.” His lips tingle.

“Lemme paint the picture for you, Mr. Burns. You were shot with a .22 pistol, and a doctor at Lawrence Hospital was killed by the same gun used on you. And
another
doctor from Lawrence Hospital—a guy whose vehicle was parked next to the dead doctor’s—is nowhere to be found. Know who I’m talking about?”

“I don’t know where Roddy Dolan is.”

“You have no idea?”

“No, I don’t, Detective.”

“Lemme put it to you this way, Mr. Burns. Next time you speak with your friend, tell him to contact me. Real quick or else he’ll be facing charges. Obstruction of justice is a serious felony. And that’s what you’re both looking at. Dolan’s not at the hospital. He’s taken a leave of absence. He’s not home, either. A neighbor’s watching the house. His family’s in another state and his wife doesn’t know where the hell he is. The Yonkers police want to talk to him, and so does the BCI.”

“What’s the BCI?”

“Never mind what it is. Just tell Dolan he’s wanted for questioning in a homicide … one Walter McKay. You tell your friend Dolan. Got it?”

“Yes, but—”

“Lemme tell you something. I’m doing you a favor by coming here. I got better things to do. And if you don’t straighten up, arrest warrants will be issued real soon.”

Morgan looks around the suite. “Where’re your wife and kids?”

“Somewhere safe.”

“Where’s that?”

“I’d rather not say.”

Morgan heads for the door, turns, and says, “You two better wise up, pal. Real fast. Otherwise it’s gonna be jail time, and we have detectives who’ll sweat it out of you. They’ll get more outta you than you ever knew you had to give. Got it?”

D
anny’s disposable trills. Nearly jumping at the sound, he picks it up. His hands are still shaking. “Roddy?”

“Who else could it be?”

“You never know. Guess who left here fifteen minutes ago … Morgan.”

“
Jesus
. You didn’t tell him anything, did you?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.” Dan peers about the room, looking at the laptop sitting on the desk and then out the window at the bare trees on this gray winter day. The room still smells vaguely of Morgan’s cologne.

“What’d he want?”

“He wants to see you. He bitched that we’re obstructing justice and he could have arrest warrants issued if you stay hidden. What do
you
think we should do?”

“I’m staying put.”

“Morgan’s closing in.”

“Only if you
let
him, Dan.”

“Man, I’m getting real nervous. I’m getting a very bad feeling about this. We’re headed for big trouble with this guy. I’m tellin’ you, Roddy. It’d be a whole lot easier if we just come clean.”

“Stay calm, Danny. Just stay calm. Listen.”

“But, Roddy, I don’t want—”

“Listen up, Dan. I just got back from the city. I spoke with Omar and Crystal.”

Danny inhales deeply. He fights off a hollow feeling and says, “You get anything?”

“Not really. Omar doesn’t know a thing. He’s working at another steakhouse now.”

“And Crystal?”

“She’s moved up in the world.”

“How so?”

“She’s living in a condo on the Upper East Side, renting from the owner. The place is on 79th and 2nd. It’s called Continental Towers.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Why? Have you been there?”

“Yeah, a while back,” says Dan. “Some Christmas party a few years ago. It’s a huge building, a kind of yellowish brown thing, right?”

“You got it. It’s more than forty stories high.”

“Yeah, I was there … at an apartment. It was a huge bash for lots of big shots. It was quite a while ago, before we got involved with Kenny and McLaughlin’s.”

Danny’s thoughts leap back to two years ago. “I remember Angela and I drove into the city,” he says. “The building had an underground parking garage. The apartment was a three-bedroom place—it was huge and had incredible nighttime views facing south. The place was owned by some megabucks hedge fund manager with offices in Manhattan. He wanted to sell it. People swarmed in and out all evening. They served champagne and caviar, and some high-priced catering company was running the food end of things. Yeah, it was at Continental Towers. We were invited because I’d structured some deals for a realty company in White Plains.”