Mad Dog Justice (5 page)

“I’m on assignment.”

“But this is Bronxville. It’s not your jurisdiction.”

Roddy’s toes curl inside his OR clogs.

“Yeah, Doc,” Morgan says, unbuttoning his overcoat as he sits in a chair facing Roddy. “Bronxville’s a village. Its police department doesn’t have the resources to handle a full-blown murder investigation like what happened to the doctor in the garage. So they called the state police, which usually happens in a case like this. And the state has the BCI—”

“BCI?”

“The Bureau of Criminal Investigation. It’s the detective branch of the NYSP. It has a thousand investigators who look into serious felonies. They assist local law enforcement agencies with major crimes.”

“But why’re
you
here?”

“Actually, Doc, I’m not here because of what happened tonight, even though I heard it happened right in front of you. Is that right?”

Roddy nods.

Is he gonna question me about Walt McKay?

“And, of course, the hospital’s in lockdown.”

It occurs to Roddy if whoever killed Walt was really gunning for him, he’s got to get to them before the cops do. Because if the cops draw a bead on who did it and start asking questions, the trail could lead right back to him and Danny and what went down at Snapper Pond.

“I’m lucky, Doc,” says Morgan. “I just took a chance to see if you’d still be here. I have a few questions I’d like to get cleared up, but it looks like I surprised you, huh?” Morgan’s lips spread into a smirk. A goddamned smirk, like he knows something Roddy doesn’t. Morgan’s fingers begin tapping on the arm of the chair.

“Surprised me? Not really, Detective. I’m just upset about
what happened.”

“Understood, Doc. You knew the vic?”

“I worked with him.”

Morgan shakes his head. He leans back in his chair, waits a beat, and says, “Hey, Doc, I looked you up—Google and all that good stuff. You’re a top-notch guy … rated one of the best surgeons in
New York
magazine. You have high marks on Rate MDs and some other online sites. And you should see the raves about you on Angie’s List. I’d never get those kinds of ratings in my line of work, if you know what I mean.” Morgan chortles.

“And I read about your military background … Fort Bragg and the 82nd Airborne. A hard-ass bunch of soldiers. Every bit as tough as the Navy SEALS. I was in the First Cavalry Division out of Fort Hood, Texas. Ever hear of them?”

Roddy nods.

Jesus, this guy’s Googled the hell outta me
.

Roddy knows the proverbial other shoe’s about to drop. Morgan’s not here to trade war stories. He’s here to follow up on Danny getting shot. And the guy’s suspicious about something. He’s just going through the buttering-up stage right now.

“We had some paratroopers from the 82nd attached temporarily to our unit,” Morgan continues, lacing his fingers behind his head. “They got into barroom brawls in every shit-pile watering hole from Austin to Waco. I guess when a guy jumps out of airplanes, there’s nothin’ can scare him, right, Doc? Of course, mine was before your time in the army. I’m fifty-two years old, and you were in the service when you were seventeen, right? Became an Army Ranger, too. I heard 70 percent of guys who go in for Ranger training don’t make it—they’re booted out on their asses ’cause they don’t have the mental or physical stamina for it. Right, Doc?”

Danny was shot two nights ago and Walt McKay was killed tonight, and this guy’s talking about twenty-five years ago—Fort
Bragg and Ranger school?

“You’ve been through some pretty rough shit in your lifetime, huh, Doc?”

Why’s Morgan going through this buddy-buddy bullshit? It’s a warm-up session for what’s coming. After all, this guy came to Lawrence Hospital tonight just looking for me. Morgan’s antennae are way up there, but about what, exactly?

“So what brings you here, Detective?”

“Tell you the truth, Doc, I have a few questions about the Burns situation. I’m sure you’re upset about tonight’s shooting, but I’d like to get back to two nights ago, if you don’t mind.”

Roddy senses the detective has more than
a few questions
. Morgan’s smirk makes Roddy feel the guy knows he’s on a track to
something
, that he knows a whole lot more than he’s telling. Roddy wonders if maybe he’s becoming a touch paranoid. But then there’s Walt McKay.

No, this isn’t paranoia. It’s not his imagination. Roddy’s world is collapsing.

“Questions about what, Detective?”

Morgan leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees. “You were in the OR when Burns got shot, right?”

“Yes.”

“Can anyone verify you were here?”

“Of course—my surgical team.”

“And you went to St. Joseph’s, right?”

“Yes.”

“What time did you get there?”

“Could’ve been eight thirty, maybe a bit later. I don’t recall exactly.”

Roddy knows Morgan’s trying to rattle him with this line of questioning. He can tell Morgan’s no slouch—he’s probably been working the Yonkers streets for twenty-five years and seen enough cases to recognize certain patterns. Just like Roddy
knows the surgical signs and symptoms of a hot gallbladder or a fiery appendix. Time and experience are great teachers.

“Lemme ask you something, Detective,” Roddy hears himself say through a dense field of static.

Morgan peers questioningly at him. Those bushy eyebrows arch upward.

“Am I a
suspect
in Danny’s shooting?” Roddy forces a grin but feels his pulse racing.

Morgan laughs softly, and shakes his head. “No, Doc, you’re not a suspect,” he says with a forced smile. “I’m just confused about the timeline and I’m tryin’ to get it straight.”

Roddy’s insides hum. He maintains steady eye contact with Morgan. The guy never seems to blink; he just stares at Roddy with those dark, penetrating eyes.

Roddy’s gut gurgles. His shoulders tense, and he’s certain he’ll develop a cramp in his trapezius muscles. He crosses one leg over the other and feels his pulse pounding in the area behind his knee. The radiator hisses, and Roddy thinks the lounge is like a steam bath in Brighton Beach. Jesus, what made him think of the Brighton Beach baths? It’s the home of the Russians.

“I wanna speak with you,” Morgan says, “because we got the preliminary ballistics report on the Burns shooting. There was some question whether it might’ve been a robbery gone bad. But the report leads us to think in another direction.”

Roddy tries to keep his legs from going into a spasm, especially his hamstring muscles.

“The two slugs were from a .22-caliber pistol.”

Roddy nods but says nothing. Less can be more … sometimes. And besides, who cares about the caliber of the bullets? Except for shooting Grange and Kenny, he’s had nothing to do with guns in twenty-five years.

But Roddy’s stomach clenches.

“The shots were fired from the doorway, a distance of about
fifteen feet,” Morgan says. “It was easy to determine the distance and angle of the shots once we recovered the slugs.”

Roddy nods. He has the feeling Morgan’s dangling a rod. And Roddy’s the fish.

“And from what Burns said he heard—that little popping sound—it seems pretty clear the perp’s .22 had a silencer. That’s consistent with it being a hit, not some random robbery that went bad.”

Roddy feels his pulse in his wrists.

“Wouldn’t a silencer leave marks on the bullets you retrieved?”

“That’s what most people think, Doc, especially people familiar with guns from twenty or more years ago.”

Bastard knows I had sniper training from looking me up online. He knows much more than he’s letting on. I’m walking a high wire with this guy. Gotta be careful
.

“But in the last few years, technology’s improved,” Morgan continues, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs. “You see, twenty years ago, a weapon using a silencer—either a rifle or a pistol—would’ve left markings on the slug. There’d be an altered striation pattern on the bullet head. But most silencers today are made with metal baffles that don’t touch the bullet as it passes through, so they don’t change the slug’s appearance. The only way there’d be markings would be if the silencer was misaligned; then the bullet would brush against the baffles on its way through the suppressor. Back in the old days, silencers were made with mesh or wipes that contacted the bullet as it went through, so they left telltale markings. But not anymore.”

Roddy hears another smirk in Morgan’s voice, though it hasn’t yet gone to his lips.

“The point being, Detective?”

“The point being, Doc, it looks like someone was on a mission to take out your friend Burns. Someone with a silencer on a .22. It was very likely a hit, not some amateur who panicked during a
half-assed B and E.”

Roddy’s chest tightens, as though damp clay surrounds his heart. He swallows hard. “How can you be so sure it wasn’t a botched burglary?” he asks, aware his voice sounds like it’s bleating and knowing Morgan’s 100 percent right after what happened to Walt.

“It’s pretty clear, Doc.” That half smirk forms again on Morgan’s lips. “It looks like a head shot got blocked by the telephone receiver. The slug was deflected, and Burns got a minor wound instead of a brain buster. And that other shot? It was a pop right in the middle of his chest, near the heart. Those two shots along with the silencer put this thing in the ballpark of a professional.”

“It could’ve been a burglary; after all, they took stuff.” Roddy knows he won’t be able to misdirect Morgan.

“It’s all bullshit stuff, Doc. They took his wallet and a Dell laptop, an Inspiron 15z—including the flash drive. Yeah, they took some computerized files. Maybe they wanted them, but I don’t think so. So, they rummaged around, knocked some things over, rifled through some files to make it look like a burglary. But you know what?”

Roddy waits, says nothing.

“They didn’t take Burns’s Rolex. It’s worth thousands. Thieves always go for the jewelry. So, believe me, Doc, it was no burglary. And besides, who’d wanna break into an accountant’s office at night? It’s not a rich target like a high-class home with jewelry, art, and other valuables. Unless they wanted some financial files, it was a hit, pure and simple.”

Roddy wonders if his eyes are bulging because they feel like they’ll burst from pressure building in his head. Heat creeps into his face. A droplet of sweat slides from his underarm down his side. Soon he’ll be marinating in his own sweat.

There’s no doubt about it; this is the worst-case scenario: Danny’s been targeted; Walt’s been shot right near my car; and a hound dog
of a Yonkers detective is sniffing around like he smells red meat. It’s a nightmare come true
.

Roddy knows he’s next in line.

He wishes his heart would downshift to a slower pace.

“There’re a couple of questions I’d like to ask you, Doc,” Morgan says, crossing one leg over the other, leaning back in the chair. “I spoke to Burns, and Mrs. Burns, too. And I did some online research.” Morgan pauses and peers at Roddy. The detective squints, as though he’s digging for some line of questioning Roddy won’t expect, something to throw him off balance, something to rattle him.

“Tell me about the restaurant business … about McLaughlin’s.” Morgan’s face looks neutral, expressionless.

An electric pang shoots through Roddy. It’s an open-ended question. It opens the door for Roddy to say anything—some tidbit that could lead to a squall of other questions.

“What’s that got to do with Danny getting shot?”

“There could be a connection,” Morgan says, half closing one eye.

“What kind of connection?”

“I dunno. But I get to ask the questions, here, Doc. Tell me about McLaughlin’s.”

“It’s way off topic, Detective.”

“Indulge me, Doc. How’d you get involved?”

Involved? I don’t like that word. He’s angling for something. And it could be because he’s talked with Danny. Dan’s been awake and fully alert for an entire day now. No doubt Morgan’s spent some time with him and asked plenty of questions. What the fuck did he say that has Morgan sniffing up this tree?

“I
don’t know where to begin, Detective.”

“Begin at the beginning.” Morgan stretches his long frame and again laces his fingers behind his head, leaning back in his chair.

Jesus, he’s got all the time in the world. He’s gonna pump me as much as he can
.

Roddy gives Morgan the CliffsNotes version of how they got into the restaurant business. Avoiding too many details, he describes how he and Danny became Kenny’s silent partners in McLaughlin’s. And he tells Morgan how after Kenny disappeared, the previous owner, McLaughlin Jr.—who they hadn’t paid off fully—repossessed the place.

As he’s describing it all, Roddy sees the restaurant in his mind: the tables, the masculine décor, the clamoring crowds, the open grill pit with two chefs, people bellied up to the bar three deep, and Kenny charging from table to table like a madman, hyped up and maxed out on drugs.

Morgan sits with his head tilted. His eyes look like they’re nearly closed with lids at half-mast.

And even as he’s talking, Roddy thinks,
Kenny Egan? Getting into bed with that weasel? Why am I telling this detective about that fiasco? It’s the old story—let a guy talk on, and he’ll vomit the whole enchilada. Give him enough rope and he ends up twisting in
the wind
.

Roddy knows he’d hoped Morgan would be more interested in Danny than in McLaughlin’s. That maybe he’d want to dig a little deeper into Dan’s personal and professional life than when they met two nights ago at St. Joe’s.

“So lemme get this straight, Doc,” Morgan says, again leaning forward. He shakes his head and blinks a few times.

Roddy thinks Morgan isn’t trying to mask his skepticism.

“This guy, Kenny Egan, formerly known as Kenny McGuirk, comes to your office one night, two Septembers ago. You haven’t seen him in nearly thirty years. He’s a guy who used to gamble, whose moniker was ‘Snake Eyes,’ who’s been livin’ in a bettor’s paradise—Vegas—where he’s managed some restaurants. He pops in out of the blue and tells you about a restaurant proposition in Manhattan, this place McLaughlin’s. Right?”