Parker 05 - The Darkness (4 page)

the cops needed you almost as badly as you needed them.

If the cops needed to swing public opinion on a certain

topic, or if they needed help from the community in

catching a perp, they turned to the papers and television

anchors. It wasn't enough for them to come up with a

sketch of an alleged rapist--they needed a medium to get

the guy's face in front of millions of people. Curt understood that. He wasn't looking for fame, or to see his name

in the paper. He didn't have the sense of rebellious pride

most sources had. He was just trying to be a good cop.

"You should come down here right away," the cop said.

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27

"Where are you?" I said. "What's going on?"

"There's been a murder. Just dredged the body up

from the East River this morning," he said. And something in Curt's voice told me this wasn't just any run-ofthe-mill domestic quarrel or guy jumping off the Triboro

Bridge kind of death. "We've identified the body. His

name was Ken Tsang. We checked his records, and

Henry...the guy was Hector Guardado's roommate."

"Jesus," I said, my heart pounding. Jack's eyes were

wide open, imploring me to tell him what was going on.

Hector Guardado, I believed, worked as a drug courier

for 718 Enterprises. He was a colleague of the men who

killed Stephen Gaines, one of the anonymous suits who

delivered their drugs to buyers in their homes.

Guardado was killed just a few days ago. And now his

roommate was dead as well.

"I'll be right down there," I said. "Where are you?"

"Eighty-fourth, by the East River, on the promenade,"

Curt said. "You might want to bring some antinausea

medication."

"Why?" I said. "What happened?"

"Whoever killed Ken Tsang," Curt said, "wanted his

corpse to have more in common with a boneless chicken

than a human being. Somebody broke every single one

of his joints. Turned his toes, fingers, arms, legs and

finally neck in all sorts of ways they ain't supposed to go."

3

By the time Jack and I arrived at the East River, the smell

of vomit was choking the air. The view from the promenade was breathtaking early in the morning. The sun glistened off the river, as New Yorkers jogged, walked their

dogs, sat in silence admiring the beauty. Normally you

would see fishing poles out. Today's catch must have

driven them away.

The scene on this day, though, had the promenade at

a standstill. There were no bystanders going about their

business; they were all being held back by the same

yellow police tape that would soon cordon off my colleagues and competition.

I could see three cops who, by the look of them, were

a breakfast short and still green around the gills. They'd

roped off about fifty feet along the red brick walkway, and

from just beyond that I could make out a white sheet

covering the outline of a body. An ambulance waited

twenty feet away. Its lights weren't on. They didn't need

to be. There was no rush here.

"You never like to see cops this quiet," Jack said.

"Most of the guys on the force, they've seen everything.

Drive-by victims, people burned to death, children, every-
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29

thing. One thing we have in common with them, you

need to learn to desensitize yourself from the horrors you

see sometimes. Without that, you won't last a year on

either job. It takes a lot to send a shock wave through

those nervous systems."

I saw Curt Sheffield among the crowd of cops. He saw

me and began to walk over. I didn't see any other reporters just yet. Curt must have given me first shot at this.

"Hey, Henry," he said, nodding. He didn't offer his

hand, and I didn't expect it. Even though we were friends,

cops were expected to keep their distance from reporters.

They were naturally distrustful of us, and as much as I

hated to admit it, sometimes rightfully so. I'd seen what

the media could brew without all the facts. News, like a

bell, could not be unrung. Once you were accused of

something, once information was given to the public, it

was nearly gospel. And for cops, once your uniform was

stained, fair or unfair, it never washed off.

"Hey, man," I said. "Thanks for the heads-up on this."

"Don't mention it," he said. Curt was a good-looking

guy, about six-two, and filled out his uniform. As a young

black officer, he'd made high marks and was even used

in some promotional materials for the department when

recruiting was down. The taglines on the poster read:

Good People Make Good Cops. Good Cops Make a Great

City. Curt was a good cop, and, as much as he hated to

admit it, a good poster child. Thankfully for him he didn't

get recognized on the street much anymore. "I see a few

motherchuckers in the crowd."

"You see that body," Curt said, "you'll lose your last

three meals, guaranteed."

"You look fine to me," I said.

"That's 'cause the girl I'm seeing, Denise, can't cook

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anything that doesn't say 'microwavable' on the box. And

even then I have to remind her to take it out of the box."

"You're kidding me."

"Oh yeah? I had chicken casserole a la cardboard two

nights in a row. I swear, if the girl didn't screw like a

jackalope..."

"How's the leg?" I said. Talking about sex in front of

Jack had the same appeal as discussing it with my parents.

Curt had taken a bullet recently, the bullet nicking an

artery, necessitating some time off the streets. The man

went stir-crazy, but considered his scar a badge.

Not to mention he liked to talk about it more than sex.

"Feels good today. Hurt like hell yesterday. Touch and

go. Know the worst thing about being shot in the leg? You

can't really show people the scar without causing a

scene." Curt looked at Jack. I realized they'd never met.

"Sorry. Jack, this is Officer Curtis Sheffield. Curt, Jack

O'Donnell."

They both nodded, familiar with the drill.

"Henry's talked a lot about you," Curt said. "I figure

he must go through your garbage the way he knows you

front to back. Take care of our boy, he's one of the few

journos we can trust in this burg."

"I'll teach him everything I know," Jack said with a smile.

"Hey," I said, "how's Detective Makhoulian? I didn't

really get to thank him for his help."

Detective Sevag Makhoulian was the officer assigned

to investigating my brother's death. He'd been an invaluable asset to the investigation. Plus he had impeccable

timing. Makhoulian was Armenian. Quiet and intense, as

no-nonsense as they came, but he'd proved his reliability and dedication. I owed him, big-time.

"He's doing well. Mandatory leave for an officer

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31

involved in a shooting, but it's a clean-cut case and he'll

be back on the street any day now."

"Good. City needs more cops like you guys."

"Not going to argue with you there. I keep telling my

captain that they need to clone my ass. Sure as hell save

the city some money, and they need to save every penny

they can these days."

Jack decided to chime in. "So according to Henry," he

said, "Ken Tsang's body was beaten pretty bad?"

"Naw. The cops pushing three bills who have to play

center field on our softball team get beaten pretty bad.

This guy looks like somebody took a baseball bat and

decided to flatten him out to the point where you can slip

him inside a mail slot."

I felt a bad taste in the back of my throat.

Curt said, "Worst part is, Forensics thinks at least half

of the bone breaks were inflicted postmortem. Which

means whoever killed Tsang didn't just want him to hurt.

They wanted people to see him look more like a bean bag

than a person."

"First Hector, now his roommate. Somebody is taking

out drug runners in the city."

"Taking them out," Curt said, "with extreme prejudice.

This isn't just about somebody cleaning up their mess, this

is sending a message that if you don't watch your back,

you'll find yourself dumped in the East River a whole lot

more flexible than when you woke up that morning. What

I want to know is, who is this message going to?"

"Officer Sheffield, where exactly was the body

found?" Jack asked. He'd taken out a small notepad, uncapping a pen with his teeth. I did the same, feeling

somewhat foolish. Normally when I talked to Curt it was

informal. Friend talking to friend, both aware of the

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other's professional responsibilities. But Jack was right.

The story came first. Curt looked at the pad, saw Jack was

waiting for his answer.

"Garbage scow saw a big canvas bag floating in the

river, a few blocks south of the garbage transfer station

on Ninety-first Street."

"The body was in a bag?" I said.

Curt nodded. "Big, heavy burlap sack."

"You said it was floating," Jack said. "How would a

canvas bag with a body inside float on a river without

sinking?"

Curt blinked. He wasn't holding back. He just didn't

know.

"Hold on a second," he said. He walked off quickly,

and I could tell Curt was as curious about the answer to

that question as we were.

Jack was busy scribbling in his notepad. I held back a

smile. His eyes were focused, his handwriting sloppy, but

that didn't matter. Mine was no great shakes either, but

as long as we could decipher our own it would make do.

Of course recently my handwriting had taken a turn for

the worse, which led to several notes from Evelyn Waterstone, the
Gazette'
s managing editor, with helpful tips

like "Learn basic penmanship."

"How you feeling?" I said to Jack.

"Hm?" He didn't look up from the page.

"Just wondering how you're feeling. That's all."

"Fine," he said. "Why wouldn't I be?"

I waited to see if he was going to laugh, but Jack was

totally serious.

"I mean, come on, this is your first day back on the job

in almost a year. You disappeared faster than Michael

Moore at a Weight Watchers convention, and nobody's

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33

heard from you. Just, you know, want to see how you're

holding up."

"Just fine," Jack said with a wry smile. "If I start to

slag, be sure to tell me."

I just nodded, then saw Curt Sheffield walking toward

us. There was a strange look on his face, his lip turned

upward as if processing information. He came over to

where we were standing and said, "Guy was inside a bag

that was tied to a buoy."

"A buoy?" Jack said, eyebrows raised.

"Yeah, the body was in a big burlap sack, but get this.

Whoever dropped it into the drink attached it to a freaking

buoy.
Not only that, but they tied a freaking balloon to

the buoy so it could be spotted. A garbage scow noticed

the balloon and rope this morning and called it in."

"They're sending a message," Jack said. "Using us as

the messenger."

"Us?" I said.

"This will make the first ten pages in every newspaper. The message isn't for cops. It's for other dealers.

They read about what's happening to their friends, they

keep their noses clean. So to speak."

"You could be right," Curt said.

Jack tapped the pen against his lip. "You said the bag

was found by a garbage scow a few blocks from the

Ninety-first Street transfer station. Do you know if that

was where the body was dumped from?"

"That isn't public knowledge yet, and I think I'll get a

reprimand if I tell you guys anything else. Listen, I gotta

run, but we'll release more info as it comes. Meantime,

you two are smart enough to put two and two together."

"Actually, I'm waiting for Jack to teach me that."

"Yeah, take it easy, Henry. Mr. O'Donnell."

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Jason Pinter

"Officer," Jack said. When Curt was out of earshot, Jack

said to me, "Hundred bucks says the body was dumped

from the transfer station."

"Why?"

"This whole thing...the body pulverized, the bag

attached to a buoy, I mean, who does that? Once this

story breaks, every lowlife in the city will know that Ken

Tsang was mutilated in an ungodly way."

"Not to mention the garbage connotation. That he's

nothing but filth."

"That, too."

"But if this message is going to dealers, who's sending it?"

"The same people who killed Hector Guardado. And

most likely your brother, too," Jack said. "My guess is

Hector might have some more info for us."

"Hey, Jack, you might have missed the memo, but

Guardado's dead. Kind of hard for him to be a source

of new info."

"The man's got friends. Colleagues. Let's wait until

the news breaks, and then tomorrow morning we see

which of Hector's old friends are scared enough to talk."

4

They could hear whispering from behind the door before