The Big Fear (19 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

COLD

The elevator doors sprung open and Leonard walked out into the pristine hallway of the sixth floor. The apartment was unlocked. The cops had probably left it that way. He slipped inside.

The place was a mess. Leonard had heard that Davenport’s husband and son had left in a hurry, and hadn’t taken much. Whatever they left behind was tossed in a few different heaps in a few different rooms. The smaller bedroom, a closet with a window really, was awash in little-boy clothes hiding sharp plastic toys, traps to the unwary. The broad kitchen opened into an oblong living room, all of it strewn with papers. The husband was a professor, Leonard knew, and it seemed as though every book in the place had been opened and shaken and tossed on the floor, just to make sure no secret suicide note had been tucked inside one. At the far end of the living room was the view Leonard had once seen: a tiny balcony just big enough for maybe two people to squeeze out on, and floor-to-ceiling glass walls that gave Leonard the sense that he was going to fall at any moment. He slid open one of the doors and stepped out.

Heat seeped into the apartment—every indoor space in New York competes to be colder than the next in summer, driving you to sickness when you come in from the comforting swelter. Leonard stood on the balcony. Looking south, he could make out the harbor by the financial center where Davenport’s body had been found, the two piers jutting gently into the Hudson.

He turned back into the apartment. The mess that had taken over the floor was everything that had already been looked at. He had to see what had been left in place. He started in the boy’s bedroom. It was incredibly small. There was a toddler bed tucked against one wall. It barely fit. The boy was five, he would be getting to be just too large for this. And the next size bed wouldn’t fit in here. Leonard lifted the mattress and looked below. He sorted through the dresser, the colorful little-boy underwear and a collection of soccer jerseys. He tapped the sides of the dresser for hidden space. Nothing. He felt rushed, antsy, as though something was coming. He reminded himself not to hurry. He breathed deep. No one knew he was here except for the guard downstairs. And the guard downstairs didn’t care.

There was nothing in the boy’s room. He wandered back out to the living room. The books were a mess. The couch had been overturned, then set back. He checked between the cushions but there was nothing there. That’s what the cops would have done. Sitting on the couch he looked past the stone countertop and into the kitchen. A dozen cabinets, a thousand places to tuck something.

He passed a block of knives untouched on the countertop, the refrigerator decorated with careless magnets, a vase that probably very recently held flowers, disposed of by a forgiving cop. He opened cabinet after cabinet. Plastic kids’ cups and sturdy plates dominated. Leonard shook a few of the thermoses for sounds that something had been left inside. Nothing.

He opened the fridge. It was empty, the gentle cool a small refreshment on a long night. The same with the freezer. Not even a tray of ice cubes. He closed the door and stared at the fridge, a half-dozen magnets making a minor constellation on its face.

The magnets. There was a full plastic alphabet, but then something else. Six metal disks, too utilitarian to be some sort of game, pinning no shopping lists or school lunch calendars in place, parked in a line across the right side of the door. Leonard picked one off the fridge. He turned it in his hand. Davenport was smart enough to know that the best place to hide something was in plain sight. He tugged at the magnet, but it was solid, just a piece of metal left on the fridge for no particular reason.

Leonard snapped the magnet back onto the fridge and looked at the other five, close. Smooth uneventful little circles, one after the other. Except one. One had a faint crease down the middle of it. Leonard plucked it from the fridge. He snapped it apart. A flash drive presented itself out of one arc. It was a clever little hiding place. Once upon a time, you couldn’t even wave a flash drive near a magnet without erasing it. He would take it back to Roshni and look through it. He slid the magnet into his pocket and breathed out. He was almost there. If the drive had Davenport’s investigation on it, the whole thing would be solved. He could show it to Veronica and together they would expose Eliot’s scheme.

He turned back to the room, and found himself staring down the barrel of a Glock nine-millimeter handgun.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

GRAVITY

Behind the gun was a young guy with a chubby face. Clean-shaven, short curly hair, sort of spacey eyes. Leonard would have thought he looked like a sweet kid if he weren’t holding that gun. Leonard recognized the nameplate from the stacks of paper he’d been reading.

“Officer Del Rio. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I won’t do anything stupid. I won’t shoot anyone, for example.”

“We should have got you long before this.” That wasn’t any surprise. Leonard had figured it was the Harbor Patrol who had been after him. This guy at the head of the line.

“You didn’t feel like bringing along your pal Officer Davies this time? Or is he even a real cop?”

Officer Del Rio pointed the gun to Leonard’s pocket.

“Take it out.”

Leonard reached toward his pants. “I’m going to move slowly. You asked me, so just keep your cool.”

His shoulder hurt as he reached in. He slid his hand into his pants and pulled out the magnet with the flash drive inside. He lifted it out and held it between his thumb and index finger.

“Hand it over.”

“Or else you’re going to shoot me? You’ll walk out of the apartment and leave me here dead? Do you think that security guard downstairs won’t be able to ID you? I bet you showed him your shield. Gave your name. He’s going to come up here and find a body and tell the DA that Officer Del Rio of the Harbor Patrol followed me in. Give them your Tax ID and everything.”

“Now.”

Leonard set the magnet on the marble countertop. The cop held his gun on Leonard as he leaned in. “Stay still.” Del Rio kept his eyes on Leonard and reached onto the counter. Leonard thought for a moment about making a lunge for it. His shoulder hurt too much for him to move quickly. He might have talked Del Rio down from just shooting him outright, but he didn’t want to press his luck.

The cop reached for the magnet with his left hand, keeping his right trained on Leonard. He pulled it to his edge of the counter. Leonard saw his eyes dart down to it. He was maybe four feet away, and behind the kitchen island. If Del Rio was distracted, Leonard might have a chance. He figured that if he could keep the cop talking, maybe keep him thinking about more than one thing at once, he could confuse him. That would be a start.

“Why are you doing this, Joey? Who are you working for? You’re a cop; you aren’t supposed to be out running around killing commissioners and robbing people.”

“That’s right, I’m a cop. It used to mean something, to be a cop in this city.”

“And you don’t think it does anymore?”

Del Rio scrunched up his nose and Leonard saw his pasty cheeks quiver. The cop looked suddenly so young. “It used to be they let us go out and do our job. Keep crime down and everyone is happy with you. Then we are watched by everyone. We are watched by DIMAC. We get watched by the feds. We aren’t supposed to be cops anymore. It’s like working at the post office.”

Leonard smiled. Del Rio couldn’t be more than twenty-five. The new administration had stepped up enforcement against the police, had watched them a little more closely, but this guy had never known a world where the cops could run through the streets cracking skulls and not pay a penalty for it. “Someone’s been feeding you that, Joey. Someone has been telling you about the good old days. The 1970s, before Frank Serpico and all that. You weren’t even born. It wasn’t how they tell you it was, you know.”

“No, I mean just now. The city starts falling apart because the mayor won’t let the cops do their job. And then who gets the blame. We do. I’m sick of it. We’re all sick of it. So if you want to know why, well we’re just letting you know what it would be like without us.”

“But you tried that. You tried just not doing anything at all. And it didn’t work. So you had to start going out and making the crime. What does that tell you, officer? Who is keeping the city safe from you?”

“You keep quiet.”

Leonard remembered that Del Rio had a partner. One he was paired with every day of patrol. Most likely he had been with him on his fateful day off too.

“The whole precinct was in on it, wasn’t it? You were sent out to the boat with Rowson. What were you doing out there? How did you end up getting away?”

“I don’t need to answer any of your questions. I’m not at DIMAC getting investigated. You impersonated a police officer to break into this apartment.” Del Rio stared at Leonard. Leonard could see the cop’s hand start to shake. The cop was attacking him, the natural pounce of someone who was worried. Who was afraid.

Leonard stayed calm and spoke slowly, his eyes on the gun. He had to rattle the officer. “Who sent you out there? Did you do them all? The water taxi, the crane, the chemical spill? Do you even know who’s behind it?”

“I know why we’re doing it. We’re doing it to make the world safer. You get a little taste of what life is like if the police aren’t there to protect you and you’re all going to come running back into our arms.” The same tired rhetoric. The animals are taking over the city. Leonard could tell just from listening to Del Rio who had been feeding him these lines.

“No, Joey. That’s just your sergeant talking. You’re doing it because someone at an investment bank has been betting against those companies. Hoping their stock price will go down and then hiring Sparks or whoever he works for to wreck them. You’re just a tool in your own little conspiracy.”

Del Rio stammered. Leonard watched him work through it. Of course Del Rio wouldn’t have known anything. He would have taken orders from someone, likely Sparks, and never thought about who was running the show. From Del Rio’s perspective, Sparks would have been a guy who got him out of a jam and asked him for some favors. No one would tell the muscle that they were rigging stock prices for an investment company they had never heard of. They’d come up with a story the cops could believe if any of them ever asked. But given how close they had been to being fired, how much they owed to Sparks, it was more likely that none of them had ever asked. Del Rio’s grip tightened on the gun and he stared dead at Leonard. “I know everything I need to know.”

“Did you kill Davenport too? Are you going to phone me in for impersonating a cop, have the Sixth Precinct come by to collar me? They’ll get here, and as far as you know that flash drive has evidence tying you to a murder. Do you think Sparks will cover for you then?”

Del Rio stared at Leonard. Leonard realized that he was bruised and his clothes were ragged, and he didn’t look like someone who could be trusted. But he could see Del Rio start to puzzle it over as well. To wonder, maybe, if he was being set up himself. If Del Rio and Rowson had been out on the boat together, then something had gone very wrong. Del Rio had already seen someone get killed as part of this operation. As the cop stopped to consider, Leonard could see his grip on the gun grow lax and his eyes glaze in a moment of distant contemplation. He stared down at the little flash drive, then reached to pick it up with his free hand.

A moment was enough. Leonard feinted to his right then swung back toward Del Rio’s hand and threw it onto the marble countertop. Forget hitting the body, just take out the hand with the gun. The gun went off, but the bullet clattered past harmlessly. It hit at least three walls before it stopped—one thing they don’t tell you when they sell you expensive tile for your backsplash is how well bullets will ricochet off the product.

Del Rio screamed. Leonard thought about nothing but the cop’s hand. He held it on the counter and twisted his body away from the barrel. Del Rio managed to launch two more rounds before Leonard had climbed all the way on top of the island. Kneeling, Leonard had a good view of Del Rio’s face; he winced as his shoulder seared, but he managed to land a punch. Del Rio screwed up his nose and swung wildly with his free hand. Leonard dodged it and ground his knee onto the officer’s pinned right wrist. That was what made him let go of the gun, screaming and wailing and grabbing his bent palm with his good hand.

The cop had managed to flick his wrist while dropping the gun, so it swung off the counter and onto the floor. Leonard was still on the island, pinning Del Rio’s arm and shoulder below his knee as the cop twisted away from the countertop. Del Rio turned to lunge for the weapon and Leonard slid off the counter and into the officer, the two of them balled on the floor, swimming among books and papers and loose clothing, both out of reach of the gun. The magnet sat harmless on the countertop. Del Rio slid on his shoulders, stretching his foot toward the weapon. Leonard tugged him back and thrust his knee into his gut. Del Rio gagged for a moment, then gasped as he looked up.

Leonard wasn’t in the kind of shape that the cop was; sitting at a desk doesn’t prepare you for someone who hits the weight room twice a day. Plus he only had one good arm. He was the underdog, but when you’re the underdog, you can take bigger risks. You can do things that otherwise maybe aren’t fair. So he yanked on Del Rio’s hair, twisting back the cop’s neck, and landed a pair of blows below the ribs. Del Rio lost air quickly, gasping. Leonard grabbed the back of the Del Rio’s head and slammed his face against the marble countertop. Being a little bit unfair has its advantages.

Leonard tried to slip around the cop toward the gun. Del Rio tripped him. As Leonard fell, his hands hit the pistol, sending it sliding across the floor toward the open door out to the balcony. Del Rio started past Leonard, Leonard grabbed Del Rio’s knee, and they both spun down to the ground. Del Rio was on top of Leonard, swinging at his face. The cop landed a few pretty strong blows, and Leonard learned that when the guy takes a full swing, getting punched in the face can really hurt. Not to mention that when you’re lying down and get hit, the back of your head hits the floor, and in a nice apartment like Davenport’s that means hardwood, with an emphasis on hard.

Leonard was pulling up from the blow and Del Rio was reaching for the gun when Leonard grabbed at the cop and something slipped out of his belt. A canister a little bigger than a tube of lipstick. His pepper spray. Leonard didn’t have time to think, he just let loose with it, squeezing the top and letting the stream take its course. By regulation, you are only supposed to shoot one burst of pepper spray, for one to two seconds, and then assess whether it is having the desired effect before firing again.

That, of course, is the regulation if you are a police officer pepper spraying a non-compliant civilian. But Leonard was well past the world of regulations. He squeezed, and when Officer Del Rio shrieked, he pressed harder still. Leonard got closer than the allotted three feet. In fact, although he didn’t feel great about it, he shoved the canister in the cop’s mouth and sprayed some down his throat. If Leonard had found out that a cop had used pepper spray on a civilian like that, the officer would have ended up with a pretty big rip. As it was, Del Rio was rolling on the ground coughing, and it wasn’t clear whether the red gobs dribbling down his face were spray that hadn’t made it down his throat or his own blood. He was on his hands and knees now, blinded by the spray, trying to breathe.

Sprawled on the floor, writhing in pain, Del Rio lunged wildly, trying to corral the gun maybe. Wheezing from the pepper spray, his eyes starting to swell shut already, it was useless. Leonard walked past the cop and picked up the gun. He had never held a gun before. People who talk about guns always say that they are heavy, and so Leonard was prepared for the gun to be heavy. But even knowing that a gun is heavy, when he picked it up it was still heavier than he thought it was going to be, all dense packed metal and also heavy with what it can do, what it means to be holding a gun over a man who is incapacitated, who couldn’t fight back, who was now at Leonard’s mercy.

Del Rio wheezed. “Don’t kill me.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

He looked up. He couldn’t see, but Leonard could tell that Del Rio was tracking his voice. Leonard was standing by the open balcony door, holding the gun, testing its weight, pointing it at the floor. Not that Del Rio knew that.

“I don’t know anything about a bank. Sparks got me out of a jam. I owed him.”

“And Rowson? And Davies?”

“He’s got about a dozen cops. He pays us extra.”

“He pays you extra to let the chemicals out of the plant? To sabotage the crane? To sink the water taxi?”

“Everyone was supposed to get off that boat okay.”

“It sounds so innocent when you plan it.”

The cop took two very deep breaths. Leonard could tell he was struggling, but that he had plenty of strength left. He was in pain, but cops can still operate when they are in pain. If he could see, if he could breathe okay, then Leonard wasn’t out of the woods, gun or no. Del Rio heaved up to his knees and spoke.

“I’m sorry about all this. I never wanted to hurt anyone. But you should have stayed out of this. It wasn’t your business.”

“You’re in the house of the woman whose business it was. And her business was my business.”

Del Rio was crouched on the floor. As soon as he’d finished speaking he thrust his hands over his eyes. That was going to make it worse. He was going to rub the oil right into the cornea. What he really needed to do was flush both eyes with water, but Leonard wasn’t about to tell him that. It was in the Patrol Guide, and if Del Rio didn’t know, maybe that was just one more reason he got picked for these kinds of jobs. As Leonard walked closer, though, Del Rio pounced. He had been listening to the sound of his footsteps. Leonard had no reflexes to lift the gun and shoot at Del Rio. His arms were down. His finger resting far from the trigger.