The Darkness Part 2

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

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 compet.i.tion.

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- The Darkness 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 30.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 ca.s.serole 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 s.e.x 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 s.e.x.

"Feels good today. Hurt like h.e.l.l 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 a.s.signed to investigating my brother's death. He'd been an invaluable a.s.set 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 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 a.s.s. Sure as h.e.l.l 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 32.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' Gazette' s managing editor, with helpful tips 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 n.o.body's 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 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."

34."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 unG.o.dly 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 they'd even knocked. The three of them walked down the hallway, the floor covered in cigarette b.u.t.ts and crack vials.

The two men walked in front, the woman trailing them behind. She wore a jacket over a tank top, her arms loose by her side. The man on the left was blond, trim, and grinned like he'd been looking forward to this. The other wore a long coat and a scowl, and was in no mood to smile.

The men behind the door had been waiting for their arrival. The whispering was excited, impatient. So when the two lead men finally did knock on the door, it opened barely a moment later.

The bodyguard who opened it was ma.s.sive. Six foot six at least, and well over three hundred pounds. There was perhaps muscle under the flab, but he was no doubt employed as much for his ability to absorb bullets as for his ability to fight. The man looked like he could stop a tank sh.e.l.l in that gut.