Tai Anne Roper 2
by Nicole Sutter
FOR MATURE READERS ONLY
Chapter 7 - "Famous Last Words"
Despite having a siren and flashing blue lightbar on his unmarked Ford Crown Vic, Joe Killian stil had to park a block away from the Plaza Hotel, as every police car and emergency vehicle in New York now seemed to surround it.
Killian shook his head as he hurried between the parked cop cars. Blue and red lights strobed over the scene and tried to give him a headache.
Why was is it that whenever a cop is killed, other cops congregate at the one spot the perps won't possibly be? Killian thought. He flashed his FBI identification at the cops watching the lobby doors and got nodded in.
On his way up to the 12th floor, he realized that he really wasn't concerned about his star witness, Vincent Cundalini. He was just another wiseguy with a big mouth. He'd find another to nail Scagnetti. But he was hoping --no, praying-- Sue Kaminsky was still alive.
He had managed about a half hour of sleep, sacking out at the OCSF offices in the Federal Building downtown before he had gotten the word that all hell had broken loose at the Plaza.
Indeed it had. NYPD Crime Scene Unit techs were everywhere, digging bullets out of the walls, snapping photographs, counting shell casings and bringing out the dead in bodybags.
Killian recognized a CSU tech named Teri Sancheras, who was studying the head wounds on the body of Lt. Duncan Hodges.
"How many?" Killian asked her.
"Ten dead cops," Teri said. She looked up at him. She was tall and busty Latina with short black hair and was looking good even in blue coveralls and latex gloves. "This is gonna be a bad one, Joe. We've done alot of healing since 9/11... this just ripped the wound wide open again."
"Yeah." Killian stood to one side as white suited attendents from the coroner's office went by hefting a bodybag on a stretcher. "Who's the M.E. working the case?"
"Calvin Farguss."
Killian frowned. Farguss had a rep as the biggest fuckup in the Medical Examiner's office. His sloppy techniques had led to several major cases being overturned. "I thought Farguss was on his way out?"
"Evidentally not." Teri looked up at him. "Remember, this is New York, Joe. It's not what you know, it's who you know."
"So what can you tell me about the shooters?"
"They were good," Teri said, getting up to her feet. "Capped almost all the cops with a double-tap headshot. All except for Hodges here. He got six in the chest and three in the face. He must've pissed someone off."
"Pros? Wiseguys?"
"I'd say you're looking at an independent crew. I can't imagine any mob soldier or wiseguy having the balls to mow down a roomful of New York cops..."
"Me either," Killian replied. "What about a detective named Sue Kaminsky?"
"What about her?"
"Is she dead?"
"Well, she isn't here. I took pics of all the dead cops and every one of them are men."
Killian nodded. "And Cundalini?"
"Com'n, you gotta see him for yourself."
Teri led Killian down the corridor and into the suite where there were still six dead police officers on the floor, almost in a semi-circle. More CSU techs and grim faced plainclothesmen were running about like chickens with their heads cut off.
In the adjoining bedroom, photos were still being taken of what was left of Vincent Cundalini. His skull --devoid of any flesh-- now grinned up at Killian, sitting absurdly on his large body.
"What the fuck?" Spinelli asked.
"Looks like about a liter of deluted hydrochloric acid was introduced into the brain, working outward at a ferocious rate. Helluva way to go."
"Ruin your whole day," Killian muttered.
"And who the fuck are you?" a voice asked, coming into the room. Killian turned to see a broadshouldered, cocky sonuvabitch swagger into the room.
"Special Agent Joe Killian." He flashed his ID. "FB-fuckin'-I. And who the fuck are you?"
"Detective Sergeant Salvatore Spinelli, Major Case Squad," he answered. "I'm the primary on this case. Sorry."
"That's okay," Killian said. "You work Major Case? Then you know Sue Kaminsky?"
"Yeah." Spinelli's eyes narrowed. "We know she was here right before the shooting, but there's no sign of her now."
"You got an all-points out on her?"
"Better fuckin' believe it," Spinelli said. "We think she's the one who was bringin' in a coupla of whores for your boy Cundalini."
Killian frowned. "I talked to Detective Kaminsky myself. She knew a couple of girls were on their way up, but she didn't say a damned thing about bringing in any prostitutes herself."
"Well, it's not something a cop likes to admit to," Spinelli said. "Truth is, we can't find anybody who saw any woman comin' up to this floor... except Kaminsky."
"And what are you implying by that?"
Spinelli shrugged. "Could be that Sue Kaminsky was the girl that Cundalini was fixing to see."
"What?" Killian shook his head in amazement. "Are you serious? I talked to Kaminsky myself for over ten minutes, just a little while ago. She assisted my interrogation of Cundalini. She didn't seem like the type who would go to bed with a mobster for a little pocket money."
"Really?" Spinelli leered at him. "And what type did she seem like to you?"
Killian considered decking this asshole here and now, but decided it wouldn't help the investigation any.
"Truth is," Spinelli continued. "Somebody who was here popped Cundalini, and then let in a crew of hitters to cap these ten cops. And Kaminsky is the only person who was here who hasn't been accounted for."
"You asshole," Killian growled. "You're already trying to hang this on her."
"I just follow the clues, fed," Spinelli replied. "Just like you."
"Hey, Sergeant!" Another CSU tech shouted from the hallway. "Got something here!"
He hurried into the suite carrying a Glock pistol in a plastic ziploc bag.
"We've been trying to match up pieces to the dead cops, running serial numbers against the guns we found," the tech said breathlessly. "This looks like the gun used to cap Lieutenant Hodges... and it's registered to Detective Sue Kaminsky!"
"Good work!" Spinelli said. "Run this piece over to CSU ballistics yourself along with the spent brass and any rounds that exited Hodges, try to get a match."
"Roger that!" The excited tech was already off and running.
Spinelli turned to Killian. "This is about dead cops, which makes it a NYPD investigation, fed. Steer clear if'n youse know what's good for you. Fuck with me and I'll have a precinct full of cops riding your ass."
"This is also about a dead federal witness," Killian replied evenly. "That makes it my business and the Federal Government's. Fuck with me and I'll have the goddamned 82nd Airborne down here in tanks to ride your ass."
Spinelli stared at him for a long moment before walking off.
"Whew!" Teri Sancheras said. "Smell that testosterone! I thought for a second there you were both gonna unzip and see who had the biggest!"
Killian looked at her and managed a smile. "Do me a favor. You hear anything... interesting, lemme know."
"Sure," Toni nodded. "Be careful, Ace!"
"Hey, if I had wanted to be careful, I woulda joined the Coast Guard," Killian replied.
***
Killian left the crime scene and took the elevator down to the lobby. He wondered where Asst. US Attorney Chalmers was. Probably still getting his beauty sleep. Which was a good thing, because it gave him a clear field to operate in. But he also knew had to move fast.
On his way back to his parked car, he used his cellphone to call somebody.
"What the fuck do you want?" came a woman's voice over the line.
"Good morning to you too," Killian replied. He slipped his sunglasses on. The morning sun was already burning hie eyes.
"Fuck you, J. Edgar!" Came the response. "Call me again at a decent fuckin' hour."
"Don't even think of hanging up on me, babe," Killian said. There was enough steel in his voice to keep her on line.
"Unless you'd like a suite of your own at Club Fed."
She sighed. "So? Whachoo want?"
She was The Hacker Queen. A cyber-commando who went where all others feared to tread. When Killian had caught her sneaking around some classified D of D mainframes, he could've busted her ass. Instead he used her to go places he could only dream.
"I need the personnel files on some New York cops. A Detective Sue Kaminsky, a Detective Sergeant Salvadore Spinelli, and a Lieutenant Duncan Hodges, all are on the Major Case Squad." Killian said.
"That's baby stuff," The Queen snorted. "Gimme twenty minutes."
"See you then." Killian clicked off and reached his unmarked Ford sedan, which now had a parking ticket snugged under the windshield wiper.
***
Fabiola Montengro woke up before the alarm. Again. She looked at her bedside clock and saw it was just shy of 7 am.
She stretched and slipped on her robe over her nightgown. She got out of bed being careful not to wake her sleeping partner, whom she knew hadn't gotten much rest last night.
The bedroom was vast, part of a huge,well-appointed mansion. Fabiola padded in her slippers over expensive rugs to the side of a crib to see what kind of night her patient had endured.
The crib was as large as a double bed, with high steel railings all the way around it. The old man was lying on the center of the mattress, his arms and legs restrained with cushioned velcro straps.
The old man looked at her as sunlight filtered through the room. Fabiola was quite a beautiful girl of 22, with long, dark hair, a generous, well porportioned body and a kind and gentle smile.
"Fabiola?" the old man croaked. "Help me... please help me. I think my wife is doing something... to me."
Fabiola smiled as she set up a fresh IV, a standard D5W bag with lactated ringers that held a vitamin solution piggybacked with synthetic LSD. She inserted it gently into the old man's permanent shunt just below his collarbone.
"How is he this morning?" Lucrezia Scagnetti came up behind Fabiola and looked down on her husband, Don Vincenzo
Scagnetti.
"Please, Luci..." Scagnetti whispered as the IV solution hit him. "Don't..."
"He almost came out of it, Donia," Fabiola said quietly. "It was close..."
"Good... he should know what has happened," Lucrezia replied. She looked down at the old man, who had once been the most powerful mobster on the eastern seaboard. "Can you hear me, you useless old fuck?"
"Yes, Donia..." Vincenzo Scagnetti whimpered.
"Last night, our son Anthony... our only blood... was murdered in California."
The old man began to sob like a baby.
"But I shall avenge him," Lucrezia said. "That is my duty now... as head of this family."
"But, Lucrezia..."
"Go to sleep, old man," La Donia Lucrezia said as she gathered sweet Fabiola up into her arms and hugged her.
The two women kissed. Don Vincenzo groaned as watched them, as once more he felt his reason and sanity float out of the room.
"Join me back in the bedroom when you are done," Lucrezia said.
"Yes, Donia Lucrezia." Fabiola went to a cabinet and got out a jar of Gerber's baby food, along with a bib and a spoon.
Lucrezia Scagnetti strolled back to her bedchamber. She was a proud and still beautiful woman in early fifties, with long, dark hair now slightly streaked with gray. Her body was still firm and desirable, at least that's what Fabiola told her.
She saw the red phone blinking on her bedside table. She sighed and picked up the receiver.
"Yes?"
"Mrs. Scagnetti?" It was Donald Murkensen, her attorney of record and the best mob lawyer in New York. "Sorry to call you so early, but something happened last night."
"Really? What?"
"Well, early this morning, person or persons unknown murdered Vincent Cundalini... they also murdered ten New York City Police officers to get to him"
"Oh my God!"
"Yeah... of course the NYPD is all over my office. They want to talk to you bad."
"Fine. Make it happen. We'll do it in your offices in your presence of course."
"We don't have to do that, Mrs. Scagnetti..."
"I have nothing to hide, Mr. Murkensen. And the sooner we get the police off of my back, the sooner they can start after the real perpatrators."
"Of course, Mrs. Scagnetti."
Lucrezia looked up to see Fabiola enter the room, removing her robe and then nightgown. Her creamy, ripe nakedness made Lucrezia instantly wet. Something Don Vincenzo had failed to do even on his best days.
"I have to go, set it up with my personal secretary. Good day."
She hung up and licked her lips.
"You're husband didn't have much of an appetite."
"Come to me, girl."
"Are you sure?" Fabiola whispered as she approached.
"Why, because of the death of my son?" Lucrezia groaned as she wrapped her arms around her and licked her firm breasts. "Even in death, there is the salvation of revenge. Omerta. That is what I have faith in..."
The two women kissed.
***
The Jersey Pine Barrens are a unique and haunted part of America. Over a million acres of land that takes up most of the interior of south New Jersey, that is good for almost nothing.
The sandy and acidic soil lets only the pitch pine tree grow in abundance, a tree so full of sap that it doesn't make good firewood, or even a good Christmas tree. Over the centuries, attempts to cultivate this land with crops, other timber and even cranberry bogs have failed.
Iron ore was found in the Pine Barrens in the 1780s, which led to a dozen or more bustling foundry towns. But when the ore ran out they all became eerie ghost towns, the last one dying out in the 1880s.
Leedsville was one such ghost town. Located on the banks of the Mullica River, it was surrounded by swamps and thick brush and pine forests. It wasn't on any map and was damn near impossible to get to, all of which made it a perfect place for an Evil Lair.
Evil Lair Dr. Device thought as he drove the black Lincoln Continental limo down the unmarked dirt road. He did like the sound of that. Even if it wasn't actually his Evil Lair, but the Evil Lair of the guy he was working for.
Drew Thrasher continued to lie in the back seat, nicely sedated. Dr. Device thought it was a real shame that after the memory wipe, Ms. Thrasher would have no memories of the time spent with him.
Dr.Device was a professional. His business was getting people to talk about things they didn't want to talk about. No, strike that. His business was getting women to talk about things they didn't want to talk about.
His techniques were legendary in the shadowy world of corporate espionage, where little nuggets of information were worth a hundred times their weight in gold. The fact he would only deal with women never really limited him either. Even if he needed information from a man, chances were good he had somewhere down the line told a woman what he knew.
Leedsville was about six square blocks of crumbling brick buildings, most devoid of their roofs. The once paved streets had broken up long ago and were now moss and dirt.
Dr. Device honked the horn as he pulled up to the ruins of the Leedsville Hospital, which was a two story, crumbling red brick edifice with pines growing in the interior.
Two people came out of the ruins. Ms. Revah Santiago, a cool looking latina woman in jeans and a leather jacket who was also a registered nurse, and Bruizer, a tall, hulking black man with a shiny bald head who always wore black. If that wasn't intimidating enough, he also carried a shoulder rig with a holstered Smith and Wesson .44 magnum revolver snugged under his left arm.
"Did you get her?" Santiago asked.
"Well of course!" Dr. Device said, his feeling hurt that she would even ask. "She's still sedated, so take her out gently, Bruizer!"
"I'm always gentle," Bruizer rumbled as he opened the back door to the limo and reached into the interior to scoop the unconscious Drew Thrasher into his arms.
A beat later, Bruizer was backing away from the limo with his hands raised. Drew Thrasher then exited the limo --very much awake-- and pointing Bruizer's own mighty .44 magnum at his face.
"I thought you said she was sedated," Bruizer said.
"I thought you could keep track of that cannon of yours," Dr. Device retorted.
"I thought you two idiots had at least one brain between you," Ms. Santiago finished.
"All of you, shut up and keep your hands up!" Drew said. She motioned with the large revolver. "And close ranks!"
"Be careful, Ms. Thrasher," Dr. Device said as he joined his companions. "The safety may not be engaged, and there's nothing more dangerous than a woman with a gun who doesn't know what she's doing!"
"The Smith and Wesson Model 29, forty-four magnum double-action revolver doesn't have a safety," Drew replied, keeping the revolver aimed between the three of them. "And I always know what I'm doing." She pointed the gun at Dr. Device. "The keys please."
"What keys?"
"The keys to the bloody car." Drew cocked the hammer back. "Don't be obtuse."
"Yes, Ma'am." Dr. Device carefully pulled the limo keys out and tossed them underhand to Drew, who caught them.
"Now I am sorely tempted to kneecap the the three of you to better my escape," Drew said. "But perhaps if you all started running away as fast as you could..."
The three of them turned and ran into the ruins of the hospital. Drew hurried to the Connie and got in, started the engine and drove off like a bat out of hell.
The three would-be abductors came out of the ruins and watched the dust settle.
"Well," Dr. Device said. "That could've gone better."
At that moment, they all heard another vehicle approaching. From out of the woods, an Aspen green, BMW X5 4WD SUV appeared and rolled up the hospital driveway to a stop.
Samarkand got out, his red fez perched jauntily on his head. "Hi, guys! Where's the limo? I gotta get it back to that rental place in Phillie by noon or I'm out another three hundred bucks..."
***
Drew Thrasher didn't know where she was, only that she had to get the hell out of there fast.
She realized that there was nobody else in this nameless, empty town. She drove by a courthouse square where pine trees now grew haphazardly about and inside the buildings.
As she drove out of town, she palmed her cellphone from her purse and dialed 911.
"We're sorry, but you are outside your calling area," came the recorded reply.
"Bollocks!" Drew hissed. There was no map or directions in the limo either. She decided to just stay on this overgrown path until she hit a main road.
She was going about 50 mph --the limo's heavy suspension handling the ruts and bumps with ease-- when she saw she was coming up fast to an old steel and concrete bridge that spanned a river.
Only there was no bottom to the bridge. It had long since rusted out. Drew slammed on the brakes with both feet and twisted the wheel hard left, putting the limo deep into a muddy ditch.
Drew got out, slipping her purse strap across her body and holding onto the .44 magnum. She heard the engine of another vehicle fast approaching.
She ran for the bridge and looked down a steep, brushy slope to a narrow river that was moving fast. Not white water fast, but fast enough.
"I don't like where this is going," Drew muttered to herself. She turned as a green Beemer SUV came around a curve in the road. She brought the Smith and Wesson up with both hands and carefully aimed and fired.
The big revolver when off like a howitzer in her hands, the report echoing through the pines. She fired again, and the Beemer swerved off the road, spewing steam from under the hood.
Drew smirked and jammed the gun into the belt of her slacks. The two weeks she had spent training with the American Green Berets for that documentary last summer had certainly paid off.
She approached the bridge and gingerly started across it, keeping hold of what was left of the supporting structure. if she could just get across, she knew she could loose her pursuers on the other side.
A strong wind was pulling at her body as she edged out to the midway point. That's when a large chunk of rusted metal finally gave way, and Drew found herself dangling over the river below.
Drew looked down and tried to aim for what looked like a deep part of river as the rusted metal she was holding onto snapped.
She screamed all the way down. She was a good swimmer but had always hated diving boards, much less high dives. This time she plummeted about fifty feet before hitting the water feet first.
The shock of ice cold water enveloping her body was mind numbing. She kept her legs bent at the knees and bumped her behind on the sandy river bottom. Then she boosted herself off and swam for the surface.
Drew broke the surface and took a deep breath, letting the current carry her along, as she guided herself away from rocks and brush.
She had no idea how far she had traveled by the time the river widened out and became much shallower. Maybe a mile or so. She made for the muddy bank and climbed out, realizing then that she had lost her shoes and also the .44 magnum.
Dammit! Just like a damsel to lose her weapon! Drew thought. She pulled at her wet clothes. At least she still had her purse, and there was no sign of her pursuers.
But she was still lost, with no idea of where she was. Drew remembered the advice of those Green Berets again. Always follow a river downstream. Sooner or later you'll come across a bridge that will lead to a road that will lead to people.
She confidently began walking along a mud flat. On her first step, her leg sank down into the mud to her knee. Cursing, she took another step and her other leg sank to the knee in the mud.
Drew twisted about, but she had no leverage. Worse yet, as her body continued to sink lower, she realized she wasn't in mud, but quicksand.
"Well this has taken a turn for the worse," Drew said aloud. There was a burbling sound as her hips and belly slipped under. She sighed and tried keeping perfectly still.
"Aren't you going to scream for help or something?" A man's voice called from the riverbank.
She turned and saw Samarkand about ten feet away. Still wearing that ridicoulous red fez, this time with hunting cammies and hiking boots.
"I was thinking about it," Drew replied.
"Care to beg for your life, Ms. Thrasher?"
"Don't push it, Samarkand," Drew retorted. "If you and your accomplices went to this much trouble to kidnap me, you aren't about to let me get swallowed up by quicksand."
Samarkand laughed as Drew's breasts slipped under. He extended to her a long length of pine branch that he had already cut and trimmed. She grabbed hold and he pulled her to him.
"There, safe and sound!" Samarkand stepped back, unlimbering a scoped trank rifle and aiming it at her. "Now please don't do anything silly, Drew. I have no desire to cart you all the way back to town like a hunting trophy."
Drew nodded at the river. "May I at least wash this mud off of me?"
"Only if you do it slow and sexy."
Drew rolled her eyes and stomped over to the river. Her purse was still in the quicksand.
She squatted down into the cold river water and scrubbed at her clothes and herself.
"Your blouse and slacks are ruined," Samarkand called out. "Better lose them."
Drew stood up in the river, it was knee deep. "Samarkand!"
"As the Goddess Nike once said, 'Just do it'," Samarkand replied with a silly grin. But the trank rifle was pointed right at her.
Growling, Drew Thrasher unbuttoned her white cotton blouse and pulled it off, followed by her black knit slacks. Her face was already blazing red at what she was wearing underneath.
Samarkand noticed right away. "Oh-la-la! Nice undies, Drew! You're not quite as conservative as you let on, eh? Turn around won't you?"
Drew stood there helplessly in a pair of red, thong-cut panties and a matching red, french-cut half-bra. Both were wet of course, and plastered to her skin.
She turned in a circle as Samarkand applauded.
In truth, her luggage had been lost during her recent trevails in San Francisco, and she had been forced to borrow some underthings from her good friend Paige Torne. She didn't feel like explaining this to Samarkand.
She shivered as a cool breeze chilled her to the bone and made her nipples stand up and salute the inside of her bra.
"I must say, Drew," Smarkand said. "You're wasting your time as a BBC anchorbabe! You could be the next Playmate of the Year!"
"Hardly," Drew retorted. In truth her body was firm and athletic looking, yet still curvy where it counted. She noticed Samarkand was still drooling over her. "Why don't you take a picture? It would last longer."
"In time," Samarkand replied. "Now be a good girl and come here."
She obeyed.
"Now turn around, and place your hands behind your back."
"Oh, get real!" Drew hissed. "Why can't you guys go five minutes without trying to tie a woman up! Good Lord, I spent most of my time in San Francisco roped up, or handcuffed or kept in some bloody cage with a rubber ball strapped in my mouth!"
"I'm fresh out of rubber balls," Samarkand said. "But if you don't do as you're told, I'll be happy to gag you with your panties."
"Bloody hell." Drew gave up and turned around and placed her wrists behind her back. She gritted her teeth as she felt slender cord from Samarkand's pocket bind her wrists together palm to palm, followed by a cinch tie and a knot out of reach of her questing fingers.
"That's really quite unneccessary!" Drew said as she felt him bringing her elbows together and then cinching them tight so that her breasts seemed to stick out a mile.
"Sorry, I just like the overall effect," Samarkand said, finishing the last knot. "Shall we?"
Drew sighed and started walking barefoot though the forest with Samarkand guiding the way.
"So what do you and your friends intend to do with me this time?" Drew asked. "Try to sell me to the Saudis again like you did back in San Francisco?"
"Now that wasn't my doing!" Samarkand protested while he admired her flexing, thonged buns. "Those Fist of Allah assholes had their own damned agenda! All I wanted was Jessica McClintock."
"Is that what this is all about?" Drew snorted. "I have no idea where Jessica is now!"
"We'll see about that," Samarkand replied. "And even if you don't know anything, you could prove useful as leverage against some of the other players in this game... like Jeb Stuart or Paige Torne... or Michelle Qwan."
Drew shook her head as she marched deeper into the pine forest. She had a sinking feeling that there was a lot of rope and rubber balls in her future.
***
Joe Killan helped himself to another cup of coffee while The Hacker Queen finished up with the hard copies of the personnel files on the missing Sue Kaminsky, the dead Lt. Duncan Hodges and the live asshole Sal Spinelli.
The Hacker Queen was a Goth grrl with an apartment in the East Village just off Houston. Slender and pale and fragile as a china doll, she sat at a computer monitor that was surrounded by various jerry-rigged hard drives.
"That it?" Killian asked. There were seven house cats of various pedigrees roaming the apartment. Two were currently rubbing Killian's leg hoping for a rub.
"Yeah," she said. "Took awhile to make sure I got everything, but that's it."
"Anything interesting?"
"This Kaminsky is a real goodie-goodie," The Queen replied, turning and shooing a cat off her lap. "Good arrests and solid convictions with a shitload of commendations and no black marks. Doesn't even take free coffee at a greasy spoon."
"And the others?"
"Spinelli is a hotshot. Has ten complaints filed against him for shit like use of unnecessary force and beating confessions out of suspects. Almost lost his badge when he used a stun gun on a suspect's testicles."
"Ouch."
"This Hodges guy... he's nothing. How he got a plum assignment like the Major Case Squad is a mystery to me. No arrests... no nothing."
"Well, sometimes it's not what you know, but who you know," Killian replied. He finished his coffee and grabbed up the hard copies. "Good work, my Queen."
"So how much longer am I in endentured servitude to you, J. Edgar?" she asked.
"Tell you what," Killian said. "See me through this, and I'll wipe the slate clean. Deal?"
"Deal," she grinned.
He stopped at the door. "One thing though. We're dealing with cops here. Tell no one about this. Okay?"
"I wasn't born yesterday," The Queen replied as she shut the door. "Bai bai!"
***
Joe Killian's next stop was at a hole-in-the-wall diner in lower Manhattan not far from the Federal Courthouse, where he found US Federal Judge Ira Messinger enjoying his usual breakfast of bagels and lox.
Killian cajoled him into signing off on a general search warrant to enter Sue Kaminsky's apartment. Then he was off once more.
Next stop; 672 West 76th street, an old, 12 story former hotel that was now an apartment building. Sue Kaminsky lived in 8E.
It was barely eight in the morning when Killan tapped on the super's door and woke up Mrs. Isadora Kesselbaum and told her why he was there.
***
"Now Susie... she's a good girl!" Mrs. Kesselbaum said as she rode up the small, and incredibly slow elevator to the 8th floor with Killian. "Always pays her rent on time --well, mostly-- and never puts glass bottles in the incinerator like those meshugenah boys up on nine do with all their goddamned beer bottles!"
Mrs. Kesselbaum was a sweet, little old lady still in her robe and hairnet. She had insisted on opening the door to Kaminsky's apartment for Killian with her master key.
"And have you even met her, Mr FBI man?" she asked as they got out on eight.
"Yes I have," Killian replied.
"And didn't she seem like a nice girl to you?"
He remembered her smile. "Yes. Yes, she did."
They went down a corridor that still smelled of breakfast cooking in various apartments. The bacon odor in particular made Killian realize how hungry he was.
They rounded a corner and saw a young, greasy haired kid wearing jeans and a leather jacket, kneeling by an apartment door. Killian thought he had dropped his keys.
"Hey!" Mrs. Kesselbaum shouted. "What're you doing there! That's not you're apartment!"
Killian saw it was 8E. Sue Kaminsky's.
The kid turned on his knees, pulling a small, nickled revolver from his belt. Killian instinctively grabbed Mrs. Kesselbaum around the waist and flung her back around the corner as the perp started firing at them.
Killian felt one bullet hum past his ear and another spray wall plaster into his face as the impossibly loud shots echoed down the corridor.
"Stay put, ma'am," Killian whispered into her ear. He drew his .45 SIG-Sauer pistol and dropped to one knee, easing around the corner as the shooter came charging up the corridor at him, still firing wild.
"FBI! DROP IT!" Kilian shouted. The kid
didn't, so Killian shot him. A double tap to the chest that stopped the perp cold and would've made his firearms instructor back at Quantico proud.
The perp hit the floor. Killian kept him covered as he walked to him and kicked the revolver away. He was early twenties at best and a hype from his pale skin and almost painful thiness. His hair was long and a beard struggled to grow on his baby face.
"Sonuvabitch," Killian muttered. Six years ago he had killed another boy about this age while working an FBI field office in North Dakota. Some kid who was running M-16s for a right wing miltia.
The feeling was the same. Sickening. And gut-wrenching.
The kid was still alive, but the two entrance wounds over his heart told Killian he had only seconds left.
Killian kneeled down and bent over the kid. "Listen to me! I'm a Federal agent! Who put you up to this? Who told you to break into this apartment? Who are you working for?!"
The kid blinked and tried to speak. "Fuh-fuhhh..."
"Yeah?"
"Fuh-fuh-fuuuuck... yew." And then the kid was dead.
Joe Killian leaned back and tried to take a deep breath. "Famous last words," he said aloud. Then he got on his cellphone and called for backup.
***