Текст книги "The Execution"

Автор книги: Dick Wolf

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

CHAPTER 57

With their service pieces and phones returned to them, Fisk and Garza waited until they were outside León’s gate before speaking.

“Okay,” said Fisk. “Now we know who he is.”

“You don’t like him,” said Garza.

“Not especially. He put on a happy face, but a guy who made who knows how many millions laundering blood money has an epiphany and gets a golden parachute into the United States to live off the taxpayers’ money in secret? He’s either a genius or a piece of shit.”

“Or both,” said Garza. “I had a great-uncle like him. A rascal.”

“What about your president, though? Secretly in bed with this guy.”

“I don’t have to like it. It affects me not at all.”

Fisk’s phone began vibrating. Three missed calls and a bunch of e-mails flooded in.

“There must have been something blocking cell signals at León’s place,” said Fisk, checking the source of the calls. All three were from Dubin at Intel.

“Shit.”

“What?” she said.

“That false alarm this morning. My boss is going to try to yank me off this.”

Garza checked the time on her phone. “Vargas is scheduled to leave the consulate soon for the Independence Day celebration.”

Fisk thought briefly about ignoring Dubin and continuing on with Garza. But he did not want to become a distraction. He wanted the Secret Service and Garza’s EMP men focused on the job at hand—protecting Vargas, stopping Chuparosa—exclusively.

It would be an hour’s ride back to midtown, but Fisk chose to drop her off at the consulate first. Then he would check in with Dubin by phone.

“One thing I think is clear,” said Fisk, as they neared the consulate.

“What is that?” she said.

“Unless you can find Chuparosa beforehand, Andrés León is a likely no-show at his own restaurant tonight. He seemed more concerned about the assassin than your president.”

“I think you are right.”

“Hey,” he said, grasping her arm as she tried to hop out at the curb at Thirty-ninth Street and Park Avenue. “Be careful.”

CHAPTER 58

Fisk called Nicole instead of Dubin.

“The Post already has pictures up online of you going after that photographer outside the Mexican consulate,” she told him, her voice low. “It says, HERO TERROR COP ON MEX PRESIDENT DETAIL. You knew you weren’t supposed to be there . . .”

“Dubin been by?”

“Back and forth from his office a dozen times, but he’s not talking to me. You need to come in.”

Fisk said, “This thing is still live.” He was most worried now about getting inside the restaurant that night. The way things were going, Fisk himself would be on a No Fly, Detain On Sight list before then. “Tell him I got a flat tire,” Fisk said.

Nicole said, “I am not telling him anything of the sort.”

“Okay, then tell him he can fire me tomorrow at nine A.M., if he wants to. But not before.”

“You have a sit-rep meeting scheduled with the United Nations security team regarding the General Assembly meeting.”

Fisk heard a beep. He had another call coming in. Kiser from Rockaway.

“Nicole, I’ll call you back.”

“Wait, what am I really supposed to tell Dubin—”

Fisk switched over, picking up Kiser’s call. “Nice job cracking down on the paparazzi,” said Kiser.

“Thanks. What have you got?”

“Three more bodies identified. All you need to know from that is that one was a coyote who went by the name Raoul. A trafficker of women, real piece of fried shit. That’s interesting because of the alert that went out under your name for that Mexican hooker.”

Fisk nodded. “Silvia Volpi.”

“Got a guy here saw her name in the news. You should talk to him.”

CHAPTER 59

The Celebración de El Grito de Independencia took place at a park in Woodside, Queens. The banner over the stage read ¡VIVA MEXICO! in the flag colors of green, white, and red. Women in traditional huipils, as well as dresses from Michoacán and Tabasco, the men in wide, red-rimmed sombreros and charro suits. Mariachi bands played throughout the crowd, and men threw down their hats and kicked up their heels in dance.

All very clichéd, and yet, Garza thought to herself, all very wonderful just the same.

EMP agents wearing less formal guayabera shirts filtered through the crowd undetected. Snipers were positioned on surrounding rooftops. Cameras at every entrance were capturing pictures of entrants and filtering them through facial recognition software.

Garza sipped a Diet Coke through a straw, feeling very anxious but ready. She looked out from the wings of the small stage again, seeing past the families and couples enjoying the day, looking for anything that didn’t fit.

She heard the footsteps of a group behind her, and she knew the president was near. She turned to see him following two EMP agents around the corner, his eyes on his speech. This stop was another chance to refine the remarks he was preparing to deliver at the formal treaty signing that night.

When President Vargas looked up, he saw Garza and went to her. Garza relaxed, anticipating an apology for his being so short with her earlier.

He said, “This needs to go off like clockwork. I must return to the hotel in time to shower and change and prepare.”

Garza waited a beat before answering. “Yes, señor,” she said.

Vargas nodded, stepping back. He was apparently unaware of the offense he had caused her earlier.

Normally she would not have been so bold, so forward, as to speak out of place. But the new president’s manner grated on her. The lack of respect she felt from him was an affront.

She said, “I do not believe Andrés León will be in attendance this evening.”

The president looked at her with a very odd expression. It was as though he had not heard her correctly . . . and had heard every word she had said at the same time.

He stepped forward, keeping his detail back with an impertinent wave of his hand.

“What did you say?” he said.

“Andrés León,” said Garza, unbowed. “Or whatever his name used to be.”

Vargas squinted as though trying to guess at her intent in telling him this. “That information is extremely privileged. You should not know about him.”

Now it was Garza’s turn to parse his words. “Why not, Señor Presidente?”

He scowled at her use of the formal. “Because, Comandante, such knowledge is powerful and even dangerous. Who else knows? Tell me now.”

Garza only told him because he would eventually find out anyway. “An NYPD Detective named Jeremy Fisk.”

“The one you’ve been going around with these past few days.”

Now she was not happy. “ ‘Going around with’?”

Vargas got closer, ensuring that their conversation remained private. “If it were to be made public that I am in any way affiliated with a man like León, it would weaken my hand.”

“Why is that?” she said.

“That is none of your business, Comandante.”

“Because he seems like a man eager to right his wrongs. You certainly have taken advantage of his largesse.”

Vargas’s eyes flared. “This is very much a game of perception. When the right things are done in the wrong way, people revolt.”

“The wrong way?” said Garza.

The president made to end the conversation. “Some things are better left unstudied, Cecilia,” he said. “Some stones are better left unturned.”

CHAPTER 60

The 101st Precinct police station was a brick and limestone box occupying the entire corner at 16-12 Mott Avenue. The arched doorway was accented on both sides by green hanging lanterns featuring the old-school, slanted, stylized NYPD font reading 101ST.

Fisk quickly found Kiser, who led him to an interview room. A young Vietnamese man in short sleeves and a home haircut sat at the table waiting for them. Near him, setting down and neatly folding a Vietnamese newspaper, was a more Americanized Asian wearing a white shirt and a maroon necktie.

Kiser said, “Nam Thring is his name. This fellow is Jerry, a translator we use.”

Jerry nodded.

Kiser said, “Mr. Thring, uh, evidently has had a relationship with this Silvia Volpi. At least twice. He says she was very beautiful, very innocent. Second time he saw her, it was business as usual, except that on his way out she slipped him a folded piece of paper. Pressed it into his hand, clamping her hand over his mouth to tell him don’t say anything. She pushed his hand into his pocket to hide it there. Then watched him walk out of the room without a word.

“He says he didn’t open the note until he got back to his home. It was a flyer for a car wash place, the kind people leave under doors and elasticized to door handles. There was writing in the margins, done in a small hand. It was all in Spanish. Mr. Thring does not speak Spanish, but knew a friend who did and brought the note to him. Mr. Thring thought it might be a mash note or something, I guess. Instead it was a plea for help.

“It gave her full name, the Mexican city she was kidnapped from, the names and addresses of her parents. In it, she said she was being held captive by force, in total silence, unable to leave the building she was in. She said she did not know where she was, what town or city. She feared she was going to be traded or sold again. She asked him to go to the police.”

Fisk exhaled. “Which he did not.”

“Too scared,” said Kiser. “That’s his excuse. He didn’t do anything except throw away the note. He didn’t come here on his own. His friend, the one who translated the note from Spanish, turned him in. Recognized the girl’s name. Mr. Thring is also living in this country illegally.”

Fisk looked at Jerry, the translator. He was a little too disgusted at Mr. Thring to look at him just yet. “How did he first meet her?”

Jerry asked Thring in rapid-fire Vietnamese. Thring answered him slowly, eyes downcast.

Jerry relayed, “An online advertisement for massages, on a Vietnamese site.”

Kiser said, “Illegals advertising for illegals. That way nobody goes to the authorities.”

Fisk said to Jerry, “I need an address. Right now. Where was she?”

Thring answered back that he did not know.

Fisk said, “A house? An apartment? You weren’t blindfolded. Describe!”

Thring answered that it was in a part of the city he was unfamiliar with.

Fisk said, “Jesus, you went there twice. He have GPS on his phone? The address in there?”

Thring shook his head, unable to meet the eyes even of his translator.

Fisk dug out his own phone. He went to Google Maps Street View. “Give me his address.”

Fisk entered it. A tall apartment building in Kew Gardens, Queens.

“Okay,” said Fisk, taking Jerry’s seat so Thring could see the display. “Turn right or left?”

It went like that, painstakingly, and with many wrong turns. Block by block. Fisk learned the Vietnamese words for right, left, and straight.

The display had him heading toward the Williamsburg end of Bushwick, just over the line from Queens into Brooklyn. A residential area gave way to a mostly industrial area on the other side of Flushing Avenue. Lightly traveled, no retail business. The neighborhood was still a decade away from loft conversions, coffee bars, and hipsters.

Fisk moved virtually through the side streets of this neighborhood, coming to a large garage door covered in peeling paint the color of dried blood. Opposite the garage was an unbroken wall of warehouse.

“This is it?”

Thring nodded, relieved that his eyes could find the floor again.

Fisk turned to Jerry. “I need the layout of the place inside.”

Thring was not very helpful. Jerry translated, “You knock on the door. It is dark. They take money and bring you down basement, unlock door to room.”

“Unlock door?” said Fisk.

“Many doors,” Jerry translated.

Many girls, thought Fisk.

CHAPTER 61

Fisk knew Garza would not be answering her phone, so he texted her and e-mailed her a link to the address in Bushwick. She probably wanted to stay put with the Mexican president, but it was her call.

Dubin was at lunch when Fisk reached him. He talked over Dubin’s opening diatribe, laying out where he was headed and why.

“You want a SWAT team?” said Dubin.

Fisk had had about enough. He said, “Barry, this is me. Do it. Or don’t. I’m not waiting.”

And he hung up.

Dammit, Fisk thought. I’m going to have to do this alone.

CHAPTER 62

Fisk parked two blocks away. He jumped out and popped his trunk, pulling the Remington 870 shotgun from the bracket inside. He checked to make sure it was fully loaded, then filled the elastic cartridge carrier on the stock with another ten rounds of buckshot.

He pulled on his ballistic vest, did the straps, then slipped on a blue Windbreaker over that. It read NYPD on the back in bold yellow letters. If and when the SWAT team arrived, he hoped that and the badge in his belt carrier would be enough.

He slammed the trunk shut. A woman walked by him, carrying a string grocery bag, looking at him nervously, speeding up as she hit the corner and turned away.

Fisk’s heart was beating rapidly. He started down the sidewalk with the shotgun held out in front of him with both hands.

CHAPTER 63

Cecilia Garza did not check her messages until President Vargas was safely away from the podium and back in the clutches of his security detail. Two persons had been intercepted in the crowd, one suspicious man with a backpack and another wearing a hoodie in the hot midday sun. Neither turned out to be any threat.

The text from Fisk was vague and contained misspellings. That alone spoke to its immediacy. Did he have a lead on the Mexican prostitute who had pointed out Virgilio to Chuparosa? She found the address. She tried to call Fisk, but it went right to voice mail.

Vargas was moving back to the hotel soon. She did not know what to do.

CHAPTER 64

Fisk jogged down the sidewalk toward the red garage. He could see the camera mounted on the building above it, but he was not in range yet. Trying the garage door was a third option at best, and going in through the door Thring had entered was a suicidal second. So he looked for a better first option.

Cutting around the building before it led to a side door up a flight of four rusted stairs. It was locked, of course, but the door had a little give against his hip, so he brought the butt of the shotgun down on the handle. It broke, and he kicked in the door.

Abandoned. Or at least emptied, awaiting a new tenant. Concrete dust lay on the floor, a file cabinet on its side. Through that room and down a hall, he found another exit door. Through the window he could see his target building. There was a bulkhead secured with a chain and lock.

Fisk rushed back through the rooms looking for anything heavy he could use. He found a length of post pipe and picked it up. He only had one shot at this, two at the most.

He rushed back to the exit and unlocked the door, opening it to daylight. He hopped off the stairs quickly and crouch-ran to the bulkhead, looking up at the building for windows. There were none. He heard nothing from inside.

He set down his shotgun and slid the chain so that the lock was fully exposed. He could not hope to break the lock, but thought the force of the blow might pull off one or both of the bulkhead handles.

He reared back and swung. The TRONGG sound echoed, and he saw the handles bend.

He gave it another full swing without taking time to think about it—TRONGG—and the handles popped off, one bolt each.

He pulled off the chain, nervously checking both ways, waiting for someone to come upon him. A dog barked close by, as near as the next building over.

He grasped the half-removed handles and only then wondered what he would do if the doors were locked from inside. The padlock outside seemed to throw that into doubt, however, and when he pulled . . .

. . . the door opened with a sick groan.

Cement stairs coated with dust and dead bugs, leading to another door—its lock plate broken.

Fisk thumbed the flashlight button on the fore grip of his 870 and pushed the door open.

CHAPTER 65

The man known as Chuparosa was upstairs watching a baseball game soundlessly on a laptop computer when he heard the twin clangs.

Watching baseball helped him to focus. He was dressed in his black pants and tuxedo shirt, his bow tie ends dangling from his winged collar. It was a recording of an interleague game from August. The Yankees were playing the Braves in Atlanta, so there was no designated hitter. The Mexican leagues had adopted the DH at more or less the same time as the American League, and Chuparosa did not understand the reason behind splitting Major League Baseball down the middle. The game was improved by the designated hitter rule—it was a fact!

Fortunately the Yankees were up 3–1 in the seventh. Chuparosa’s uncle, the one who raised him, had always revered the Yankees organization as the greatest sports franchise in the world. Chuparosa hated his uncle unreservedly, but agreed with him in this thing only. His ball cap sat atop the table next to the computer, between it and a copy of H Para Hombres magazine with a picture of an almost naked Ninel Conde on the cover.

The noise was so startling and so loud, so obvious, he immediately dismissed it as the product of a nearby worker. But nothing could be left to chance.

Tomás Calibri came running into the room, buttoning up his trousers, the sound of the flushing toilet coming through the bathroom door.

“What is that, patrón?”

“Find out,” said Chuparosa.

Calibri reached for the silenced MP5 submachine gun standing by the door.

Chuparosa said, “We are just a few hours away from glory. Do not take any chances.”

CHAPTER 66

The flashlight mounted on Fisk’s Remington 870 was a recently purchased SureFire—incredibly powerful, but it gobbled batteries at an outrageous rate.

Inside the broken door to the basement, Fisk briefly swept the dark room, making certain no one was there to shoot him as he silhouetted himself in the doorway. Then he thumbed the flashlight off again. He did not want to go dark-blind. Nor did he want to tip off his location.

The noise of his entry had surely alerted anyone inside the warehouse.

He moved left, along a narrow walkway, cutting quickly through the blackness, ears straining.

Footsteps, above. He switched his light on again, directing it at the ceiling. Heart pine over massive old wooden beams. The creaks were farther away than that. A second floor above him.

He moved quickly down the hallway—too quickly, misjudging the end of the hall and bumping into the wall so abruptly he saw stars. He stopped, shaking it off. He turned right. He blinked the SureFire on and then off again.

Along the wide side of the room stood a series of unlabeled doors. As many as eight.

He aimed the light down, low to the ground, minimizing its illumination, and hurried across the gritty cement floor to the first door.

He put his hand on the knob but did not turn it. “Hello?” he whispered, remembering Thring’s description of the room the hooker had been locked inside.

“Come in,” said a female voice, barely audible, trembling.

Fisk tried the door, shotgun muzzle up. The knob turned. The door only locked from the inside, to keep its occupant from escaping. The flashlight blinded the young girl inside, who was no older than fifteen, sitting naked on a bare cot next to a chair with folded bedsheets stacked upon it.

With one thin arm, she blocked her eyes. With the other she attempted to cover her small breasts.

Fisk froze there for a moment. Then he grabbed the knob and pulled the door shut again.

Fisk backed away from the door. He looked down the wide room at the other doors.

Best to leave them locked in for now.

He quickly checked his silenced phone. No reception down here.

He put his phone away and thumbed off the light, picking his way across the room in darkness. The odor here was foul, the air uncirculated. He neared the end of the room and thought he could make out a flight of stairs headed up. He turned on his SureFire again . . . but the image he saw before him burned itself onto his retina, even after he shut off his flashlight again.

There, against the wall and on the floor, the amount of dried, brown blood was astonishing.

Slung against the paneled wall, splashed against the concrete floor.

Fisk held his breath in an attempt not to breathe in the fumes. He thumbed on the light again.

He saw the divots in the floor, amid all the smeared blood. He swung his light to the corner, where stood a tool resembling a post-hole digger, its blade crusted brown.

The scene was even grimmer the second time he looked at it. Grim and infinitely sad.

This was where the Rockaway thirteen had been decapitated and otherwise maimed.