Allegiance (Joe Logan Book 4) (6 page)

They drank coffee and then sat and talked for awhile, totally unaware that as they did, Dr. Perry Gifford was entering the Bellevue Hospital Intensive Care Unit on the second floor of the West Wing, which comprised a ten bed unit, six private rooms and two semi-private rooms.  Arnie Newman was in one of the private rooms, and the doctor was entering it with the intention of ending the cop’s life.

Lennox
drove.  Frankie gave him directions and they were soon at the diner where Logan, Margie and Benny had been.

Lennox went in and asked one of the three waitresses about Logan.  Said that he was about six-four, hard to miss, and that he would have been with a woman in her late fifties.

Kelly Parker didn’t recall anyone like that, but called June Flanagan over and said to her, “Have you seen a really big guy with an older woman?”

“Who wants to know?” June said, jerking her head to flick her long red hair back from her face.

“I do,” Lennox said, flipping a wallet open to reveal a fake detective shield.  It always worked.

“I served a couple like that,” June said.  “The guy took off without her, then came back later with a much younger guy.  The three of them left together.”

“Describe the young guy.”

“He was skinny and scruffy with long, dark hair.  His face was pockmarked.”

“Did you see what make of vehicle they had?”

June shook her head.

“Did they use a card to pay?” Lennox asked.

“Cash,” June said.

“Thanks for your help,” Lennox said.

Frankie was looking at the screen of the device into which Gus had programmed a third-party tracking app to Margie’s cell phone.

“Is it workin’?” Lennox asked as he got in and started the car.

“Yeah.  But why would Logan leave it on?”

“Because he underestimates us.  He probably will ditch it, but feels safe to keep hold of it for a while.  And what he won’t realize is that it doesn’t have to be switched on to lead us to him.”

Twenty minutes later Lennox parked outside a duplex in Forest Hills.  There was a chalk-white Kia saloon in the driveway.  They’d been duped.  Logan had not underestimated them; he had played them by planting the cell on a complete stranger, probably back at the diner.

Lennox knocked on the door.  The young guy that answered it was wearing a Yankees tee and blue jeans.  Standing behind him in the hall was a little boy.

Flipping the shield again, Lennox said.  “We have reason to believe that you were in The Flatbush diner earlier this evenin’, sir.  Is that correct?”

“Uh, yeah.  I stopped off for a cup of coffee and to buy some of their donuts to take out.  Why?”

“Because it is highly likely that somethin’ was transferred to you without your knowledge, or placed in your vehicle.  I would appreciate it if you checked the clothing that you were wearing at the time.”

What the fuck!
  John Reinhold felt a sharp stab of trepidation.  Was he being set up for a fall?  Had someone planted drugs or something equally illegal on him, or was this just a big mistake?

The corduroy jerkin he had been wearing that day was hanging alongside a fleece belonging to his wife and an assortment of ball caps on an old-fashioned wood rack just inside the door. Lifting the jerkin off the rack, John checked the pockets and found a cell phone that he had never seen before.  He held it out with a shaking hand for Lennox to see, feeling guilty because it was in his possession and shouldn’t be.

“I…I―”

“You don’t need to say anythin’ sir,” Lennox said, reaching out and taking the phone.  “We know that you were not aware of this.  The cell belongs to a drug dealer that we had under surveillance.  I’ll get back to you for an official statement tomorrow.”

Relieved, John closed the door as the ‘cop’ turned on his heel and walked back out onto the sidewalk to his car.

“Check the contact list,” Lennox said to Frankie, tossing the phone to his partner and starting the car.

Frankie scrolled down the list.  There were separate groupings.  One was for friends.  There were over a dozen names and numbers, but only five had the same area code as Margie’s phone, and the first names of three of them were female: Audrey, Cathy and Della.

“She has three local lady friends,” Frankie said.  “Probably neighbors.”

“So use your burner phone, not hers, and call them and see where it leads.  Pretend you’re a cop.”

Frankie grinned.  Used the pay-as-you-go and punched in the first number.  Got no reply.  The second answered after three rings.

“Hello.”  A female voice.

“Good evening ma’am,” Frankie said.  “This is Detective Frank Burns.  We understand that you’re a friend of Margie Newman, is that correct?”

“Well, yes, but―”

“We need to locate her, ma’am.  She was due at the hospital to visit her husband, but didn’t show.  A patrol car has been by her house, but she isn’t in, and she isn’t answering her phone.”

“I wish I could help you, Detective,” Cathy Shayatovich said.  “I spoke with Margie two days ago, but I haven’t been in touch since.  I have no idea where she could be if she isn’t at home or with Arnie.”

“OK, ma’am,” Frankie said.  “Thank you for your help.”

Frankie tried the third number.

“Hello.”

“Is that Della?”

“Who’s asking?”

“This is Detective Frank Burns.  We are trying to locate Margie Newman, who we have reason to believe is a close friend of yours.”

“I’m her next-door neighbor, but…” Della paused.  It suddenly dawned on her that she only had the anonymous caller’s word that he was a police detective.  After what had happened to Arnie, then the break-in, she needed to be careful.

“You still there, ma’am?” Frankie said.

“Uh, yeah, but I’ll call you back.  Give me your office number.”

That threw Frankie.  He didn’t know what to say, so disconnected.

Della called the police.  Told them who she was and that someone purporting to be a detective by the name of Frank Burns had phoned and was asking questions about Margie.  She was asked to hold and waited for over two minutes before a female voice announced, “This is Detective Garcia, Mrs. Phelps.  I have no record of a detective by the name of Frank Burns.  Whoever called you had no official reason to do so.  Please tell me exactly what he said.”

After going through it, twice, Della was told to report any further calls, and was advised to not answer her door to anyone that she did not know.  She was also asked for permission for the police to check her phone, to see if they could trace the number of whoever had called her, which she agreed to.

Lennox parked at the curb and used his own cell to call Quaid.  Explained all that had gone down, and that the main player was now an ex-cop by the name of Logan, who had hard copy and a flash drive he had got from Newman’s house.

Dusty Quaid assimilated the new information.  While he did, Lennox just held the phone to his ear and waited, knowing that his boss would be deciding the best way to resolve the problem.

“Find this guy Logan,” Dusty said.  “Get whatever he has on Mr. F, and then make him vanish, permanently.”

“He’s in the wind, boss.  How―?”

“Someone knows where he is.  Go and talk to the cop’s neighbor.  She probably knows where Logan took the wife.  And even if she doesn’t, lift her and bring her to the Warehouse.  If she’s a good friend of Newman’s wife we can use her as bait, if we need to.  You should have taken the brother, not whacked the couple.”

Lennox had no time to come up with a lame-ass excuse.  The line was now dead.

Logan left the room, got in the car and drove a few blocks to a twenty-four hour pizza joint that they had passed on the way in.  He ordered a family-size pie and watched the breaking news on the wall-mounted TV.  Same old, same old: shit going down in the Middle-East, and next up was details of a guy who’d gone berserk in Copley Place, a Boston shopping mall, and stabbed eight shoppers, killing three of them.  It was believed that he had been released from a psychiatric hospital two days previously, but obviously still had mental issues, or had, up to the second that a patrol officer shot him dead in front of the waterfall on level one.

As the teenager placed the boxed pie on the counter, a local talking head appeared on screen behind him and gave brief details of a double homicide at a house in a residential district of Melrose.  Patrol cars with flashing red and blue LED light bars were parked in the street, and the guy with the mike said that the shooting of a middle-aged couple had come as a terrible shock to neighbors.  There were a lot of words but no further details.  Logan knew that the victims had been Margie’s brother and his wife, and that the guy he had spoken to on the phone had been responsible.  He paid for the pie and drove back to the motel, deep in thought.  Fallon’s crew needed a lead.  They had no way of finding Margie, Benny or him, but would keep looking.  What would their next move be?

Della!  He pulled into the motel lot, switched off the engine, got out of the Taurus and went back to open the trunk. Took a pay-as-you-go phone from a pocket of the rucksack and walk across to the room, to knock and wait.  He saw a drape twitch at the window, and a couple of seconds later Benny opened the door.

“Here,” Logan said, handing the pizza to Benny, before going through to Margie’s room, after first tapping on the door and waiting for her to tell him to come in.

“Give me Della’s phone number,” he said, switching the cell on and punching it in as Margie said it.

Della went over to the counter in the kitchen and picked up her beeping cell.  No caller ID, again. 
Curiosity killed the cat
, she thought as, against her better judgment, she accepted the call.

“Della?”

A pause: “Joe?”

“Yeah.  Are you okay?”

“Not really.  I got a call from some guy trying to pass himself off as a cop.  He was trying to locate Margie.  He knew my name.  I said I’d call him back and he disconnected.  I rang the police and they said that they would try and trace the call, and send a car by.  I goofed, Joe.  I told whoever it was that I was Margie’s next-door neighbor.  What should I do now?”

“Try to stay calm,” Logan said.  “Make sure that the house is locked up as tight as a drum, get hold of a flashlight, switch off all the lights, and then turn off the breaker panel and go down to the basement.”

“It’s in the basement.”

“Fine.  Stay down there and arm yourself with something you feel comfortable with.  If anyone comes down the steps, hit them as hard as you can.  I’ll be there in a couple of hours’, max.  Take your cell with you.  I’ll call when I arrive to let you know that it’s me breaking in.  Just hold on, Della.”

Logan ended the call, told Margie what had happened, and also relayed what had been reported on the TV.  There was no easy way to say it.  When he had been a cop he had knocked at doors on many occasions to break the news to people that someone that they loved would not be coming home.  It had always been the worst part of the job.

Benny wasn’t hungry.  He would rather have had a joint, but made do with a cigarette.  Margie felt sick to the stomach.  The confirmation that Tony and Ellen were dead was almost too much to incorporate.  Logan picked up a large slice of the pie, to quickly gobble it down.  The body needed fuel to operate at optimum level:
An army marches on its stomach
, he thought, and agreed with the old quote that was usually attributed to Napoleon Bonaparte.

He finished eating, wiped his mouth and turned to Margie.  “You’re safe here,” he said.  “Just stay in the room.  No one but Benny and I know where you are.”

“What do you plan on doing?” Margie asked.

“To go and get Della.  And to hopefully come face-to-face with whomever else might pay her a visit.”

As Logan and Benny traveled north over the Bayonne Bridge in the direction of Jersey City, Lennox and Frankie stopped for a bite to eat in Queens.  They felt under no pressure to rush.  It was going to be a straight-forward snatch in the wee small hours.  The woman in Tuckahoe either knew where the cop’s wife was lying low, or didn’t.  Whichever, she would be taken and could prove useful as a hostage to barter with.

Keeping to the posted speed limits, Logan headed north.  The traffic was light at this hour and he made good time, crossing the I-95 at George Washington Bridge, then over the Harlem River to head south to Melrose, which was only a few minutes’ drive away.

Dusty phoned Max Dalton on a secure line and briefly summarized what had happened.

“I thought that you had a select team to deploy on jobs like this.”

“They’re on it,” Dusty said.  “I expect results soon.”

“They fucked up.  We are
not
Murder Incorporated, for Christ’s sake,” Max said.  “The guys you sent to do the job sound like trigger-happy morons.  Killing an unarmed couple in their home out in the boonies is not acceptable.  What Mr. F wants is the incriminating evidence against him back with as little collateral damage as possible.  He is a high-profile businessman and mayoral candidate. The position of Governor of this great state is on the horizon.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” Dusty replied.  “Fallon has had a lot of people taken out.  He acts like a fucking Mafia don.”

“Enough,” Max said.  “Just make sure that they don’t whack the woman in Melrose, we need her alive.  Got it?”

“Yeah, we’re on the same page,” Dusty said.  “I’ll call you when the broad is lifted.”