Compromised (27 page)

“That’s an inspired plan. Give him a call and let him know we need a powwow.”

Richie Valentine met us at Goda’s apartment, which had long since been swept for clues and evidence.
“You look good, Chalice, but what’s with the blonde hair? You and Gus into some serious role-playing shit?”

“Yeah. That’s it, Richie. Trying to keep the sparks flying—know what I mean? I was a redhead last month and went goth the month before that—black makeup, nose ring . . . the whole nine yards.”

“Ha! You’re a lucky man, Lido. My wife has had the same hairstyle for the past twenty years. Maybe I’ll bring her home a bottle of Clairol hair dye and see if she takes the hint.”

“Subtle, Valentine. Subtle. Let’s talk shop and then I’ll tell you how to con your wife into a makeover.”

“Yeah. Okay. So you’re saying the guy who killed Goda is the same guy they just fished out of the creek?”

“Yes. Tiru Kondo, the expired owner of the tattoo shop. My guess is that Goda recognized Haruki, Yana’s brother, at the sushi restaurant where Aguri Maeda, the first victim, worked. Maeda was probably killed because he was seen associating with Haruki. Somehow, Goda must’ve known that Haruki was tied to Tiru Kondo. The ME noticed some light scabbing on one of Goda’s tattoos. With all the ink that man had on his body, it’s not a stretch to presume he’d recently been in Tiru’s tattoo shop.”

“Maybe Goda saw this guy Haruki there,” Valentine offered.

Why Shiroo killed Tiru in such a dramatic fashion and why he wanted Harry to witness him doing it were the questions still nagging at me. I was still unsure if my appearance at the park had caused him to take Tiru’s life.

“So you’re saying I can close my investigation?” Valentine asked hopefully.

“Looks that way,” Gus replied.

“Great!” Valentine said with a smile. “Now tell me how I get the wife to look like a streetwalker.”

“Not so fast, slick. What do you know that will help us find Daichi Shiroo?”

“Oh, that’s right.” Valentine sighed. “What the hell was I thinking? I forgot we’re still looking for a cop killer.” He sank wearily into a chair. “What would you like to know?”

“The perp we’re looking for is a Japanese refugee, a yakuza boss named Daichi Shiroo who’s wanted for murder in his homeland. Our information tells us that he worked with Goda. In addition to grand larceny the two of them boosted drug dealers and sold their product on the street.”

“We dumped Goda’s phone, but we haven’t had the time to check all of his calls yet,” Valentine said. “Good chance this guy Shiroo’s number will pop up.”

“Scum like that—he probably uses a burner,” Gus countered.

“The crime scene boys didn’t find any evidence of drug dealing when they checked the place?”

“No contraband, if that’s what you mean. Wait a minute . . .” From his expression it looked as if he’d been struck with a revelation. He pulled his notebook and began flipping through the pages. “Let me correct myself on that. We impounded several boxes of printed glassine bags.”

“With a black heart stamped on them?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Feminine intuition, Valentine.” I showed him the bag we’d taken from Melvin DeNiro. “Like this one?”

“Yeah.
Just
like it, but without the illegal contents.”

“Was there an invoice for the bags?” Gus asked. “A manifest or something we can trace to see who ordered the bags?”

“You’re kidding, aren’t you, Lido? A manifest for illegal drug paraphernalia? I think maybe you need some time off, my friend. We’re talking street-level drug dealing—all transactions are strictly cash and carry.”

“Guess I’m getting desperate,” Gus admitted. “This thing has been a nightmare.”

“I still want to look around. You don’t mind, do you, Valentine?”

“Mind? Not at all. Knock yourself out, blondie. In the meantime I’ll call the house to see if they’ve made any progress on Goda’s phone records. Least I can do since you solved my case and are about to help me spice up my marriage.”

I winked at him. “Attaboy, Valentine.”

The apartment wasn’t large, but it was absolutely crammed with crap. I could see that a respectable attempt had been made by the crime scene investigators to sort through it all, but there were boxes everywhere just chock-full of bits and pieces. It seemed that Goda was a hoarder and had a fascination with electronic junk. Box after box was filled with gizmos and cables and such, most of which appeared to have been fished out of the garbage.

I noticed a tiny box wedged in the narrow space between the refrigerator and the wall. I used a bread knife to rescue it. It was unopened and the label indicated that Staples was the shipper. “Hey, Valentine,” I hollered. “I think you missed something?”

I heard footsteps approaching the kitchen. His cell phone was cradled in the crook of his neck. “I’m on hold. What’s up?”

I held up the small box. “The crime scene guys missed this.”

He shrugged, “Guess they did.”

“Then you won’t mind if I open it.”

“If you must,” he said with an I-don’t-give-a-crap expression. “Looks like a box of paperclips. No doubt the case cracker,” he quipped. He turned and left the kitchen.

I used my pocketknife to cut the tape and opened the box. It contained what appeared to be small tubular pre-inked stampers like the ones used to stamp the back of your hands so that you can reenter a bar or dance club. I pulled the cap off one of them and stamped a scrap of paper lying near the sink. Lo and behold, it imprinted the paper with a jet-black heart. “Check it out,” I called to Gus. He walked over, and I stamped the back of his hand.

“Cool. So we were correct about Goda being Shiroo’s partner. It still doesn’t help us find—”

“Uh-hum,” I coughed to get his attention and pointed to the address label on the box. It was addressed to D. Shiroo and the address was not the one we were currently searching. “What do you say we blow this popsicle stand and catch us a cop killer?”

The address the stampers had been shipped to was a livery garage on Southern Boulevard in the Bronx.
We had backup from the FBI and the 41st Precinct. For years, the precinct’s station house had been known coast to coast as Fort Apache. It was at one time a solitary outpost in a neighborhood of death, decay, and gangs. The neighborhood had improved leaps and bounds from those days but was still defined by one of the lowest per capita incomes in New York County, a place where drug dealing and prostitution were regular jobs, and a life could be lost by simply turning the wrong corner.

Command was taking zero chances with a cop killer. SWAT was going to lead the assault by battering down the garage doors in the middle of the night. It was half past two when the team was finally in place and ready to move in. Reconnaissance had reported that two Asian women had entered at roughly 11:00 p.m. and were still believed to be inside.

Shiroo had not been spotted.

Tactical officers in battle gear surrounded the building and sharpshooters were positioned on neighboring rooftops. There was absolutely no chance of Shiroo escaping the all-encompassing dragnet that encircled the garage if he was, in fact, inside the building.

The only hitch was the two women who had entered. Not knowing who they were, SWAT would not go in shooting. They’d attempt to locate the women and vacate them from the premises if at all possible. Once that had been accomplished, Shiroo would be captured dead or alive.

Had the garage been empty, a tactical vehicle could’ve been driven through the doors, but a wire cam slipped under the doors revealed that the garage bay was filled with cars and car scrap.

I could feel my heart pounding as the moments ticked away, and then it came, the sign from Pembrook, the SWAT commander, the man on the front line. He’d be first in after the doors were rammed. I was so tense that I grabbed Gus’s hand and squeezed it. I looked into his eyes and saw that he was as eager as I was for all of this to come to an end and to realize that long-awaited feeling of closure.

The garage doors crashed open as the giant rams smashed into them. Pembrook entered the garage with his men following closely behind. The scattered cars and scrap formed a maze the men threaded through before approaching the office at the back of the structure.

I raised my binoculars and peered through the office’s glass observation panel. I could only see the naked upper bodies of two women, who were sitting on opposite sides of a table and had presumably been stuffing bags with heroin although I could not make out such small details. They hurried to cover up as soon as the SWAT team broke through the garage door.

Pembrook motioned to a door on the back wall of the office and pointed. One of the women nodded. Pembrook raised his finger to his lips, signaling for the women to be silent. One of his men stepped forward, grabbed them by the arms, and was leading them away when a blast of semiautomatic gunfire tore gaping holes in the back wall.

It looked as if Pembrook had been hit before his men were able to return fire. He was dragged out of the way as they fired hundreds of rounds at the spot where the first wave of bullets had pierced the wall. There was a moment of silence after the initial exchange. The SWAT team stood at the ready, waiting to see if their target was down. And then the bullets came flying again, this time unabated. Semiautomatic fire came in torrents down the length of the garage, flying directly at where we were standing. I heard the whiz of a bullet and then a dull thud. Gus was wearing a Kevlar vest, but the impact of the slug knocked him back. I pulled him down behind a police cruiser and saw that he was clutching his chest and grimacing in pain. “Dear God, Gus, are you—” My heart was racing like a locomotive.

He gritted his teeth and nodded. “It’s okay,” he wailed. “It hit the vest.”

I wanted to call for an EMT but knew there’d be no response until the immediate siege ended.

The crackle of gunfire back and forth sounded like an armed platoon invasion. The wall at the rear of the structure was collapsing as large-caliber rounds sliced through beams and tore through Sheetrock. Return fire continued. “How is the son of a bitch not dead?” It was the sound of bullets hitting heavy-grade metal that offered a possible explanation. The door at the rear of the office must’ve led to a bathroom, and Shiroo was presumably crouched behind a bathtub, firing blindly over the top of it. It was likely an old one, hundreds of pounds of iron and porcelain, strong enough to withstand the SWAT team’s fire—and probably Armageddon.

The shooter’s fire finally ended, and I wondered whether he’d been hit or was merely out of ammunition. A SWAT officer called repeatedly for Shiroo to come out unarmed, but there was no answer or movement. A minute passed and then flash grenades were thrown through the gaping holes in the wall and the SWAT team rushed the room. I think my heart froze until I saw them emerge moments later, dragging Daichi Shiroo behind them.

Pembrook was okay.
One of Shiroo’s rounds had pierced his body armor but missed his vital organs. He was in the ambulance being attended to while Shiroo was being led to the police van.

I saw a car pull up. Shearson got out and hurried over after seeing me. She was beaming. “Did we get him, Chalice?” I nodded, and she let go with an uncharacteristic, “Yay!” accompanied by a dramatic fist pump.

She saw that Gus was in pain and signaled for medical attention.

“Gus was hit by errant fire,” I said. “He needs to be looked at.”

“I’m all right,” he said. “I want to look this bastard in the eye before they take him away.”

“Yeah,” I said, my throat tightening. “Me too.”

Shearson took me by the arm and led us toward the police van. “Stop,” she hollered just as Shiroo was about to be loaded aboard. He was surrounded by SWAT officers and had sustained some small wounds—none of which appeared to be life-threatening.

Hardly a scratch on him. Jesus,
I thought,
this guy must be coated with Teflon.

“Deputy Commissioner Shearson,” she announced to the officers taking Shiroo into custody. “One minute.”

Shiroo was turned around so that we were face-to-face. He looked at me with rage burning in his eyes. “You,” he said with disgust. “You make me fail.”

I wasn’t about to ask what he meant. Facing the man who had killed my partner and had almost taken my life was just too much for me to bear. I was so shaken that I was unable to take stock of my emotions. I was at the same time furious and relieved. I wanted to strangle him and cry simultaneously. One word escaped my lips:
“Animal.”

“Yes, you failed,” Shearson said indignantly. “And now you’ll be punished to the fullest extent of the law.”

Members of the press were a few yards away, just behind the police barrier, but not so far away that they could not appreciate the fine performance the deputy commissioner was putting on for their benefit. “No one kills a cop in New York City,” she said in no uncertain terms. “No one!” She flicked her hand, dismissing him. “Take this piece of garbage away.”

The SWAT officers were once again attempting to put Shiroo in the van when someone cried out, “No! Stop!” We turned to see Harry trying to push past a police officer.

“Harry?” I said with surprise.

“Who’s that?” Shearson asked.

“Haruki,” I answered. “Officer Yanagisawa’s brother.”

Her mouth fell open. “Oh my dear God.” Shearson pointed at him. “Officer, let that man through.”

Harry pushed forward, tearing out of the officer’s grip before he could be released. He was shaking as he approached. “You killed my brother,” he said, seething, finally eye to eye with his brother’s murderer.

Shiroo didn’t cower or turn away in shame. Instead he snarled at Harry and shouted contemptuously, “No! You killed
my
brother.”

I could see Harry’s chest heaving. His eyes were large and blazing with fury. “Yakuza scum,” he spat.

“No,” Shiroo replied with disdain. “You the yakuza scum.”

Harry leaped forward, his hands extended, reaching for Shiroo’s throat. His momentum knocked Shiroo to the ground, and their combined weight pulled the two attending officers down with them. In the half second it took for the two officers to recover, a shot exploded. When Harry was pulled off Shiroo, there was blood running from Shiroo’s chest.