Cop Job (11 page)

He wore a pale white silk suit nicely offset by a green silk T-shirt. His hair was dyed a shade of black ill-suited to his broad, doughy face.

“What do you want?” he asked, reasonably enough.

“If you’re Mustafa Karadeniz, I want to chat.”

“I don’t chat,” he said, and started to slide the door back into place. I caught it with my foot.

“I just want a conversation. It could save you a lot of trouble down the road.”

“What kind of trouble?”

He had the sort of gentle accent many foreign speakers acquired after long years in the United States. It was a type I could never distinguish between Spanish or Persian, German or Albanian, though I always liked the way it sounded.

“Legal trouble,” I said. “It’s headed your way. You help me, I help you.”

He let the tension off the door, but didn’t open it all the way.

“Who are you?”

“A guy was killed in Southampton the other day. He might have known people in a business you might know something about. Which means the cops’ll come knocking on your door, sooner than later. The dead guy was a friend of mine. That’s my only interest. I’m not looking at you. I just want a little information.”

“What can you do for me?” he asked.

“Let’s just say it’s better if we’re friends.”

He looked at me more closely, in an unexpected way.

“I know who you are,” he said.

That surprised me, which must have shown, because it made him smile.

“Sam Acquillo,” he said. “I got a friend of my own who wants me to kill you. Nice of you to make it so easy.”

Then he reached into his sport coat.

I
’
D LIVED
long enough and done enough to have forgotten a lot more than I remembered. So I excuse myself for not immediately recalling who out there might want me dead.

At least not off the top of my head. If I’d had time to ponder things, I might have come up with a few candidates. But the analytical part of my brain was temporarily off-line while the survival instincts were busy dealing with the matter at hand.

I used my right fist to sock him in the throat. This is a really painful and frightening way to be socked, and if the socker isn’t careful, he can easily crush the larynx and kill the guy.

Mustafa dropped to his knees, grabbed at his throat, and tried to get air flowing back through his lungs. I walked behind him, grabbed a headful of hair, stuck my knee in his back, and shoved him face down into the macadam parking lot. I sat on his back and frisked him, reaching every hiding place but the front waistline of his pants, an approach I didn’t think Mustafa was stupid enough to employ.

I was about to let him go when he pushed up off the hard surface, and with surprising agility, rose to his feet. I wrapped my arms around his neck and hung on. Somehow he managed to get a piece of my forearm in his mouth. As he clamped down, I ripped my arm clear, leaving a piece of me behind. He reached back and grasped at my head, which upset our tenuous balance and caused him to fall backward like a felled tree. No problem for him, with me as a cushion. The air in my lungs whooshed out, and it was a painful thing to suck in the next breath.

Mustafa pushed off the ground with his feet, arching his back and driving me farther into the pavement. Before he could do it again, I managed to partially twist out from under, which did little to stop him from rolling back on top of me. We repeated the same maneuver a few times, which an impartial observer might have thought a choreographed attempt by two angry men to tumble in tandem across the parking lot.

Wrestling is a contest most professional boxers eagerly avoid. Whatever skills and advantages we may have in throwing a punch, or dodging the other guy’s, is entirely neutralized in a tight clench. Instead of bobbing and weaving, we’re stuck wiggling and clutching, causing considerable damage to efficiency and dignity alike.

Not that Mustafa was any medal winner in heavyweight wrestling. His basic technique was to grab, claw, and toss ineffectual jabs, though his extra weight was a clear benefit, even if he squandered much of it with grossly inefficient flailing about.

“
Gelsene sikik! Götüne koyarım senin!
” he yelled, in evident frustration. It didn’t take fluent Turkish to get the gist.

Suddenly he stopped writhing, took a deep breath, and lurched to his feet. He managed to break what I thought was an unbreakable lock around his neck with a massive heave of his thick shoulders. This in turn had the Newtonian effect of throwing us in opposite directions. Mustafa landed face down, and I landed on my back. In the race to our feet, Mustafa got there just ahead of me, so before I could regain my balance, he’d already launched himself like a linebacker straight into my midsection.

Down we went again, this time face to face, Mustafa’s arms wrapped around my body and his shoulder stuck in my gut. I think the plan was to squeeze my torso until my head popped off like a cork. Workable if it weren’t for my fists, which were now blessedly free.

It wasn’t the best punch to the head, all arm and shoulder, with no body weight behind it, but enough to alert Mustafa to his strategic mistake. He let go of my waist and tried to scramble back on his feet, which only gave me freer reign to land two more sharp shots to his left temple.

The second one sucked half the fight out of him, allowing me to finally shake free and establish a legitimate fighting posture. From there I could pick any number of ways to finish him off, but there was no point.

He fell to his hands and knees and shook his head like a wet sheepdog.

“Fucking hell,” he croaked out.

He sat back down on his butt and coughed, using his fingertips to delicately feel around his throat.

“I think I see what my buddy’s problem is with you,” he said, his voice a strained rasp.

“You said he told you to kill me.”

“I didn’t say I was going to do it,” he said.

“You didn’t say you weren’t.”

He reached in his inside pocket again, and this time I let him. He pulled out an iPhone.

“It was vibrating,” he said.

He put the phone back and glared at me.

“Wouldn’t mind knowing which buddy we’re talking about,” I said.

He shook his head and mumbled something that sounded like
hassiktir
. He went to get back on his feet, but thought better of it, and sat down instead.

“It’s okay with me if we start fresh,” I said.

“Fuckin’ big of you.”

Mustafa made another go at standing up. I held my stance and watched him. When he got there, he brushed off his suit with partial success, little rips and ugly smudges spoiling the sartorial splendor.

“Did you have anything else in mind besides beating me to death?” he asked.

“I said I just want information.”

“Like what?”

“You knew Joey Wentworth?” I asked him.

He looked at me in weary disgust.

“Is that all you want to know? You could’ve just asked.”

“Did you do business with him?” I asked.

He didn’t like that one, for reasons we both understood.

“I already got interviewed about that,” he said. “By some prick cop. I can’t tell you anything without violating confidentiality.”

“Sure, but you could anyway. Do a good deed. Purifies the soul.”

“Nothing wrong with my soul, praise God. You want to come in the warehouse?” He jerked his thumb toward the door. “Get a cup of coffee?”

“Thanks, but I’m happy out here. I like the sunlight.”

“You think it isn’t safe?” he asked.

“You don’t think Joey’s killing could rub off on you?” I said.

He ran his fingers through his hair as if realizing his coif might have been disturbed in the scuffle.

“It’s got nothing to do with me,” he said. “I’m strictly moving and storage. This is what I told the cops, why the hell should I tell you anything different?”

“I’m worse than a cop. Once I start liking you, I never go away.”

“What do you care about that second-rate messenger boy?” he asked. “You know how many Joey Wentworths are lining up to take his place? So I’m told,” he added, getting a better grip.

“All I need is a name,” I said. “Anyone who might’ve had a problem with Joey, for whatever reason.”

“If I tell you something, will you stay the hell away from me?”

“If I get what I want, I will definitely stay the hell away.”

He paused for a moment, then said, “The last time I saw him was here at the warehouse. He was jumpier than usual, which took some doing. I told him that sort of behavior would draw the wrong kind of attention. That made him laugh, and he said, ‘Wronger than you know.’ I told him none of that crazy talk around me. I don’t like it. He keeps laughing and tells me, ‘Just watch out for Greeks.’ Thanks for the advice, I tell him, before shoving him out the door.”

“Any idea what he meant?”

Mustafa had the look of a man done talking.

“You asked me a question, I answered it. I told you more than I told the cops. Be grateful I’m in a generous mood and get the fuck off my property.”

“Okay,” I said, taking a few steps backward.

“And stay the fuck off.”

“Unless your lead turns into bullshit. In which case, I’ll be back.”

He looked incredulous.

“You got some kind of death wish, Acquillo.”

“I’ve been told,” I said, backing up a few more steps before turning around and heading for the car. I looked back once along the way and Mustafa was still standing there, watching, suppressed rage and bemusement skirmishing across his face.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

I
t was a few nights after my tussle with Mustafa Karadeniz. I was on the sun porch at the little table I kept out there, leaning over an assortment of gears, axles, bearings, washers, and springs that had once comprised the working guts of my starboard jib sheet winch. Earlier that week, a sudden tack to that side in heavy wind had snapped the line in such a way that some inherent flaw in the relatively new winch resulted in a screeching failure, followed by highly confused operations on the part of the captain and boat alike.

I was lining up the physical parts with their diagrammed facsimiles when my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I growled out a mild curse at Jackie, the most likely offender, getting it out of the way before answering the phone.

When I looked at the screen, it wasn’t Jackie’s number. It was a New York City area code, though I didn’t recognize the rest of the number. I answered anyway.

“What.”

“Mr. Acquillo?”

“Who’s this?”

“Nathan Hepner. Allison’s in the hospital. It’s bad.”

Even with a central nervous system conditioned to sudden shock, these weren’t words I was fundamentally prepared to hear. So at first I thought I had it wrong.

“What did you say?”

“Allison’s been badly hurt. She’s at Roosevelt Hospital, unconscious. It was the closest emergency room. I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Hurt how?” I asked, now up from the table and stalking through the cottage toward the back door, checking for my keys and wallet. Eddie, on his bed in the kitchen, leaped up and looked at me, his broad sweep of a tail drooping toward the floor.

“Attacked in her apartment. I found her.”

“Get me the doctor.”

“I can’t. They’re all in the operating room. I can get a nurse.”

“Okay,” I said, then regretted it as the phone went silent. I wasn’t done asking the kid questions. I was driving the Grand Prix toward Montauk Highway when a woman came on the line.

“Mr. Acquillo?”

“How bad is it?”

“I don’t have any information for you at this time. The trauma surgeons are in with her now. We’ll call you when . . .”

I hung up on her and waited about two minutes, then I called the number back. Nathan answered.

“What’s hurt?” I asked.

“I don’t know. There was blood all over her face and down her front. In her hair. Goddamn it all.”

“She was breathing,” I said, trying to confirm.

“They told me she was. I couldn’t tell.”

“Do you know who did this?” I asked.

“I just picked her up and ran down to my car. It was faster than an ambulance.”

It sounded like he was speaking to himself as much as to me. There was a slight trill in his voice, though he seemed in control. One of the boroughs lay sturdy claim to his accent.

“What about the cops?”

“I talked to the one who chased me to the emergency entrance. I ran a few lights. He gave me a stack of tickets, but not before calling it in. He took my ID and told me to wait for the detective, like I’m going somewhere.”

“What about her mother? Is she there?”

“She’s in the south of France for the summer. I left a message on her phone to call me ASAP. I didn’t know what else to do.”

I told him that was good enough. I knew Abby would be there as soon as she could charter a jet, but I wasn’t looking forward to it.

“What else?” I asked.

“There’s nothing else. You better get here.”

I pushed the end button and tossed the phone on the seat next to me. I drove brainlessly for about a half hour before a delayed impulse caused me to pick up the phone and call Amanda. When she answered I told her what had happened and that I was on my way into the city.

“Oh my God. Oh my God,” she said. “I’m on my way.”

“Jackie will feed Eddie. Just open the basement hatch. I’m calling Sullivan.”

Amanda knew me well enough not to waste time asking stupid things, like how I was doing, or how I felt, or what was I going to do. I didn’t know the answers to any of those questions and I was in no shape to think about anything but how to get to Roosevelt Hospital on the West Side of Manhattan in the fastest time possible without being delayed by speeding tickets.

My conversation with Sullivan was equally brief. He knew all I needed was a favor cashed in with a cop in the city who could pass the juice along to whatever precinct on the West Side had the case. I wasn’t looking for a private investigative unit, just someone on the other end of the line who wouldn’t treat me like a civilian.

From there the ride was a blank. Not because I forgot what happened—there was nothing in my mind but screaming pleas to all the divine influences I didn’t believe in to please spare my daughter’s life and deliver me from the eternal horror that would become my life if that couldn’t happen.