The Blueprint (The Upgrade Book 1) (11 page)

In the truck Johnny pulled out his cell phone and clumsily dialed a number.

“This is Dan,” said a young voice after a few ring tones.

“Hey, Danny,” he said hoarsely. “I need you to run the plates for me.”

“You okay, boss?” the voice said. “You sound a bit off.”

“I’m fine,” said Johnny. “Ready for the plates?”

He dictated the license plate number that he memorized to Danny and waited as the other man hacked into the DMV’s database.

“Here you go, boss. The car is registered to someone named Latham Watkins, but the title and insurance are under a corporate name.”

“What name, Danny?”

“GNM transportation, it looks like.”

“Okay, thanks,” said Johnny, ready to hang up.

“Wait a second,” said Danny. “Just want to check something. It seems that GNM is wholly owned by another company.”

“Can you tell which one?”

“Working on it, boss. Sit tight.”

Johnny sat in silence clenching his fists, trying to work life into his hands.

“So?” he finally said, losing his patience.

“Here you go. Guardian Manufacturing.”

Johnny terminated the call and dropped the phone onto the passenger seat.

Shit,
he said out loud.

Johnny sat there for a few minutes considering implications. He was in a bad spot. If the gang elders ever found out he was working for Guardian, Johnny would be a goner, but on the other hand, working for Guardian was like working for the devil himself. He knew he couldn’t just walk away.

Fuckers, all of you.

He looked at the card that Latham left for him. On one side it had an unfamiliar Brooklyn address, and on the other side there was a name.

Steven Poznyak.

Whether he liked it or not, Johnny the Butcher had some work to do.

“Did I miss a promotion or something?” asked Bill Ryan as Chuck pulled over to the front of the building. The large parking lot in front of the apartment complex was crowded by fire trucks, ambulances, and police cruisers. Surprisingly, there was almost no press. Chuck parked his unmarked Ford across the street and turned off the engine.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, cases like that don’t usually land on our lap, but now it seems that we got the hottest stuff.”

Chuck shrugged and got out of the car to look for somebody in charge. The entrance to the building was cordoned off by yellow police tape, and the street was swarming with uniforms.

According to the plainclothes lieutenant supervising the location who introduced himself as Sam, some kind of military operation took place on the sixth floor of the building.

They took the stairs to the top floor as the man recounted what had been recovered before their arrival.

The entryway of the floor was covered in small debris and there was a gaping hole where the door used to be.

“It appears that they used four small plastic charges. Three on the hinges and one at the latch,” said Sam.

Chuck stepped over the threshold trying not to breathe in smoke-filled air, and paused looking around, trying to get his bearings around the scene. The entrance led straight into a small open kitchen with a granite island separating it from a living room. The kitchen, although bearing some signs of destruction, fared relatively well, and it was obvious that most of the damage came from a large explosion that took place on the floor of the living room. A little farther to his left was a gutted leather couch that stood on its side next to the remnants of the bathroom wall.

“Victims?” asked Chuck, looking at few brown stains on the floor and splatter on the remainder of the kitchen wall.

“At least six,” said Sam, looking at his notes, “possibly more. The bodies of the crew that breached this place were recovered, but the owner of the apartment isn’t here. He either left on his own, which judging by the amount of blood, is unlikely, or was taken by the remainder of the crew that came after him. Unfortunately, the sprinklers that came on after the explosion and a ruptured pipe in the bathroom spoiled a lot of evidence.”

“Who owns the place?” asked Ryan, squatting on the floor for a closer look.

“Mortgage issued by EW Bank to some Michael S. Connelly.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Chuck said. “Have you talked to the feds to see if there’s something we need to know?”

“Yeah, we have. They’ve got nothing. You know this guy?”

“We were looking into him over the past few weeks. There was a shooting on Williamsburg Bridge where somebody tried to gun him or his passengers down.” He turned to Ryan. “What have you got there?”

“Hard to say with certainty,” said Bill, getting up and cleaning his hands on the sides of his pants.

“If I had to speculate, though, I’d say they’d breached the door, threw in two stuns first.” He pointed at two symmetrical scorch marks. “They tried to storm, but this fella took down the first two troopers.”

“Okay.”

“Hence.” Bill pointed to a bigger scorch mark. “The frag. But that didn’t go well either. Looks like he took down three more guys before the final showdown took place right over here.”

He walked to the hallway and stopped next to a large pool of dried blood.

“That’s all I’ve got, I’m afraid. From here, your guess is as good as mine.”

He fished out a ringing cell phone from his back pocket.

“Ryan.” He listened for a few seconds, frowned, then handed the phone to Chuck.

Captain,
he mouthed to Kowalsky.

“This is Kowalsky,” Chuck said formally.

“Chuck, this is Captain Brennan,” said a heavy baritone. “I need you and your partner back in my office as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir. We’ll head back as soon as we wrap up here.”

“You didn’t understand me, Kowalsky. You and Ryan are off the case. I need you here for something else.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand.”

“You heard me. Grab Ryan and get your asses here.” The line went dead.

Bewildered, Chuck handed the phone back to his partner.

“Apparently we’re off the case. Cap wants us back in the office ASAP.”

“What the hell?” Ryan pocketed the phone and looked around. “So we’re done here?”

“No way.” Chuck took out his phone and started taking pictures. “Get a copy of the report from the lieutenant, then we’ll go.”

•     •     •

“What do you think this is all about?” asked Ryan as they headed back to the city. “Something else came up?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so,” said Chuck, steering through the traffic, merging onto Manhattan Bridge. “As you were talking to Sam, I placed a couple of calls and nobody seems to know anything. Nothing major at least. I don’t like this. I don’t like this one bit.”

Chuck put on a siren first, but a few seconds later angrily flipped it off and eased his foot off the throttle. They rode the rest of the way in silence, the dark cloud of unspoken doubts hanging over them.

Captain Guy Brennan was waiting for them in his office, his face even redder than usual, angry red splotches spreading from his bald freckled scalp all the way to his thick neck.

“Sit down,” he said without looking up from his computer.

“Sir?” Chuck didn’t move from the door. “Why are we off the case?”

Captain finally looked up, his heavy jaws silently moving under the folds of flushed skin.

“There was a burglary in Chelsey last night. I want you to check that out. Details have been uploaded to your workstations.”

“What was taken?” Kowalsky asked calmly.

“About forty grand of jewelry and seven thousand in cash.”

“Anyone hurt?” Chuck thought he heard his partner quietly cursing under his breath.

“No, the place was empty. Any other questions, Detective?”

“Yes, Captain, just one.” Kowalsky walked over and put his hands on the captain’s desk, looking his boss in the eye. “What the fuck, Guy?”

“I warn you, Detective, before you say things that you can’t take back.” Brennan stood, his multiple chins turning scarlet.

“You heard me,
Captain
. I’ve known you for a long time, and this is the biggest bullshit I’ve ever heard you say. We have an assassination attempt, laser-guided bullets, and a slaughter house with six corpses in military fatigues, and you’re assigning me to a fucking burglary?”

“Detective Kowalsky, please place your badge and your service weapon on my desk. You’re suspended from active duty effective immediately until further notice.”

“If you say so.” Chuck slapped his badge and his gun on top of the pile of papers covering Brennan’s desk and took a step back. “I hope whatever you’re getting for this is worth it.” He turned on his heels and stormed out of the captain’s office.

“Wait up, Partner.” Ryan caught up with him as Chuck headed toward the elevator going down to the garage.

“I should probably turn in my badge, too.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Kowalsky pressed the button calling the elevator and turned to his partner. “I’m not walking away from this, not now, and you’ll be much better placed to help me if you’re still on the inside. Just lay low for the time being.”

“Whatever you need, Chuck, you know that.” Ryan patted Kowalsky’s back and started walking back to his desk.

Chuck got out of the elevator and walked back to the car, a swirl of emotions going through his head. His phone vibrated in his jacket pocket, breaking his chain of thought. He frowned, looking in puzzlement at the blocked number, trying to decide whether or not to take the call. Finally, he clicked the answer button.

“Hello.”

“I have the answers you’re looking for,” a rugged voice said, “but you’re going to have to help me first.”

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Someone who wants to blow this rotten thing wide open. Just like you do.” The voice gave Chuck a Brooklyn address and hung up.

He stood in the parking lot for a few seconds, the phone in his hand, then got into his car. An unregistered black Chiappa Rhino 60DS revolver with flat cylinder migrated from the glove compartment to Chuck’s holster. He started the engine and slowly pulled out of the building.

As he made his way down to FDR Drive, Chuck considered his options. This very well could be a trap, and now as he was suspended, he couldn’t rely on calling in the cavalry in case things got hairy. Kowalsky got onto the freeway and stayed in the right lane, looking for the sign of the Brooklyn Bridge exit.

The views, that usually put him in a better mood, reminded him of what a privilege it was to serve this great city lost their magic. Today the grimy road, the gray skyscrapers on his right, and the frozen East River on the left looked like a scene from a post-apocalyptic movie.

Chuck took the ramp and entered the bridge, wistfully looking at an ever-parked police patrol car. Backup would surely have made him feel safer, but after today’s events and his captain’s unexplainable behavior, he didn’t know who could be trusted.

He took Exit 20 toward Sixth Avenue off Belt Parkway and drove parallel to the elevated subway line. The address that the mysterious caller had given him was a small junkyard. Chuck parked next to a massive gray concrete column supporting the tracks about a block away from the property fenced off with a vicious looking barb wire. There was an old Honda Civic parked inside the driveway.

Chuck cracked the window open just wide enough to stick out a Steiner Commander Military Binoculars and focused it on the target. The place looked empty save for the small light in the trailer’s window in the farthest corner. He watched the junkyard and the street around it for over an hour, but there was nothing suspicious as far as he could tell. The barb wire made it impossible to enter the place from anywhere but the front door. There were only two options; either to go in or to turn around and forget the cryptic phone call altogether.

I guess there’s only one way to find out,
he said out loud and got out of the car, taking the revolver out of its holster. He crossed the street under the heavy shadow of the elevated subway track and walked to the rusty old gate with a small side door in front. It wasn’t locked, and Chuck opened it, wincing as it made a loud squeaking noise. Nothing happened.

Encouraged, he slowly started walking toward the trailer in the back, gripping the gun with both hands. The snow under his boots made a crunching sound, making him cringe. Chuck looked around, trying to see in fading light where to step. There were stains on the snow. He bent down to see better, but even before his eyes could make out what he was looking at, he knew.

Blood.

There was a lot of it. The driver’s door of the Civic was covered with a generous smudge, and the splatter led all the way to the dirty white trailer. The polished golden knob on the trailer door somehow stayed clean, and it shone brightly in the evening sun. Chuck gripped the gun tighter and started climbing the small stairs. The knob turned without making a sound, and he slowly pushed the door with the barrel of the revolver.

”You’re making way too much noise, Mister Kowalsky,” said the familiar voice from a heap of bloody rags in a corner of an old sofa. Chuck saw the black stub of the silencer pointing directly at his face and froze in mid-step.

“I didn’t call you here to shoot you,” the man said, putting the gun down, “unless of course you’re going to stand there and keep that bloody door open.”

“One more,” Jason called out. The bartender, a young bearded guy in his late twenties, poured him another scotch. Jason swirled the golden liquid in his glass, watching the specs of light reflected from the overhead lights blink in and out of existence, then downed the drink in one long gulp. It went down smoothly just like four drinks before it.
That’s probably how the ocean feels when they drop depth charges into it,
he thought, and giggled at the idea. The bartender gave him an odd look, but Jason ignored it. He knew he was drunk, but he wasn’t drunk enough. The pain in his chest, the empty void created there a few days ago, was impossible to fill with liquor but Jason did his best to try.

“Another one,” he called out again.