Truth or Die (13 page)

“I think you’re going to need a lawyer, Mr. Mann.”

“I am a lawyer, Detective Lamont.”

“You know what I mean,” he said. “We’re going to need a formal statement from you regarding Claire Parker’s murder.”

“Are you saying I’m a suspect?”

“More like a person of interest,” he said. “And I’m hopeful you’ll cooperate with us.”

“This is crazy.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Mann, I’m not the one with a dead guy in my bathtub.”

“But I can prove—”

He shut me down so fast I was actually startled. “You’ll have your chance, I assure you,” he said.

I was back to my original question. “Fine. Then when can I expect you here?”

“You can’t,” he said. “It’s not my shift. Detectives Charrington and Goldstein will be there soon. We’ve got to do things by the book, Mr. Mann.” He paused. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I answered. I finally did understand. Or, at least, I was pretty sure I did. A lot of years had passed since I’d read the book he was referring to. It was the one we had in common.

Lamont wasn’t ticked off. He was tipping me off. The faster I got off that phone …

The better my chances of staying alive.

“STUPID, STUPID, stupid …”
I muttered, berating myself as I quickly hung up the phone.

In the heat of the moment, at the shock of seeing Claire’s killer in my own bathtub, I’d gotten sloppy. Leave it to Lamont to catch my mistake.

He was now the official study guide—the human SparkNotes—for
1984.
The two detectives he told me were coming to my apartment instead of him had the names of two other characters from the novel. Had he said one without the other, I probably never would’ve made the connection. But the two together?
Charrington and Goldstein?

By the time he tacked on, “We’ve got to do things by the book,” I knew what Lamont was trying to tell me, the clever to my stupid. Big Brother was most likely listening in. My phone line was tapped.

So now they knew where I was.
Where are they?

I dashed from the phone to my living room window, which faced the street below, pressing my nose against the glass. There was a windowless white van double-parked directly in front of the building. They hadn’t exactly spray-painted
BAD GUYS
on the hood, but I just had a feeling. This wasn’t the dry cleaners or a florist making a delivery. Nor was it the cable guy.

Time to pare down.

I kicked off my shoes, threw them in the duffel along with one of the guns—the Glock—and bolted from my apartment. Once in the stairwell, I silently stepped along the concrete in my socks for a peek over the railing, five flights down. One of the two guys from Bethesda Terrace was turning the corner to the second floor. It was only a glimpse, but that was all I needed.

Where’s the other one?

I ducked back into the hallway, eyeing the elevator. The floor light moved from 2 to 3, and it wasn’t stopping. There was my answer.

The options were shrinking fast as I ruled out the roof. The closest I’d ever gotten to jumping from one building to another was watching a Nike parkour commercial. With the alleyways on both sides of me measuring at least ten feet wide, this was no time for a crash course, emphasis on crash.

The only remaining option seemed to be standing my ground and letting the bullets fly. It was two against one—not the best odds—but probably my best chance.

Unless.

I made my way over to the middle of the hallway. There were only two apartments on the sixth floor, but there were three doors. As fast as you can say Monty Hall, I was opening door number three.

Like a moment straight out of
This Is Your Life
, I was flashing back to one of my earliest cases as a prosecutor with the Manhattan DA’s office. A sicko had killed his wife in their Upper East Side apartment and almost got away with it, thanks to the way he disposed of her body. He literally threw her away like yesterday’s trash.

Of course, he denied it, so one of the things I had to prove during the trial was that a 5-foot-7-inch woman weighing 145 pounds could indeed make it all the way down a garbage chute. I came up with the idea to film a crash test dummy with the same dimensions and show it to the jury. Worked like a charm.

But what about a 6-foot-1-inch man weighing 190 pounds?

I pulled open the chute with my free hand, looking into a black rectangle that might as well have been a black hole.

There was only one way to find out.

ZIP-ZIP.

I quickly put the SIG back in the duffel with the Glock. Tossing the bag ahead of me, I listened for the sound it made on impact. A hollow, echoing, bone-crushing
BANG!
would spell certain doom.

Instead, what came back to my ears was more of a muffled thud, and with it the decent chance that there was enough trash in the Dumpster below to break my fall. Call it only
possible
doom.

I jumped up, grabbing the exposed pipe running parallel to the wall, and swung my legs into the chute. Cirque du Soleil wouldn’t be calling me anytime soon, but it got the job done. I was in.

Gravity took over as I began to free-fall, as did the panic of not being able to slow myself down. My hands kept slipping against the metal lining of the chute, which felt like it had been coated with grease or whatever god-awful slime had built up after years and years of funneling garbage. If the fall didn’t kill me, maybe the stench would. But so far, the smart money was on the fall.

I was dropping too fast—my hands were useless. So were my feet, the soles of my sneakers sliding like ice skates.
Shit, this is going to hurt….

Plunging into the Dumpster, I felt my right knee buckle, followed by a sharp, stabbing pain in my left thigh. There was plenty of garbage to break my fall, all right, but none of my neighbors were throwing out their old pillows.

For a few seconds, I simply lay there sprawled like a frozen snow angel, catching my breath while taking a quick inventory of all my moving parts. Nothing seemed broken, but I could already feel the bruises forming. I wanted to scream out in pain. Instead, I settled for a slight moan. I had to stay quiet and listen.
Did they hear me?

With any luck, the two guys were back in my apartment searching for me top to bottom in every room. I’d now have plenty of time to slip out the basement door near the storage lockers.

So much for luck, though.

I heard the sound the second I turned to look for the duffel amid the other bags of garbage. It was the creaking of hinges, one of the doors to the chute somewhere high above me.
Damn.

There was nothing to see but darkness as I looked up into the chute. Still, I could picture one of them peering down, trying to tell if indeed I’d been crazy enough to jump.

I wanted to move out of the way, hug the side of the Dumpster, but even more than that, I wanted to stay absolutely, positively quiet. I didn’t move.

Ten seconds passed. Twenty. Everything around me … everything above me … was silent. I kept waiting for the sound of those hinges again, the door closing as one of them maybe convinced the other.
Nah, there’s no way he jumped. He’s not that crazy….

If only.

Finally, it came. The sound I wanted. Unfortunately, it was preceded by the sound I’d never imagined.

Crazy? We’ll show you crazy….

LIKE A missile, he shot into the Dumpster headfirst, his hands outstretched. Had I been standing a few inches to the left, he would’ve crushed me for sure. I suppose I should’ve felt lucky about that, but I was too busy falling back on my ass from the force of his impact to give it much thought.

Get up!
Those were the only two words I was telling myself. If I didn’t, I was a dead man.
Get up! Get up! Get up!

I pushed off whatever I could, trying to stand. He was doing the same, although I could tell he was feeling the pain of his landing. He was hobbled, favoring his right leg. But his right arm was working just fine as he dug his hand into his jacket. He wasn’t reaching for his business card.

Besides, we’d already met back at Bethesda Terrace. He’d been a split second away from killing me until Owen intervened. But Owen wasn’t here to tackle him. It was up to me.

I lunged for him. It was like trying to dive in one of those birthday bouncy houses, my feet all but giving out underneath me. The best I could do was wrap up his legs and send him toppling over, but his hand was still on his holster.

My guns were in my duffel somewhere. His gun was at his fingertips.

Blindly, I reached for the nearest trash bag, swinging it across my body into his as hard as I could. The gun went flying as he fell back into the pile of garbage, his head banging against the steel wall of the Dumpster with a horrific
crack!
He should’ve been knocked out cold.

Instead, he was just getting warmed up.

Screw the gun
, said his grin. He’d find it later after he beat me to death with his bare hands.

I didn’t even see the first punch, a lightning-fast roundhouse. He hit me high up on the jaw, a bull’s-eye to the molars. The only thing that kept me upright was the second punch, a roundhouse to the other side of my head. That one split my lip, the blood spraying everywhere like an exploding packet of ketchup.

His smile grew wider as I fell to my knees. I was practically teed up for him, about to be lights-out. We both knew it. The only thing delaying the inevitable was the one thing he wanted to know. He dangled the question as if it were my salvation, the only way he’d spare me.

“Where is he?” he asked. “Where’s the kid?”

I was dizzy, nauseous. My vision was quickly narrowing, blurred and fuzzy around the perimeter. That was why I didn’t see it at first, even though it was only a few feet to the left. My duffel.

The chain of the zipper was catching just enough light from the naked bulb overhead. The pull tab was on the near side, within arm’s reach.
How fast do I need to be? Can I distract him?

The answer came suddenly with the piercing hiss of hydraulic pistons as the trash began to rumble all around us. It wasn’t exactly divine intervention, but I wasn’t complaining. This wasn’t your ordinary Dumpster. It was also a compactor—clearly triggered by weight—and it was about to do its job.

For one second, he took his eyes off me. It was like a reflex hammer to the knee. He couldn’t help it. He had to see what the hell was happening … that yes, the wall was closing in behind him.

And that was all I needed. Just one quick second.

Zip.

MY HAND dove into the duffel, feeling for the first piece of metal I could find. I pulled out the Glock as he turned back around.

Surprise, buddy. The wall’s closing in from this side, too.

I squeezed off two rounds right to his chest, his body thrashing as if he’d just been jolted with electric paddles.

He wasn’t the only one shaking, though. I’d never shot anyone before. The feeling was otherworldly, and not in the good way.

Trying to hold it together, I stood over him. His eyes were closed, his body motionless. The only thing missing was the coffin.

Still, something wasn’t right.
There’s something else missing.

There should’ve been blood—lots and lots of it—staining his white shirt. The moment he opened his eyes was the moment I realized why there wasn’t any. He was wearing a vest.

The shots were still echoing in the Dumpster as the hydraulics of the compactor suddenly hissed to a stop. Another sound, someone’s voice, immediately filled the silence.

“Gordon!”

He now had a name. We both looked up at the chute. Gordon’s partner was calling down to him. He’d undoubtedly heard the gunfire.

With my Glock pointed at Gordon’s head, I raised a finger to my lips.
Don’t answer.
I needed a moment to think, not that I really had one.

“Gordon!”
came the voice again, even louder.

The only thing I knew for sure was that I didn’t want his partner coming down for a visit.

“Tell him you’ll be right up,” I said.

Just in case Gordon had thoughts of his own, I tightened my grip on the Glock. As nervous as I must have looked, I’d already pulled the trigger twice.

What Gordon wouldn’t have given to know where he’d dropped his gun.

He coughed, his face contorting with pain. The vest had stopped the shots, but the wind had been knocked clear out of him. He was struggling to catch his breath.

“All good,” he finally yelled. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

I didn’t look away, not for a second, as I leaned down to pick up the duffel with my free hand.

“You have a badge?” I asked, only to see him shake his head. “How about a wallet?”

“No.”

Strange thing was, I believed him. In his line of work you don’t really carry ID around with you. In any event, I wasn’t about to risk searching him.

“I should kill you,” I said.

“But you won’t.”

He was right. Shooting a man in self-defense was one thing. Shooting him in cold blood was something else entirely. Something I wasn’t.

“Who’s behind all this?” I asked. “Who wants the kid dead?”

He just stared at me. If he knew, he wasn’t telling. Where had I seen that before?

Would I really be bothered by the moral implications of an injection that could make him tell me what I wanted to know? Nothing is ever black and white.

Not even the truth.

“REAL SLOWLY,” I said, “I want you to pull up your right pant leg.”

If I was ever going to leave that Dumpster alive, I couldn’t risk his having a second gun. He pulled up his pant leg to show me there was no shin holster.

“Now your left one,” I said.

No shin holster there, either.

“Satisfied?” he asked.

“Not yet,” I said. “I want you to tie your shoelaces together.”