Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [40]
It took less than thirty seconds for Pins to pick the lock and enter the apartment.
He moved down a long corridor, a large living room and two bedrooms to his left, a bathroom facing straight ahead. There was little in the way of furniture. A scrawny black cat hissed at him from behind a radiator pipe.
At the end of the corridor Pins turned right and walked into the master bedroom. The walls were painted dark blue, photographers’ flashlights stood in each corner, and a Sony twenty-five-inch color TV rested on the bureau. In the middle: a king-size four-poster.
Pins tossed his case on the bed, zipped it open, and started to work. He laid a bug inside the thin pole of one of the lights, running it from the bottom up, past the wires and into the main fuse connector.
He grabbed a Minicam out of the briefcase and walked to the back of the television, planning to rest it alongside the main tube.
It was then he heard the footsteps coming down the hall.
They were heavy, a man’s step rather than a woman’s, wooden slats creaking with each imprint. Pins rested the back of the TV on the floor and moved toward the bed, looking for the radio that would link him with backup.
He had his back to the door.
A young man, thin brown hair disheveled, vacant look in his eyes, stood at the edge of the bedroom entrance. His entire body shook with anger.
“I knew I’d find you here,” he said.
Pins turned around, radio in his hand, and faced the man.
“You live here?” Pins asked.
“I’m Sheila’s husband,” the man said. “And you’re standing in my bedroom.”
“I don’t know anybody named Sheila,” Pins said, pressing down on the black transmitter button.
“You should know her,” the man said. “You’ve been fucking her for almost a year now.”
“There’s a mistake here,” Pins said, his voice steady. He stayed focused on the man’s eyes, looking to talk his way out of this strange situation.
“I love her,” the man said. “Can you understand that, you bastard? I love her.”
“Listen to me,” Pins said quietly. “I’m a cop. I’m gonna take out my shield and show you. Okay?”
The man lifted his right arm and pointed it straight at Pins. There was a .22 caliber clutched in his hand.
“You’re not gonna show me anything,” the man said, clicking back the trigger. “And you’re not gonna see Sheila ever again.”
“You don’t know what you’re doin’.” Pins was surprised at how level his voice was. He wasn’t even yelling. “I’m not the guy. I’m a cop.”
One look at the man and Pins knew he had moved beyond reason to reside in madness.
In a lifetime constructed around caution, Jimmy Ryan had made a mistake. He had misread the scrawled handwriting on the wire sheet. He had walked through the wrong door, 6F instead of 6E, and there he stood, inches from a jealous husband’s rage, accused of having an affair with a woman he had never met.
The first bullet hit Pins in the right shoulder. The second shattered bone above the right elbow. The final two hit him in the chest and sent him to the ground, pain rushing through his body like a river.
The young man hovered over him, two more shells left in the chamber.
“You’ll never see her again,” he said to Jimmy Ryan.
“It’s sure startin’ to look that way,” Pins said.
He heard the undercovers before he saw them, guns drawn, ready to fire. He looked up at the young man and watched him drop the gun back down to his side. He saw two undercovers rush over, yank the man’s arms back, cuff him, and pull him away. Through it all, the man kept his eyes on Pins, a small smirk etched across his face.
A third undercover, Gennaro, ran over, leaned down, and lifted Pins’s head, holding it in the crook of his right arm.
“We got an ambulance comin’,” Gennaro