The Darkness - Jason Pinter [114]
cars had their windshield wipers on. Mine made a rapid
snick snick every thirty seconds, wiping the condensation
away in a perfect arc.
The streets uptown weren't particularly crowded for a
Saturday night, most of the Columbia University crew
were either in bed or already at the bar and beginning their
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long trek to drunkenness. Meanwhile I was in a car,
heading to meet my cop friend, hoping to finally put to
bed once and for all who had killed my brother. And who
was poisoning the city.
This neighborhood was familiar. I'd met a guy up here
named Clarence Willingham, the son of a small-time
dealer who'd been killed by the Fury twenty years ago.
Clarence was still trying to come to grips with his father's
murder and his family's history of drug abuse and dealing. It was only then that I learned the truth about how
close Clarence was to my own family. Secrets. Sometimes I wondered if more secrets were kept from us in the
light of day as opposed to the dark of night.
I idled on the corner of 110th, right where Columbus
Avenue turned into Morningside Drive. I'd just put the
car in Park when I was jolted by a rapping on the passenger side window. Whipping around, I saw Curt Sheffield's
face peering in at me, his eyes squinting as rain began to
fall harder around him.
He mouthed the words open up and I unlocked the door.
As he slid inside, Curt ran his hands through his hair,
spraying a layer of rain onto the seats. He was wearing
jeans and a brown coat, sneakers and a T-shirt. He looked
like a normal guy.
"If that's your undercover look, I gotta say it works."
Curt ignored me. "His name is Theodore Goggins."
"How'd you get that info?"
"He stopped into a Starbucks. I waited outside, but
saw him pay with a credit card. After he left, I waited
a minute and went inside and told them I found his
ATM card. And I needed his name in case I couldn't
catch up with him. He lives just down the block. Definitely not his building, because he had to buzz up. But
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the guy who lived there said 'come on up, Theo' as he
buzzed him in."
"He worked in finance," I said.
"How do you know?"
"All these guys do. Tens of thousands of young professionals out of work in this city, most of whom lived a
few miles beyond their means. Then they get laid off
when the economy goes in the crapper, and they're left
with huge mortgages and bills on toys and apartments.
That's where 718 comes in. They offer to pay these outof-work go-getters to go house to house. They make good
money. It's a win-win. They can still afford the lifestyle
they're accustomed to."
Curt sat back, put his hand on his forehead. He
looked troubled.
"That's why," he said.
"Why what?"
"The narcotics division. They haven't been able to
find out where this drug, Darkness, where it's coming
from or who's selling it. But they're looking in the wrong
place. They're so busy turning over logs and monitoring
alleys that they're not noticing the business assholes."
"Nobody looks at a guy in a suit and thinks he's guilty
of anything more than white-collar stuff. Fraud and laundering, but these guys are much dirtier."
"Ken Tsang," Curt said. "That's where we got a lead
on Morgan Isaacs. They worked at the same bank, both
got laid off on the same day and Ken's coworkers said
they were friendly. We cross-checked his phone records
and found half a dozen calls a day to the same 718 number I found on a dead man's cell phone. Ken was working
for these creeps. I'm willing to bet on it."
"And you found him with less bone density than the
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Pillsbury Doughboy," I said. "That probably doesn't bode
well when it comes to finding Morgan Isaacs in one piece."
Curt just sat there, rain dripping from his hair into his
lap as we watched cars zip down the street, the errant
noises of a night unaware of its own shadow. We could
see Theodore Goggin's awning from the car, and we kept
the windshield on fast enough where we wouldn't miss
any activity.
And so we waited. Sat in the car until the morning.