The Fury - Jason Pinter [111]
know how he'd ended up here, but he had one hell of a
hunch.
"Malloy," the driver said to the man.
"Detective," Malloy said back.
Malloy led the driver up to the warehouse's entrance.
He went up to a small control panel that appeared rusted
and bent. He inserted a small key into the side of the
panel. A tinny whirring noise emanated from the box,
and the panel receded, revealing a keypad and an elec
tronic monitor.
Malloy pressed both of his thumbs on the pad. A
green light flickered on. Malloy then entered a ten-digit
code on the pad. When that was complete, he opened
the door and ushered the driver inside.
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Inside the warehouse was a corridor that led to two
doors. The driver had seen this part of the warehouse
many times, but had never entered the door to his left.
He knew what went on behind it, but had not witnessed
it with his own eyes. Better he didn't. Better it stayed
in his mind as long as possible.
Malloy led the driver to the door on the right side.
He opened it, led the driver up a flight of stairs. At the
top floor, Malloy inserted a key card into a slot on a
metal door. The driver could hear a mechanism unlock,
and the door swung open.
The driver entered. He turned back to watch the door
close. Malloy stood on the other side. He would wait
for the driver. He always did.
The driver turned back around. He was in a room
about twenty feet long, fifteen feet wide, with high
ceilings. Track lighting adorned the ceiling, casting
white beams that harshly illuminated the room.
At the far end of the room was a small desk. It was
uncluttered, save for a reading lamp, a desk blotter and
assorted pens and pencils. Behind the desk was a
woman of about forty-five. She was of Latin descent,
dark skin and green eyes, silky black hair that flowed
down to the small of her back. She wore a sleeveless
black top. Each arm was muscular, solid, lithe. Though
the woman's face was beginning to show lines of age,
her body tone and the quickness of her gestures were
those of a woman half her age.
She watched him approach with a serenity on her
face, no sense of strife or impatience. He had only met
her twice before, but each time felt unnerved, like there
was something roiling beneath that calm exterior, some
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thing that if unleashed could tear him apart. Because of
that he never got closer than a few feet. Though they'd
met twice, he'd heard stories. The kind of stories that,
even if embellished (which over time they surely were),
must have had a ring of truth somewhere. He was taking
enough risks as it was. He wanted no part of anything
else, any part of the minimum ten men who were cur
rently in the ground because of her.
The woman looked up as the driver approached. She
stood up and said, "Detective Makhoulian. It's been
far, far too long. Please, sit down." She gestured for him
to sit at the table. There was a smile on her face that
made him feel queasy.
He nodded, approached and took a seat, making sure
to subtly push the chair back so it was not within reach.
He said, "With all due respect, I prefer it that way. If
I'm here it means there's a problem."
"Well, that really depends," the woman said. "If I
know all I need to know, then there is no problem. The
boys. Callahan and Evans, they're both dead, correct?"
"That's right."
"Then this murder of Stephen Gaines ends with
them. I'm led to believe there are no further investiga
tions into the deaths of any of those three men."
"As of right now, no. The department officially
declared Evans's death a clean shoot. He had a gun, and
there are numerous witnesses who concur that he killed
Callahan in cold blood. The newspapers are playing it
as a heroic cop putting himself in harm's way. The
families would be stupid to press charges. Their
children have already dragged their names through the
mud, and any protesting on their part would only
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deepen the wounds. My guess is the families will mourn
quietly and be out of the city within