The Garden of Betrayal - Lee Vance [113]
“Gunpowder residue.” He wiped the gun down with his sleeve. “It’s standard procedure to check.”
“This is crazy,” I objected incredulously. “This is never going to fly. You were in the parking lot when Smith grabbed my gun. People will have seen you there at the same time that they heard the shots.”
“Haven’t got much choice, have we? You already said it—you fucked up.”
The look he gave me was withering.
“I’m sorry.…”
“I told you to be careful. What were you doing that close to him?”
“Asking about Kyle …” I trailed off, shamefaced.
“No help for it now,” he said, sounding a little less harsh. “And don’t worry about witnesses. Old police maxim: The worse the scene, the less reliable the witnesses. Given the slaughter we got down there, the witnesses won’t be worth a damn. Hell, half of them are going to swear that I killed those men. Big black guys are exactly what most people imagine when they get scared shitless. Even other big black guys. Whatever Joe and I say will stick.”
“All of which puts you on the hook for killing Smith instead of me. I can’t let you do that.”
He laughed grimly.
“You’re a smart guy, but you don’t understand anything about police politics. We got me, three dead bad guys, and a decorated cop with a bullet in his leg.”
“Ex-cop.”
“Even better. A respected former officer who was wounded trying to help his old partner close the unsolved case that haunted him in his retirement. Press will eat that shit up. Every blue suit from the top down—including Deputy Chief Ellison—is going to line up behind us and help paper over any cracks. Hell, I might even get a medal.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond.
“You going to put that fire out?” I asked, pointing at the smoldering coverlet with my chin.
“Nah. More confusion the better.”
The nearest siren abruptly fell silent, and I heard car doors slamming.
“RMP’s here,” Joe announced. “Couple of uniforms sizing things up. We’re out of time.”
“Go,” Reggie said. “You left when Mohler left. Find somewhere to scrub your hands, and make sure you ditch that shirt.”
I looked down at Smith again. His eyes were open and glazed. I felt sick for having killed him, and equally sick that he wasn’t going to be able to tell me what I needed to know.
“Go,” Reggie repeated, giving me a shove toward the bathroom door. “Don’t worry about it. Joe and I will take care of everything.”
• • •
Reggie had wanted confusion, and he got what he wanted. Vectoring south and west through the gritty residential streets behind the motel as I tried to figure out where I could hail a cab, I saw pretty much every type of emergency vehicle in the city of New York pass me by. Police cars, fire engines, ambulances, Emergency Service trucks—even a lost-looking Con Ed van with a flashing yellow light. Maybe Reggie had pulled a fuse for good measure. I kept my face tucked into the collar of my coat, not wanting to attract attention, but none of the vehicles so much as slowed as they raced toward the motel.
I eventually caught a cab about ten blocks away, beneath the overpass for the Grand Central Parkway. The driver negotiated a series of confusing ramps and had us on the Triborough Bridge three minutes later, headed into Manhattan. I called Claire at the Meridien and explained the bare bones of what had happened, speaking low so the driver wouldn’t hear me through the plastic partition.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yes and no. I’m not hurt, but I’m feeling awfully shaky.”
“What about Joe?”
“He seemed okay. I took off before I got much of a look at him.”
She was silent for a long moment, and I felt I had a good sense of what she must be thinking.
“I screwed up, Claire. I know that. But Mohler’s not likely to get far, and we have Smith’s body, and the bodies of two of his men. The police will be able to identify them. It shouldn’t be too hard to figure out who they were working for.”
“We have to put a stop to this,” she said, sounding on the ragged edge of control. “You could have been killed. Joe or Reggie could have been killed.”
“I know,” I said, trying to contain my own distress.