City of Endless Night

22

Eddy Lopez double-parked the squad car on Fourteenth Street, reported their arrival to the dispatcher, then got out with his partner, Jared Hammer. The two homicide detectives took a moment to check their surroundings. The place, 355 West Fourteenth Street, was an unremarkable five-story brick apartment building next to a funeral home. It was one of those neighborhoods that had suddenly gotten expensive with the rise of the Meatpacking District, but was still dotted here and there with crappy old buildings and rent-controlled apartments filled with sad-sack tenants.

As Lopez contemplated the façade, a cold wind scraped an old piece of newspaper along the street in front of them. The sun had already set, and not even a trace of afterglow stained the western sky. He shivered.

“Getting colder by the minute,” said Hammer.

“Let’s get this over with.” Lopez patted the pocket of his suit jacket, checking for his shield, his weapon, and his cuffs. Then he glanced at his watch and said, out loud: “Arrival five forty-six PM.”

“Copy.”

Lopez knew that D’Agosta was a stickler for paperwork and got pissed off when times were rounded off and details left out. He wanted their report on his desk by seven thirty — less than two hours from now. When Lopez worked backward from seven thirty to the present moment, and figured out what it would take, timewise, to get that report on D’Agosta’s desk, he figured it left them about twenty minutes for the interview. Barely enough to get someone talking.

Maybe the guy, Lasher, wouldn’t be home. At five forty-six on December 23, two days before Christmas, he might be out shopping. He hoped that was the case, because it meant he could get home on time for once, and maybe even do a little Christmas shopping himself.

He went over to the intercom. The apartments were labeled and, sure enough, the one next to 5B said LASHER.

He pressed the buzzer and they waited.

“Who is it?” came a faint voice.

So he was home. Too bad. “Mr. Terence Lasher?”

“Yes?”

“Detectives Lopez and Hammer of the New York City Police Department. We’d like to come up and ask you a few questions.”

Without a response, the door buzzed open. Lopez looked at Hammer and shrugged. This was unusual: normally, there would be a whole bunch of questions after they identified themselves.

They started up the dingy staircase. “Why is it always the top floor of a walk-up?” wheezed Hammer. “Why can’t they ever live in the basement?”

Lopez didn’t say anything. Hammer was overweight and didn’t work out, while Lopez was lean and fit and got up at five thirty every other morning to hit the gym. While he liked Hammer — the guy was easygoing — he was a little sorry to have drawn him as a partner, because the guy slowed him down. And he always wanted to stop for doughnuts. As a cop, Lopez wouldn’t be caught dead in a doughnut shop.

They trudged up the stairs. There were two apartments per floor, one in the front and one in the back. Apartment 5B was in the rear of the building. They arrived on the landing, and Lopez gave Hammer a few minutes to recover his breath.

“Ready?” Lopez asked.

“Yeah.”

Lopez knocked on the door. “Mr. Lasher? Police.”

Silence.

Lopez gave it a harder rap. “Mr. Lasher, may we come in? It’s the police. We just have a few questions, no big deal.”

“Police,” came the whispery voice from behind the door. “Why?”

“We just want to ask you a few questions about your former position with Sharps and Gund.”

No reply.

“If you wouldn’t mind opening up,” Lopez continued, “this won’t take long at all. Totally routine—”

Lopez heard the faint, metallic click of a break-action shotgun being closed and he screamed “Gun!” and hit the floor just before a massive blast tore a hole in the door. But Hammer was not so fast and took the charge squarely in the gut, the force of it punching him backward into the opposite wall, where he slumped down.

Scrambling to his partner, Lopez heard a second blast, hitting the wall above him. He grabbed Hammer under the arms and dragged him to safety out of the line of fire, around the corner to the landing, while at the same time unholstering his radio.

“Officer down!” he screamed. “Shots fired, officer down!”

“Oh fuck,” said Hammer, gasping, holding his hands over the wound.

The blood was just pouring out from between the man’s fingers. Lopez, crouching over his supine partner, pulled out his Glock and aimed it at the door. He almost pulled the trigger but stopped himself; firing blindly through a closed door into an unknown apartment was a violation of departmental rules of engagement. But if the motherfucker opened the door or fired again, he would take him down.

Nothing more happened; there was silence on the other side of the two dark ragged holes in the door.

Already he could hear sirens.

“Oh Jesus,” groaned Hammer, gripping his abdomen, crimson blossoming across his white shirt.

“Hang in there, partner,” Lopez said, pressing down on the wound. “Just hang in there. Help is coming.”