Silver Justice

Chapter 23

The bar was technically open at ten a.m., but there were no customers yet. When the front door swung wide, the harsh rays of the late morning sun shot through the gloom, bringing with it the shadow of a huge man in worn jeans and a leather jacket. He looked around and spotted his objective — a bald man sipping a cognac in one of the red-upholstered booths.

The sound of his heavy motorcycle boots on the polished concrete floor echoed through the lounge as he approached the drinker, who motioned to him to sit.

“What would you like, my friend? Anything. Say the word.” The bald man’s Slavic accent was thick, but understandable.

“What’s that you’re drinking?” the tall American grunted.

“Hennessy. I like a little eye-opener with my coffee. I highly recommend it.”

“Fine. But skip the coffee part.”

The bald man snapped his fingers and pointed to his miniature snifter, and within twenty seconds another glass appeared alongside it before the bartender scuttled away to the farthest corner in the room.

The two men toasted, and the new arrival downed the drink in a single gulp, then exhaled noisily with a burp.

“What happened? I have some very pissed-off people who want the woman dead, and these are not people you want angry.”

“It was a regrettable oversight. The contractor was careless. You probably read in the papers that he paid the ultimate price for his sloppiness.”

“I saw that. But that doesn’t get our fifty grand back, does it?”

“Do you want your money back? Or do you want us to take care of the woman? I’m still prepared to do this job if that’s your wish. Of course, now that we know she is an FBI agent who has advance warning of danger, it won’t be as simple a matter.”

“I don’t want the money back. I want her snuffed, preferably yesterday. Same deal, only this time you don’t screw it up.”

“I think if you want a better caliber of contractor, you should consider paying a little more.”

The big man’s eyes narrowed to slits. “How much more?”

“I think another ten grand would get you the best in the business.”

“I thought I was already paying for the best.”

“Do you want this done right, or do you want best efforts? Ten grand will eliminate any uncertainty.”

“You’re a crook.” The big man smiled an evil grin, revealing a mouthful of haphazard dental work.

“That I am. But I’m your crook.”

The bald man raised his glass and beckoned to the bartender, who brought the bottle.

By the time it was half gone, enough information had been recorded to put the biker in prison for twenty lifetimes.

~ ~ ~

Silver took a cab to the headquarters’ garage and pulled her car out of the stall, the ugly memories of the shooting lingering as she made her way to the exit. The attendant waved her on, and she pulled out and gunned the engine, intent on making it to Brooklyn without any delays.

A part of her questioned her conviction, debating silently with the other part of her that was sure she’d tumbled across the solution to the case.

She pulled onto the Brooklyn Bridge and watched the New York skyline disappear in her rearview mirror as she headed towards Howard Jarvis’ current address. The familiar bulk of her Glock rubbed against her hip — her thigh-length jacket was cut to conceal it when she was standing. She’d put a second fully-loaded magazine in her pocket, prepared for anything.

Silver didn’t have a plan. Her strategy was to meet with the suspect, see if it was indeed the man who had been shadowing her at home, and if it was…what? Beat a confession out of him? Threaten to blow his head off? Arrest him without having built a case that would hold any sort of water?

She had to admit that part of her approach wasn’t fully formed, but it felt good to be out, taking action, doing something, instead of waiting for the phone to ring while alternating between rage and despair. At the very least, she could get a feel for where the man lived and possibly interview some of the neighbors. Maybe this was all a red herring, in which case she’d wasted part of her busy day following up on an interview. But if she suspected that it was something else…she’d have to play it by ear.

The neighborhoods deteriorated as she made it closer to her destination. Even with the improvement in Manhattan’s outlying areas, some had resisted changes for the better, and this section of Brooklyn appeared to be one of them. Groups of menacing youths cold-stared her as she crept along the streets, following the dash-mounted GPS’ map to Howard’s new address. Graffiti covered most of the lamp posts and street-level walls: gang tags proclaiming turf with vividly-colored flourishes.

She turned the corner onto his street and estimated that it was two blocks up on the right. Unlike the city’s, these sidewalks were largely empty, the residents locked away in their homes behind barred windows, or at work. The only pedestrians were sketchy-looking junkies and the obvious gang members engaged in supplying them with their substance of choice. Even the cars seemed beaten down and tired, mostly older economy vehicles, with the odd German luxury brand, no doubt the conveyances of the dealers.

Silver pulled to the curb in front of Howard’s tiny home, two stories that spoke of decades of neglect and hard times. She shouldered her purse and touched her pistol reassuringly before exiting the vehicle. Taking the stairs to the front door with care, she noted that the drapes were drawn behind the iron-barred, ground-floor windows, making it impossible for her to see inside the house. As she reached for the doorbell, she automatically scanned the surroundings but didn’t see any signs of life.

The buzzer screeched inside as she jabbed the button. She waited patiently but didn’t hear anything from inside. Trying again, she shifted her weight and strained to detect any evidence of the occupant being home. She knocked loudly, and when she got no response, she peered around the porch to the small backyard. Brown patches of ignored grass struggled to survive between the tall concrete perimeter walls.

Silver descended the stairs and moved to the side gate, fabricated out of the same iron bars that protected the windows, and found it open. That surprised her, but not so much that she was unwilling to continue. She peered cautiously up at the neighboring homes, wary of watchers. The buildings extended further back on their lots, so she wouldn’t be visible to them if she was careful.

At the back door, she halfheartedly tried the knob, but it was locked. She shielded her eyes from the light and peered through the dirty glass, trying to make out what was inside, but only saw a kitchen counter with a few water bottles on it, and a backpack.

Her impulse was to try to pick the lock and execute an unauthorized entry, but she reminded herself that she was one of the good guys, and the good guys didn’t break and enter.

Frustrated, she tried the door again, but it didn’t budge.

She looked around and spotted a garbage can. Silver again scanned the surrounding homes and calculated that she could reach it without being spotted. It was worth a peek — she was already there, so the hard work was done.

She opened the lid and looked inside — not a lot of trash — mainly empty bottles, the usual wrappers, and a pizza box. Silver was preparing to lower the lid back into place when she noticed several fingerprint smudges on the outside of the box — grease, or tomato paste.

Small smudges. Like a child’s.

The blood drained from her face.

Maybe Howard had a grandchild, or a nephew or niece? She struggled to remember, but thought it had been just the wife and the daughter. With a trembling hand, she withdrew her phone and took several photographs of the garbage can sitting outside the house, and then a few close-ups of the box in the trash. The time/date stamp would confirm that it pertained to this visit.

Now she needed to retrieve the box without contaminating it. A part of her brain was thinking about evidence chains, due process, and reasonable cause, but another part was shrieking that her baby might be inside, only a few feet from where she was standing. The internal struggle lasted until she picked up a branch and cautiously lifted the box out, holding one side with a tissue she’d fished from her jacket pocket, her breath catching in her throat for fear of dislodging it.

A light breeze tugged at a corner of the empty carton and she watched in helpless horror as it tumbled out of her grasp and landed on the dying lawn, flipping open in the process. She moved to retrieve it but a gust blew it another few feet away from her, shaking three pieces of pepperoni loose from the bottom and sending them tumbling onto the grass.

Silver stooped over to retrieve the container and then froze. She slowly drew her Glock and turned to the back door.

Inside, the slices of congealed meat had fallen away, revealing four unmistakable letters scratched into the cardboard.

The wind pushed the box, now forgotten, towards the far wall, where it stuck in the hedge, propped open by the breeze, the message visible from a few feet away.

Silver thumbed her phone and dialed headquarters, but it still went directly to Sam’s voicemail. She stabbed another number, but Art’s line was busy. At least she had tried, she reasoned. Then her instinct to save her daughter’s life preempted any others, and she kicked in the rear door, the lock shattering on the second blow.

Across the meager backyard, the sun glinted against the glistening tomato sauce that had been used to increase the legibility of the four letters scratched into the carton bottom. They were unmistakable, etched in a child’s shaky script.

HELP