Chasers (40 page)

19

It was a cloudless New York morning, the type of sun-drenched day that made the city streets glimmer and the skyline seem as if it were chiseled by magical hands. The Circle Line cruise boat slipped out of the dock, did a slow turn at the edge of the pier, and wound its way through the cold waves of the Hudson River, engine churning against the ever-present strong currents, up toward the serenity of the open waterway.

The summer crowd was sparse, free of children not yet clear of a daily school schedule and adults who had still not dipped into their valued vacation days. The passengers were a colorful mix of camera-toting tourists, retired couples, college students eager for a morning spent away from the confines of dorm life, and a cluster of middle-aged women—all leaving the demands of city living behind, at least for a few hours.

Boomer leaned on an iron railing on the top tier of the boat, staring out at the city to his left. Buttercup sat up next to him, her head tilted back against the cool river breeze, her gold shield resting on her chest, clipped to a thick chain around her neck. Ash stepped up next to both, handing Boomer a container of coffee, the lid still on firm. “Black, three sugars,” she said. “That should toss your heart into high gear.”

“If you’re going to bother drinking it,” he said as he reached for the coffee cup, “might as well drink it right.”

“Let me guess,” Ash said, looking down at Buttercup, a smile on her face. “She didn’t pay for her ride. Am I right?”

“You’d be surprised at how far in life that shield can take you,” he said. “Get you into places you never dreamed you’d get in.”

“From private clubs to smoke-filled back rooms, the shield is your key,” Dead-Eye said, stepping up beside them, Quincy right behind him. “Properly used, a shield can be a much more powerful tool for a cop than even a gun.”

“Give me a for instance,” Quincy said.

“There was this place on the West Side a few years back, had all sorts of shit going on behind closed doors,” Boomer said. “During the day it was an art gallery—anybody, from housewife to homeless, could go in free of search or charge. The minute it turned dark, it became a millionaire’s social club, and anything went once that happened. Drugs, S&M—you name it and they tried it. There were no boundaries in that place.”

“I tried getting in the undercover way,” Dead-Eye said. “I dressed myself up as sharp as any high-end dealer—leather pants, matching top and tie, fedora with a feather, the works. I wasn’t just the bomb. I was a ticking bomb.”

“How far did that getup take you?” Ash asked, not hiding her laugh.

“He didn’t even get through the front door,” Boomer said. “There was a guy big as a ’57 Chevy blocking the entrance. He towers like a skyscraper over Dead-Eye and asks to see his Gold American Express card, which, oddly enough, he did not possess.”

“More than that,” Dead-Eye said, “I didn’t even know what the fuck he was talking about. I’m standing there and I’m thinking, Shit, you mean American Express makes cards in different shades? Where was I when that memo hit the air?”

Their laughter echoed off the waves, the cruise liner doing a gentle bounce, easing through the water as it made its way up the Hudson. “So did you ever get in?” Quincy asked.

“I walked back to the unmarked and there’s Boomer sitting there fuming,” Dead-Eye said. “He’s not seeing me standing there dressed as Huggy Bear from
Starsky & Hutch.
He only sees a detective treated like a wet mop by some guy built like a semi with half a dozen priors on his sheet. Boomer jumps out of the car, storms right past me, and heads off like a runaway bull for that front door. And damn if he wasn’t inside in less time than it takes to boil an egg.”

“What did you tell the guy at the door?” Quincy asked.

“I get there and he slams a hand right on my chest,” Boomer said. “It felt like he crushed a lung. Looks down at me, smiles, and tells me that his club is a private club for members only. I looked right back, jammed my gold shield right between his eyes, and said to him, ‘So is this, asshole. And if I’m not inside in less than a minute I will drag your big ass downtown and put you inside a crowded holding pen. Now, you may have a good lawyer and he may make a call and get you out in five, maybe six hours, but by that time you would have been everybody’s woman.’”

“What did he do?” Ash asked.

“The only thing he could do,” Boomer said. “He stepped aside, swung the door open, and let me in to do some damage. As it turned out, he was the only player that night me and Dead-Eye
didn’t
bust.”

The cruise boat veered upriver, swinging slightly to the left, the sun doing a slow rise, warming their faces, its late-morning glare giving the water a glassy look. Quincy leaned his back on the rail and raised his face to the sky. Dead-Eye slowly unwrapped a piece of Bazooka bubble gum and slipped it into his mouth. “You still feeling any pain in your wounds?” he asked Quincy.

“Not really,” Quincy said. “They healed up pretty fast, which even caught the doctors off guard, considering my other problem.”

“How are you doing with that?” Boomer asked. “It getting any better, any worse, or still the same?”

“A little bit of all three,” Quincy said, staring out at the soapy-looking waves. “I never know which myself until I open my eyes and start the day. If you had called yesterday and asked me to make this trip, I wouldn’t have had the strength to pick up the phone. Today, I feel strong enough to go for an afternoon run. Tomorrow is anybody’s guess.”

“Was that doctor I reached out to any help to you?” Boomer asked.

“He knows as much about the disease as most of the white coats, which isn’t all that much. But the one thing he doesn’t do is bullshit me, and that I really appreciate,” Quincy said. “He never feels the need to put a happy face on the truth. That means a lot. So has every minute I’ve spent with this group, including Rev. Jim.”

“Put the thanks in your pocket,” Boomer said. “I didn’t put you on this team because I felt sorry for you. I chose you and I chose Ash for one reason only. You’re both great cops, and without either one of you it wouldn’t have gone down anywhere close to the way it did.”

“You and Dead-Eye did more than that, and you’re probably not even aware of it,” Ash said, struggling with her emotions and choosing her words with care. “You showed us we could go on. That our lives didn’t have to just wither away and end with scars and injuries or a sickness. That we could still have an impact. I don’t know where I’ll go from here, but wherever it is and whatever it is, I’ll be able to handle anything that comes my way.”

“Where would you like it to go?” Dead-Eye asked. “You had your pick of the lot, either one of you, what would it be? I know you both hinted at it a few times in the past, but now would be a good time to hear it said out loud.”

Ash and Quincy exchanged a look and then both turned toward Boomer and Dead-Eye, Buttercup sound asleep at their feet. “Before you take it there,” Boomer said, “okay if I ask if your boat trip was worth it, even if it’s not a sailboat?”

“It was better than any dream I ever had,” Ash said, smiling, back in control of her feelings again.

“You could have a lot more days like this one, you know,” Boomer said. “It doesn’t need to be a onetime thing. Look around and take in what you don’t see as much as what you do see. No dealers, no shooters, no bangers, just a hot sun on a warm day. I’m just pointing out what maybe should have been pointed out to me and Dead-Eye way too many years ago.”

“I need to
feel
alive, Boomer, for as long as I’ll still
be
alive,” Quincy said. “And you’re right, it is beautiful out here and in many other places neither one of us has ever seen. But the only time I’ve ever felt alive, truly alive, has been these last few weeks working and banging heads with this group. And I don’t want to lose that, at least not until I have to.”

“You’re not going to lose anybody—toss the worry on that right now,” Dead-Eye said. “If that’s what it is that you want—that whatever it is we do next, we do it together—then that has my vote, too.”

“Does that go for you as well?” Boomer asked Ash. “We keep the team in place and go into the next step as one?”

“I didn’t have a family for the longest time,” Ash said. “I got so used to being alone, I didn’t even think twice about it. But I found a family again, standing right here, right now. And I’ll do what it takes and what it needs not to lose it.”

“I’m guessing one of you ran this past Buttercup’s desk,” Dead-Eye said, winning a laugh from the others.

“Well, our team’s still in place,” Quincy said. “Now all we need is to find us a job.”

“We got a job,” Boomer said. “One that’s going to pay us a boatload of money, assuming we do it right.”

“We signed off on it before we came aboard,” Dead-Eye said. “And we signed you two on along with us—Buttercup, too. So we’re more than thrilled to hear you express how you’re so Boy Scout eager to keep working together. Because if you had said otherwise, me and Boomer would have been big-time screwed.”

“But you swore off going gun-to-gun back on those streets,” Quincy said. “At least that’s what I thought I heard.”

“You heard right,” Boomer said. “We’re not hunting bangers or shooters and not drug dealers, nothing like that.”

“What, then?” Ash asked.

“You remember all that art was lifted out of Jonas Talbot’s brownstone?” Boomer asked.

“How could we forget?” Quincy said. “Just one of those paintings was worth more than what each of us can probably hope to earn in a lifetime.”

“Those are them,” Dead-Eye said. “And Natalie and her crew moved them fast as she could, and as many as she could, out into the black market. Now, anybody brings those paintings back and returns them to their proper owner, be they an individual or a museum, they’re in store for a pretty hefty reward.”

“That’s our job?” Ash asked. “Finding stolen art?”

“That’s exactly our job,” Boomer said. “And we’re working legit this time. We’re being funded by the NYPD Art Squad. They want all the paintings back, but they lack the manpower to go after them. That’s where we step into the frame.”

“They could be anywhere in the world by now,” Ash said.

“You mean like Europe, the Far East, Latin America?” Dead-Eye asked. “All those places we could never afford to go on our own?”

“I won’t always be able to travel with you,” Quincy said.

“We took that into consideration,” Dead-Eye said. “We still have our main base, and when you can’t get yourself on a plane, then you work out of there. Otherwise, you’re on the road with us. Square with you?”

“Very,” Quincy said.

“What about Buttercup?” Ash asked.

“What about her?” Dead-Eye said.

“She can’t just hop on a plane with us and waltz into any country,” Ash said. “There are quarantine laws we need to look into.”

“Let’s worry about the art, educate ourselves on that,” Boomer said. “I wouldn’t waste much time on any quarantine problems.”

“She’ll get in when she wants, where she wants,” Dead-Eye said. “She’s a cop. She’s an Apache.”

“And so are we,” Boomer said. “So just go ahead and try to stop us.”

The sun was burning-hot now, the day warming, the cruise liner easing past the Statue of Liberty and making its way back to port. To their left, the city of New York gleamed like polished silver. The Apaches stood in a line, taking in the full view.

“Try and stop any one of us,” Boomer said.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

L
ORENZO
C
ARCATERRA
is the author of
Paradise City, Street Boys, Gangster, A Safe Place,
and the
New York Times
bestsellers
Sleepers
and
Apaches.
He has written scripts for movies and television, and has worked as a writer and producer for
Law & Order.
Learn more about his work at
www.LorenzoCarcaterra.com
.

BY LORENZO CARCATERRA

A SAFE PLACE
The True Story of a Father, a Son, a Murder

SLEEPERS

APACHES

GANGSTER

STREET BOYS

PARADISE CITY

CHASERS

Chasers
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2007 by Lorenzo Carcaterra

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

B
ALLANTINE
and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Carcaterra, Lorenzo.
Chasers: a novel / Lorenzo Carcaterra

p. cm.

1. Ex-police officers—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. 2. Drug traffic—Fiction. 3. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3553.A653C48 2007

813'.54—dc22                                                                                                                                                2007000579

www.ballantinebooks.com

eISBN: 978-0-345-48599-1

v3.0