Molly Brown (20 page)

He closed his eyes briefly to shut him out and suddenly he was there on the bridge, snow on the ground, a gun in his ha
nd unable to pull the trigger, indecision coursing through him as Joe implored him with eyes brimming with tears. He felt his skin prickle with heat, swallowed to ease his suddenly constricted throat and knew that despite his attempt at self-control, Pearce had seen it.

He cleared his throat and
bought himself an extra few seconds to steady his voice. “We’re not here to talk about me, Luther. You said you had something important to tell me. If that was a lie, a game on your part, then you’ve wasted my time and we’re done.”

“A game?” Pe
arce pulled himself up straight as best he could with his wrists manacled to the seat. “This isn’t a game, Dee-tec-tive Connell. This is very serious indeed. But if you insist on the analogy, then I should warn you that you’re in grave danger of losing what little advantage you have.”

“I’m no longer a detective, Mr
. Pearce,” Connell replied, adopting the same drawl.

“Sure, no badge, but you still got the nose, the instin
ct. Just can’t help yourself, isn’t that right, Tommy?”

C
onnell eased back in his seat, a poor attempt at nonchalance when all he really wanted was to reach across, take Pearce by the throat and squeeze the madness out of him. He flicked a glance at the camera up high in the corner of the room. When he returned his gaze, Pearce smiled slyly.

“Go on
, give it a try. Sometimes you just have to go with your gut, don’t you?”

Connell ignored him, r
eined back his revulsion and attempted to regain control of the conversation. “You shared a cell with two felons who are now deceased. Can you tell me anything that might help in identifying those responsible for their deaths?”

“I can tell you about one of them.”

Connell cocked his head and gave a resigned shrug. He hadn’t expected this to be easy. His five minutes was rapidly disappearing.

“And are you going to?”

“That depends on you, Tommy. You choose. In box A is Musgrave the corrupt cop who endangered your family. You wanted him to pay for what he did, didn’t you, Tommy? Let’s be honest, deep inside, you wanted him dead. Wouldn’t you like to know who stole the job you would have sold your soul for, who settled the score so you wouldn’t have to? Maybe you don’t. Maybe it’s better not to know the identity of the other you, the one who believes in right, regardless of the consequences.  Perhaps you’d prefer box B. Brown, the fall guy whose family remains in danger despite what you might have been told. There’s still a wrong waiting to be put right on that one, still a chance to purge the guilt, Tommy. You choose - A or B? You can’t have both.”

The idea that Pearce knew anything, or that any of what had recently occurred was linked to him
, was obviously ridiculous, the product of a mind with nothing better to do than weave fanciful connections from snippets gleaned from news reports and eavesdropping. The guy was a fraud. Even so, Connell was hooked like a fish on the end of a taut line.

“What do you know?” hissed Connell. “Who are you?”

“I’m a good listener. That’s who I am. I listen when men whisper in the darkness, when they ask for forgiveness in their prayers and when they throw back their heads and crow about their exploits, their unholy deeds.” Pearce inclined his head, encouraging Connell to lean further. “I know everything about you, Tommy, even the things you’d rather not remember yourself, things you tell yourself you’ve forgotten. And I know everything you want to know about Musgrave and Brown.  I’m what some might call a collector of knowledge, a sponge to the world’s ills, an oracle, if you please. I could be your friend, Tommy, a very valuable friend.”

Connell stared at him and
felt horror and fascination curdle inside and bubble its way to the surface till he could taste it like bile on his tongue. He was inexplicably drawn, tempted almost beyond reason. He craved to know what Musgrave had divulged in the dead of night when he knew his life had been ruined by Connell and he faced an uncertain future in jail. The silence between them lengthened until all Connell could hear was his own rapid breathing. He needed to know what Pearce knew, and crucially, what he wanted in exchange.

“What do you want?” As soon as the words were out, he regretted them. He watched Pearce’s mouth slide into a slow smile and knew that he’d given an unforgivable amount of ground in a battle which he sensed had only begun.

“A very good question, Tommy, but you need to answer mine first. Do you choose box A and catch a killer before he catches you or box B and save a child? I hate to hurry you, Tommy, but the clock is ticking.”

Connell shot a glance at the clock on the wall. The pointers were silently skimming the face. In his head they were ticking louder than a drum. Pearce was still smirking, blinking lazily as if he had all the time in the world. Connell clenched his fists on the table top until the knuckles shone white. Behind he heard the buzzer sounding the end of his allotted time and the code being punched into the door.

“Fuck you,” he muttered.

“A or B?”

The guards appeared, bustling through the doorway. Anxious to get on, to get Pearce tucked up in his cell so they could turn in.

“You all done here?” asked the guard who had shown Connell in.

Connell glared at Pearce, maintaining eye contact despite the mockery. Pearce was unlocked from the seat and for a moment he stood at liberty, unrestrained, unshackled. He smiled, shoved his hands in his pockets casually as if he were about to take a stroll, and cocked his head.

“Last chance, Dee-tec-tive.”

The guards caught at his arms, pulled roughly at his wrists and he gave a final shrug before turning away as if it didn’t matter who lived or died. And in that split second Connell realized just how much it mattered to him.

“B,” he shouted.

Pearce whipped his head back around with a snarl. The guards, unprepared for such a transformation, were slung aside with such force they were unable to prevent Pearce as he lunged at Connell, grasping him by the throat. Flung backwards with the weight of his attacker, Connell fought to pull free. The guards scrambled to restore order and in the confusion Connell felt Pearce’s breath hot against his ear, his spittle wet against his skin.

“Good choice, Tommy,” he growled. “You’ve upped your game. 8/10.”

Pearce was yanked back and slammed against the wall as restraints were forced around his wrists. Connell lay momentarily stunned by the speed of his attack.

“Wait,” he yelled at the guards as he struggled to his feet and they wrestled Pearce from the room. “What were you
going to tell me?”

“You made your choice, Tommy. It’s up to you now.”

“No! That can’t be all there is. You told me you knew. What do you know?”

Pearce turned and smiled. “Next time, Tommy. Gotta run.”

Connell picked up his things and headed to the car, frustrated to hell and massively spooked by his meeting with Pearce. He flung himself into the driver’s seat. He didn’t care that it was late. Gerry had some explaining to do. He switched on the overhead light and pulled out his phone. Along with it came a scrap of paper that hadn’t been there before. On it was the name of a club downtown, a club he knew very well indeed, and the name of a man he knew equally well, Frankie Vasin. Luther Pearce had delivered, even if it had been by unorthodox means and way too late.

Luther thought he knew something Connell didn’t. He was wrong. He knew nothing that wasn’t already common knowledge. He was a conman, a fraud and Connell had just about had enough of being jerked about.

He checked his watch. T
he night was still young by club standards and there was something to be said for striking while the iron was hot.

Chapter Twenty

He hadn’t planned on calling Marty. He figured he’d stretched that friendship to the limit, and when all was said and done, he wasn’t in a very convivial mood. He didn’t want to run the risk of offloading onto his best buddy the crap that, by rights, should be piled in Gerry’s lap. But when Marty called to say he had news, Connell decided one beer between friends couldn’t hurt.

“Is this wise?” asked Mar
ty when they met on the street outside the club where Frankie was suspected of doing all the stuff not noted on his corporate resume’.

Connell shrugged. “Probably not, but what the heck, Marty, I just need to straighten a few things out.”

“I thought Frankie was supposed to be under surveillance. How come the place isn’t crawling with operatives?”

“How do you know it isn’t?” Connell cast an eye at the vehicles parked up in the street alo
ngside his. They were all empty - no guys slumped in their seats with telescopic lenses trained on the club. “Maybe they’re already inside propping up the bar.”

Marty grinned. “That sounds about right, and just what we’re planning, so I don’t reckon we can complain about it.”

Connell raised a brow at the sullen doorman, and the guy stepped aside and let them through without any trouble. He looked half-asleep or half-canned, as if he’d drawn the short straw and had been working a few shifts back-to-back. Back in the day, you needed a personal recommendation or a hefty bribe to get in the door. Now, it seemed exclusivity had fallen by the wayside. There was no crowd at the entrance to push their way through either, which was unusual. It had always been a jumpin’ place, but maybe the notoriety of being linked to organized crime had put off the regulars, the law abiding preferring something less dangerous and the low-lifes somewhere less obvious. Connell paused just inside and scanned the interior. If the clientele numbers were anything to go by, the place had to be losing money. The music still pumped out and the booze was still flowing, but there was an unhealthy ambience simmering. Men nursing drinks, women gyrating round poles, a seediness that may well have been present all along but Connell didn’t recall it quite like that. Sure, he still had nightmares at what had gone on here - lives lost, mistakes made. There had been violence and corruption but it had been delivered beneath a veneer of exclusivity. Now it reeked of a twisted underbelly gone bad. Connell exhaled slowly. There would likely be trouble before the night was out.

“You okay?” asked Marty.

“I’m fine,” muttered Connell. He wasn’t. He could feel anxiety thrumming gently and sought to dispel it. “You want my opinion?” he continued as he hailed the bartender, “surveillance is a joke - two guys, tops, who are probably in Frankie’s pocket anyway.” He shouted his drinks order above the din of the music, relieved he didn’t recognize the young guy behind the bar. He didn’t want a conversation on why he hadn’t been around since the club had changed hands. He had a long and checkered history at the club that he’d rather not rekindle.

“Are you sure you’re okay, buddy? You look a little wired.”

“Sure, Marty. Quit worrying. I’m just tired.” He passed a bottle to Marty and took a swig from his own. He wasn’t in the mood. The sooner he caught up with Frankie, the better.

“So why aren’t you home in bed?”

Connell smiled wearily. That was exactly where he wanted to be, preferably with Lizzie. “That’s where I’m headed. Just got to tie up a few loose ends first.”

“I thought you went
by Frankie’s house this morning.”

“He wasn’t home. I bumped into Gibbons instead.” Connell took another mouthful of beer. It was warm. He scowled his annoyance at the bartender’s back.

“Yeah, I heard what happened.”

“From who?”

“Who’d you think? Gerry called me. He wanted the lowdown on what I’d seen outside Frankie’s. He seemed mighty interested in the girl - what she did, how she looked, did she say anything? did they do anything?  That kind of stuff. I don’t know where he figured I was lurking when all this activity was meant to be going on. The girl couldn’t string two words together, not in English anyway.”

“Really? He couldn’t give a shit about the girl when I spoke to him. I wanted to go check out the house. You know, s
niff about while it was empty, see if I couldn’t catch Frankie with his pants down. But no, I was told in no uncertain terms to get my hide out of there.”

“And did you?”

“In a roundabout way.”

“He was probably trying to keep you out of trouble.”

“Oh sure. Covering up some secret agent shit, more like it.”

Marty leaned back against the bar and studied Connell. “He’s worried about you, Tommy. We both are.”

“There’s no need Marty, I’m fine, or at least I will be when Gerry quits jerking my chain. He’s been playing games again. This whole situation with Frankie is a pile of shit, a multi-agency operation according to Gerry, which basically translates to a pissing match between departments. They’re likely running a book on who gets him first. The city could be littered with bodies but as long as the right department makes the arrest, who gives a fuck?”

“He told me you went to see Luther Pearce.”

“Yeah and that was a waste of time. The guy’s a conman, some crazy fuck who thought he’d try and rattle my cage.”

“And did he?”

Connell replaced his beer on the counter top and took his time replying. Oh sure he’d been rattled, though he wasn’t entirely clear why. “I guess, just a little. He knew some stuff that he could have picked up from anywhere, probably did, but there was something about him that was, I don’t know, just plain weird.”

“There’s been a lot of weird stuff going on lately, Tommy. Did he say anything about Brown?”

“Kind of, in a cryptic, weirdo way. He said Molly was still in danger, that Frankie was the guy, and he even named this club, like I didn’t already know.” He pulled out the crumpled piece of paper that Pearce had shoved in his pocket.

“What else did he say?” Marty watched as he smoothed it out on the counter top.

“Nothing.”

“Tommy, don’t lie to me. He said something
, otherwise you wouldn’t be spooked.”

Connell shrugged, took a moment to consider his response and decided if he couldn’t confide in Marty he was in deeper shit than he thought. “Okay,” he sighed, “he intimated that he knew who had killed Musgrave. Kind of suggested tha
t the guy had done me a favor, that I should be grateful, or maybe even pissed that he got there before me.”

“And are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Pissed
that you didn’t get to finish Musgrave yourself.”

“I guess so.”

“Sometimes it takes someone else to put into words what you feel inside. Hey, the guy almost cost you Lizzie and Joe’s lives. You took a bullet because of him, so no one is going to be shocked to hear that you would have happily pushed him under a train. It doesn’t make you a bad person, Tommy, just human.”

“You reckon?”

Marty reached out and landed a heavy punch on his shoulder. “I’d give you a hug, buddy, but hey, in this place it might be misconstrued.”

Connell smiled. “Marty, if I ever feel the need for a bro-mance
, you are definitely the guy. I’m feeling the love.”

Marty shook his head “Now I’m worried. So, getting back on track, did he
give you the name of the guy, the serial killer, the guy who’s been righting wrongs on behalf of the city’s good and honorable?”

Connell’s lip twisted into a sour smile. “He was going to.”

“And?”

“He offered me a choice. I chose Molly.”

“That was the right choice.”

“It was the only choice, Marty.”

“So, you did right. Stop beating yourself up about it.”

“Yeah, but what’s the deal with this guy? Why is he so interested in what I do, what I think? And why did Gerry send
me down there? I mean the guy didn’t give me anything I didn’t already know.”

“I guess Gerry is just trying to close a case. He must have thought it worthwhile.”

Connell replaced his empty bottle on the counter and pushed himself away from the bar. “There’s nobody wants to close this case more than me, so I suppose it’s time I rattled one more cage. You coming?”

“Where to?”

“To see if Frankie still keeps an office upstairs.”

Connell made his way to the stairwell, leaving Marty to finish up his beer and follow. There was no one to prevent their access to the private rooms, which Connell considered odd and a little careless, considering the business Frankie was in. It was almost as if the circus had upped and left town and all that was left was a field full of litter and the bearded lady.

“Hey, buddy wait up,” Marty muttered as he lumbered up the stairs after Connell. “You know I’m not built for athletic pursuits. You left this on the bar.” He held out the scrap of paper. “Who is Katarina Dubrovnik?”

“
Katarina who?”

“Dubrovnik. What did Pearce say about her?”

“Luther? I don’t follow you.” Connell paused at the office door. There was no noise to indicate that the room was occupied, just the steady bass from the club below. He withdrew his gun and Marty took a quick step back.

“Whoa, are you sure you want to be doing that?”

“Quit worrying, everything’s cool. I’m only going to point it. So, you were saying, about this Dubrovnik chick?”

“Her name is w
ritten on the back of the paper Pearce gave you.”

Connell turned the handle and eased the door open. He turned back for an instant
, glancing at the name written in Pearce’s hand on the scrap of paper. He couldn’t believe that he’d missed it, although he had no idea who she was or what it meant.

He pushed the door open
, and on a count of three swung around it, arms outstretched, gun held rigid in both hands. As he jammed on the brakes with a muttered curse, Marty slammed into the back of him and the gun almost jumped from his hand.

“Jeez, Tommy, you scared the hell ou
t of me. What’s wrong?”

“Fuck,” Connell exhaled slowly. “I think Frankie just shit in his own bed.”

The office was in chaos, filing cabinets overturned, papers strewn across the desk, the safe open and empty. At the center of the room, tied to a chair and slumped forward over his bindings, was Lydia’s punk of a boyfriend, Terry. On the floor at his feet was the girl who had dropped out of Frankie’s truck.

“Katarina Dubrovnik, I presume,” said Connell as he crouched at her side and felt for a pulse.

“Is she still alive?”

“Barely. Get the emergency services down here. I don’t care if this place is supposed to be under surveillance, somebody messed up big time.”

“What about the kid?” asked Marty as he pulled out his cell phone and punched out 911.

Connell reached across and lifted Terry’s head by his fringe. A neat hole was positioned just above his right ear. There was no exit hole.

“What are you thinking?”

Connell shrugged. “Terry sold out to Gerry’s buddies and Frankie found out? Terry got caught with his hands in the till? Who knows? But it’s definitely down to Frankie.”

“And the girl?”

Connell gently smoothed her hair from her face. She was older than he’d first thought, a young woman rather than an adolescent. Her hair was badly dyed. She had an open wound at her temple, maybe where she
’d hit the desk on the way down or more likely delivered by the butt of a gun.

“I’ve no idea why she’s even here. Maybe Gerry o
r Luther Pearce can explain it.” He held out a hand. “Where’s Luther’s note?”

The girl roused. A stream of incoherent rambling whispered from her lips.

“What’s she saying?”

Connell scanned the scrap of paper again. “Fucked if I know
. Some European shit. But at a guess I’d say it was something along the lines of ‘officer down’.”

“What?”

“Check the paper, Marty. UCO Katarina Dubrovnik. I think Luther was trying to tell us that Frankie was under surveillance alright. Katarina here is an undercover operative.”

“Nah …
”

“Yes.  W
hy couldn’t Gerry just trust me for once in his life?”

“Maybe he didn’t know. You
said it was a multi-agency operation.”

“Yeah, well she saw what happened, and if we can keep her alive till the paramedics get here, Gerry has the witness he’s been looking for.”

*
  *  *

“So, I guess that’s it, honey.” Connell collapsed back onto his bed and held the cell phone to his ear. He was way past tired. After waiting for the emergency services, and almost coming to blows with Gerry, he’d finally made it back to his apartment. It was almost 2am. He had been going to wait to ring Lizzie, but figured she’d want to know that Frankie was all but in the bag and that Molly was safe. Plus, he craved the sound of her voice and knew that he would sleep better for hearing it. There was so much going around in his head, he needed sleep more than anything.