The Getaway (Sam Archer 2) (11 page)

Archer thought for a moment.

‘Any proof?’ he asked.

‘The method of execution
. This crew, they only ever use
sawn-off shotguns. It’s their signature, their calling-card, their bread and butter. Shotguns are a nightmare for ballistics fingerprinting. The buckshot scatters everywhere when you pull the trigger, so it’s impossible to get a sample and match it to a particular weapon. Our only hope would be if they racked the pump and left a shell behind, but they haven’t had to fire the weapons on a job yet. There’s a saying in the Bureau that
every bullet is another piece of evidence to convict you
. But whoever killed Jimmy didn’t reload. The empty cartridge stayed in the weapon. And he took it, point-blank, when his back was turned. Farrell did eight years for killing a guy the exact same way. Shotgun, point-blank, back of the head. Tell me there isn’t a pattern and a correlation there.’

Archer thought hard, picturing t
he scenario. He shook his head.

‘I kn
ow my d
ad. Or, knew him,’ he corrected. ‘He wouldn’t turn his back on Farrell or anyone on his team. Especially if he had something that could close this case and bring him in. And why would he meet with him if he had the evidence?’

‘Maybe he got the drop on him,’ Gerrard answered. ‘Maybe Jimmy was meeting someone else and Farrell ambushed him.’

‘That’s a lot of maybes.’

Gerrard pointed at the file. ‘That’s a lot of motive.’

Archer didn’t
respond.

He glanced down at the guy’s photograph
again, memorising his features.

The hard, tough
jaw-line
.

The pudgy, flat nose.

Sean Farrell.

He pictured him with a sawn-off shotgun in his hands. Stalking up behind his father or ambushing him, ordering his hands in the air and for him to turn. The barrel of the shotgun nestling into t
he back of James Archer’s head.

And Farrell pulling the trigger.

He felt his mood darken.

‘OK. Suppose it’s the way you say it is. I’m out of my jurisdiction Gerry. I’m
UK
police, not NYPD. I can’t go after these people.’

‘I’m not asking you to.’ Gerrard looked at him for a long moment. ‘But I am
asking you for something else.’

‘What?’

‘My team and I have conducted raids,’ Gerrard said. ‘Made arrests. Brought each one of these assholes in for questioning. They know exactly what each and every agent in my team looks like. They even know our names.’

He paused.

‘But they don’t know you.’

Archer picked up where this was going straight away. He leaned back
in his seat and shook his head.

‘No way. Absolutely no way. It won’t work,’ he said. ‘They’re planning to pull the
Madison
Square
Garden
job a week from today. That’s seven days from now. I’m good but I’m not that good, Gerry. I’ll never get near them.’

Gerr
y leaned forward, pressing him.

‘I’m not asking you to. But you’ll be in
Astoria
anyway, clearing out your Dad’s place. All I’m asking for is another set of eyes on them in their neighbourhood. There’s a pub called McCann’s, on
Ditmars Boulevard
. They are in there basically every night. Get inside and grab a beer. If you make contact, try to strike
up a conversation with Farrell. Get him to trust you. They’re getting
their money out and cleaning it
, and we have no idea how they’re doing it
. It’s untraceable and it’s been baffling me for months. I need to find out how they
manage it
, or at least get something that could give me a goddamned break in this case. I’m out of sol
utions, kid. I need your help.’

He paused.

‘We’ve made armed arrests. Unlike them, we don’t wear disguises. They know what every member of my team looks like, and they’ll be expecting NYPD attention. They’d
sniff out an undercover cop or F
ed a mile off. But they’ll never guess who you are. Your accent, your cover story. You don’t even look like Jimmy, so they won’t realise the two of you are related. It all checks out.’

Archer looked back out the window, shaking his head. Gerrard pressed forward.

‘I need you, Sam. They’re killing me and my team. You’re going to be around for the next week or so anyway. Please help me out. That’s all I’m asking.’ He tapped the folder. ‘I swear to you that someone in this group knows who killed your father. One of them probably did it. Surely that’s enough?’

Silence followed.

Archer eventually looked across at h
im, eye-to-eye, his face hard.

‘Listen. If I find out one of these people pulled the trigger on my dad, I can’t make promises to you that I can’t keep,’ he said quietly. ‘I need you to know that before I get involved.’

Gerrard nodded. ‘That’s OK. I’ll handle the case file if that happens. I’ll take responsibility for it. It won’t be an issue.’

Archer looked at him across the table, then out
of
the window. Gerrard stayed quiet, hopeful, waiting to see if his approach had worked. In the silence light jazz music filled the air. Duke Ellington, or Miles Davis, all
saxophone and drums and melody.

Looking out into the street
, Archer’s mind weighed up his options, like a set of scales, Farrell and his team on one side, Gerry and his father on the other. As he mulled over the facts, his gaze suddenly fell on a father and son, han
d-in-hand, crossing the street.

He looked closer and realised they were the same two he’d seen on the N train on the way here. He watched as they headed across the street and into a café opposite the Starbucks called
Andrew’s
. He watched the man open the door and let his son in first, and the two of them disappeared out of sight.

He turned back to Gerrard. ‘My dad’s apartment. Do you have the phone number?’

‘Of course.’

‘Call me at 7 pm. I’ll give you an answer then.’

Before Gerrard could reply, Archer ro
se, not waiting for a response.

Tossing his empty cup in the trash, he strode out of the coffee shop.

SIX

The Marriott Marquis Hotel Cobb had booked Archer into was located on the west side of
Times Square
on Broadway between 45
th
and
46
th
Street
. It was only ten blocks uptown from the Starbucks, a ten minute walk, but Archer walked straight past the luxurious doors, moving on through the bright and busy
Times Square
, threading his way through the sea of people. Everywhere you looked there were tourists, vendors, tour operators or someone trying to sell you something, and Archer made his way through as fast as he could, past all the
commotion, past all the noise.

He needed to think.

Eleven years. Eleven years since he and his father had last said a word to each other. Aside from a birthday card in the mail most years, that was it. After one too many arguments with his wife inside their family home, Jim Archer had packed his bags in a fit of fury one night and left when his son was sixteen. Watching him walk out of the front door all those years ago back in London, standing in the hallway as he watched him go, his son figured that he’d see him again in a couple of weeks, or in a month or two. It was one of those spats that would just need a little dose of time to heal. His parents were both strong-minded and strong-willed people. They’d resolve it soon enough, once tempers had cooled. He’d never have realised it at the time, but that was the last time he’d ever see him alive. Jim Archer had gone straight to Heathrow that night, booked himself onto the next flight to
New York
, and had never returned.

Archer walked on, past
Times Square
, past
50
th
Street
, headed up Broadway. It was slightly quieter and less frenzied here, but he moved on, headed for
Central Park
on 59
th
.

In one way, that whole time and phase of his life seemed like a different lifetime ago. So much had happened since then. He’d joined the police two years later, done his training, spent five years at Hammersmith and Fulham before being reassigned to the Arme
d Response Unit. He had grown
into a man, his own person, independent and strong. But then again
, in another way, it seemed as if
it had all happened yesterday. The wounds
remained
raw. He still felt betrayed and angry that his father had never even picked up the phone and called once in the eleven years since. His parents had fallen out, but severing speaking terms with each other didn’t mean they
could do the same to the kids.

In the years since, Archer had often thought about
re-establishing contact with his father
. But he never had. He’d always waited, promising himself he’d do it tomorrow. And now that he was gone, there were suddenly a million things he wanted to tell him that he could
now
never say. He shook his head and walked on up the street, his hands in the pockets of his suit, past 54
th
an
d up Broadway towards the Park.

This whole situation was troubling. He’d known Gerry for as long as he could remember. They hadn’t seen each other since Archer was a teenager, but time didn’t matter with a guy like Gerry. If you were friends with him, you were friends for life. He was as reliable as anyone he’d ever met, and an old acquaintance to boot. If he was convinced that Farrell or someone in his crew had killed his father, then he was probably right. The young cop glanced up at the sky as he walked. He’d lost his mother a couple of years ago, but they’d all known that was coming. She’d passed in her sleep, not in any pain, and Archer was at peace with that. Goodbyes had been exchanged. They’d been prepared, and everything that n
eeded to be said had been said.

But this wasn’t gentle or peaceful. Someone had got the jump on his father and executed him. Whoever did it didn’t even have the courage to look him in the eye as he pulled the trigger. Not the way a person should leave this world. And whoever did it was out there right now, walking around, figuring they’d g
o
t away with it, moving on with their lives and forgetting about the one they just ended.

He shook hi
s head again, his anger rising.

He arrived on 59
th
, the entrance to
Central Park
across the street. Twenty four blocks, just like that. The Park looked stunning in the afternoon light,
green and verdant and healthy.

Looking left and right, he saw there were scores of people up here, tourists and wealthy residents, tour operators and people in athletic gear headed into the Par
k for a workout. Archer was stan
d
ing
at a crossing beside a group of other pedestrians, waiting for the lights to change. Once the orange hand on the crossing lights flashed to the white man leaning forward, he walked over the white lines on the tarmac, and continued onto a footpath that led into
Central Park
.

From the exterior, the place had looked special, but it was even more beautiful inside. The grass and trees were full and healthy and a vibrant green, golden sunlight
streaming through the branches and
leaving dark shadows on the ground. People of all shapes and sizes were wandering along the dusty winding paths, some licking ice-creams, others snapping photographs of family and friends, others like Archer just here for a quiet stroll and a chance to
get some private thinking done.

As he walked on, a stream of joggers and partners on bicycles passed him on the road, moving down designated lanes, the occasional bell on a bike ringing to prevent a collision with someone crossing the road up ahead. There were people scattered here and there on patches of grass, lying back on towels or rugs, soaking up the rays, working on their tans. The occasional horse-drawn carriage trotted past, a couple or family sat in the back, enjoying the novelty of being pulled along by a horse whilst snapping photographs as they passed the gorgeous scenery around them. I
t was an amazing place, surreal
for those who visited and an escape for those who lived here, a welcome respite from the frantic pace of the city streets. One moment, everywhere you looked was concrete, taxi-cabs and glass windows, and the next you were surrounded by nature and wildlife, green leaves and brown trees, birds and earth.

Alongside the bike path, Archer sat on a bench facing the
Upper West Side
, alone, and loosened his tie further, taking in
a deep breath of the clean air.