Читать книгу The Stray - Alessio Chiadini Beuri - Страница 6

Nocturne

Kenney was busy consulting with his partner, Mason could see him gesticulating nervously in the streetlight, his rain-soaked black curls drawing arabesques on his forehead. Behind them, a sergeant kept the team in line. The officers Mason had brought in ended up there too: two freshmen and two veterans with an easy right and wasted patience. It was the best he could get.

There were too many crimes in New York for Martelli to deprive himself of his best men.

The heavy rain drummed on the cars, on the thick fabric of the caps, on Kenney's restrained expletives.

Handicott, the partner, noticed Mason and nodded to him. A copious trickle slipped from the brim of his hat. Only then did Mason Stone get out of the car.

"Good evening, gentlemen." he ignored the puddles and the water.

"Stone." merely said Kenney. Given the joy it was clear that the reinforcements, consisting of Mason and his people, had not been asked for by him.

"Nice night for an outing," Handicott greeted him, giving him a comforting pat. Splashes rose from his jacket, which were immediately confused with rain.

"My favourite."

"Who did you bring us?"

"Santos, Koontz, Peterson and Cob."

"Santos? But that's great! As long as that one doesn't stop the discipline, he's a hoot!" Handicott was half polemic for its own sake and half sarcasm.

"See if you can rein him in, Stone. I don't want any messes tonight," Kenney cut Kenney short.

"How do we go about this?" asked Mason.

"We'll split into three teams: me and five of my guys go in the front; Kenney and five others go through the back while you and yours watch the perimeter," Handicott explained.

He had gone all that way to hold up the snot.

"Who's the stockman?" he asked. There was a little boy in a mackintosh and hat, strutting beside one of the patrol cars, his hands thrust deep into his pockets.

"Oh, that one? That's Clarkson, or Chalkson. He works at the Daily. There's an air of scoop about this investigation and you know how it is: the bosses don't want to miss a chance." replied Handicott.

"Does he come in with either team?"

"We've been clear on that: he can't get near it until it's all over."

"Do I have to vouch for him?"

"Just try not to shoot him."

Stone rolled up the lapels of his raincoat and went to the sergeant who, with an iron fist and a grim look, held the troops. He asked to confer with his officers: he wanted to calm the minds of the most violent and investigate the state of mind of the other two. For Peterson and Cob it was their first night-time operation. They were usually assigned to traffic and neighbourhood watch. The recruits were never given an area that was too dangerous, they were always given the less hot areas. Not that there were many in those years, not even that warm. There was Washington Square, Gramercy Park and Grand Central, oases of comfort in the midst of endless deserts of misery. Koontz and Santos, on the other hand, had been in Homicide with Mason for about two years, and they had done their homework. Perhaps too much: Santos had hardened himself to such a point that, with difficulty, he could be distinguished from one of those individuals he was hunting. They called him the 'hound', because of his boxer's grunt and his bull-like size. Koontz, on the other hand, was a cold-hearted tough guy who never stopped before the end, cunning and quick of thought, sharp and fleeting in his features.

"Shall we go, boss?" asked Santos, anxiously. "I'm freezing. I need to get some exercise."

"Not tonight, sorry."

"How?"

"We're here in support."

"Not operational?" intervened Koontz.

"That's right."

"Can't these half-breeds get by without calling us to watch that they don't get too dirty while they eat?"

"That's right, Santos."

"Orders, sir?" asked Peterson.

"The orders are to stay behind me. I don't want any cowboys. If you see anything that Detective Handicott or Kenney's team missed, report it to me. Nothing else."

"What a rip-off." complained Santos again.

"Yeah, starvation pay, no booze and now brothels under lockdown. Hard times," Mason commented sarcastically.

In Harlem Bridge, between Second Avenue and East 124th Street, in the vicinity of Cuvillier Park, Kenney and Handicott had been working for months on a luxury prostitution ring which, according to the investigation, included, among the many prestigious names of New York high society, also bigwigs from the worlds of finance and politics. A business that converged on the building which twenty Manhattan agents were observing that evening in a mixture of tension, euphoria and adrenalin.

On your marks!" said Kenney, reaching the back of the building with his men. At the same moment, Handicott's team also snuck under the first-floor windows. Synchronizing the break-in, ten officers and two detectives catapulted inside. The rain could not fully cover the din of smashing doors, surprised screams, and shuffling escapes. The front of the building lit up like a Christmas tree.

"A hell of an operation," commented Santos, standing next to him, disappointedly. Without replying, Mason continued to scan the rain-slicked darkness.

"When you can't work with your hands, you work with your mouth, Santos. That's your problem," Koontz replied.

"You want to know who I learned to work with my mouth from?"

"I don't think this is the time for..." tried to make Cob listen to him.

"No one asked you, it seems!" scolded Santos.

"Don't mind him: he hates getting wet. His uniform gets soaked and itchy," said Koontz.

"What's that over there, sir?" Peterson sought Stone's attention.

"You all seem a little nervous. Smoke a few cartons of cigarettes each before you come to work. Koontz is well stocked; he'll get them for you. Anyway, gentlemen, if you're cold, now's your chance." Mason pointed to the team two black shadows on the outline of the building come down clinging to the eaves. "Santos, you take Cob and Peterson and join the gentlemen who are fighting it out. Koontz and I will go around and cut them off."

The three set off at full speed, irons in hand. The first fugitive, having landed on the lawn, had climbed over the fence and disappeared from view. Peterson pounced on the second, making him lose his grip on the gutter, while Santos, who could have been in charge of the arrest, continued the hunt. Mason and Koontz, on the other hand, continued with their backs to the wall. Koontz, who had drawn his revolver, followed Mason, flattened against the wall. They both crouched under a window. The light was out: neither wanted to give an easy target to an agent with a sensitive trigger and an anxious hand.

"Shall we continue?" asked Koontz, improving his grip on the gun.

"One moment."

"The coast is clear," he insisted.

"The light's out."

"There's no one there."

"It's a raid, Koontz. Everything must be checked. It's the fundamentals."

"Maybe they haven't gotten in yet.

"That's the ground floor. You don't leave a floor until you've cleared it. That's a mistake that can cost you."

"That's not our job."

"My job is to get home tonight, preferably without a ball in my back. Check my left, I'll cover your right. Wait for my signal."

At the same moment that Mason was preparing to start the sweep a low squeak came to him from inside. He looked at Koontz and realised he hadn't imagined it. What is more suspicious than a sinister sound is the silence that follows it.

"Are you able to kick in the lock?"

"Sure."

"Perfect. You break through and I'll come in."

Koontz blew out the window with a shoulder strike and Mason jumped in, the iron flush. Thanks to the glow of the night behind him he could make out the outline of the bed, the ruffled sheets, the second-hand furniture filled with bottles of perfume and ampoules of ointments. If the mouse had not gone to hide under the bed, the room was safe. Before he could signal Koontz to follow him in, the bathroom door handle, ajar, returned his reflection. Certain that a puff of wind had not moved it, Mason approached in silence. He didn't have time to wonder why that room had escaped the search of Handicott and Kenney's men, for a groan came from it. Koontz peeped out. Mason warned him not to make a sound.

"Can you hear me? I'm Detective Stone, New York Police Department. If it's not too much trouble, I'd come in. I'm armed and this cold gives my fingers a little tremble."

There was no answer. Mason opened the cabinet door with the toe of his shoe and, despite the prevailing darkness, checked the corners. Less than a metre from him was a massive figure. It seemed to be holding a weight. Measuring the space by eye, he realised that, in a firefight, the situation could quickly escalate. He raised his revolver.

"How about putting down what you've got there?"

"You'd be much better off getting out, closing the door behind you and forgetting what you think you saw," the man said. Stone understood the consistency of the huge bundle, and how the man was trying to disguise his voice.

"Doing what's best has never been my strong suit," he said, flipping the switch he'd found by feeling the wall. As the brim of the hat shielded him from the glare, the annoyance was only of the other holding back, too frightened to struggle. The man's arm was around her neck, his hand pressed over her mouth, his lipstick smudged and his make-up smeared. Blinded, the man swung a left in Mason's direction but caught it with a glancing blow. With the momentum of that dodge Mason threw himself at him and a fist went into his stomach. The grip on the girl suddenly lost conviction.

"Stop! I am the mayor..." the man managed to shout before the policeman's right hand reached his face. At the same moment a flash of lightning snapped behind them and was followed by the sound of a small deflagration. Mason dropped the man who had taken to covering his face and grabbed the woman still in shock.

"What the hell did you do?" reaching him, Koontz, had brought company with him: the Daily's rookie, his target levelled.

The mayor, lying beside Stone's feet, blinked and gasped like a freshly caught tuna. Since Koontz had entered the scene, the pulled, violent expression had disappeared.

"You beat up the mayor!"

Regardless, Mason took care to cover the half-naked girl who was too scared even to say thank you. "Put handcuffs on this man," he said instead.

"Mr. Reimer, you're under arrest."

The first citizen's protests were to no avail: Koontz did not show him any special treatment.

"You saw that man attack me! I am the mayor!"

"Sure, sure, sir. He's going to file a complaint with the district. Now follow me, please."

"He'll pay for this! Tell me the name of that cop!" he ranted as Koontz escorted him toward one of the patrol cars. A small crowd had gathered outside the building and as the rookie captured what had happened, Reimer turned one last time to look at Mason Stone.

Only then did the detective see the angry man he had confronted again. In front of the crowd, the mayor ranted about the abuse of police power and the violence of some officers who, instead of serving and protecting, were a threat to the community they were supposed to be defending. He promised that such incidents would not happen again.

Mason listened patiently for two hours to Kenney's rant and Handicott's rebuke, which understood his reasons but did not justify the method. Neither was able to answer, however, for the failure to search the room. They both railed on the vague concepts of 'flawed procedures', 'oversight' and 'this is what we have'.

The girl did not press charges against Reimer. For the life she led and the prejudice of public opinion, Stone could not blame her.

The next day, no newspaper reported on the Cuvillier Park raid, the mayor's involvement or the fight against prostitution. The Daily opened with the beating of the mayor by an NYPD detective. There was no mention of the circumstances. There was an invective-laden editorial and four long pages of reporting by no fewer than five journalists who combed through Mason Stone's private life and described him as an angry, repressed man consumed by a violent hatred of white collar workers.

Even the failure of his marriage was traced to his frequent outbursts. The front-page photo, later reprinted and circulated by every newspaper in the city, showed him from behind, his arm still outstretched and his fist on the mayor's twisted jaw. The girl did not appear in the frame, hidden by his back.

It took the police chief four days, three more than he expected, to disbar him and kick him to the curb. The precinct needed to regain lost confidence, to send a signal, to calm down. A few heads had to roll.