The Darkness hp-5 Read online

  “Henry, this is dangerous,” Jack said. “You could get in trouble for that.”

  “I don’t care,” I said. “This isn’t about a story anymore.

  It’s about stopping whatever the hell is happening to this city.”

  “Leonard Reeves,” Jack said. “Who the hell is he?”

  “Let’s find out. His name is on this order. He has to live and work in the city. And I’ll bet he has some connection to 718 Enterprises. And maybe to my brother.”

  “So, what, you think we can just dial four-one-one and the operator will connect us?” Jack said.

  “No, but guy like this has to be connected. He has to have access to a large amount of money, or at least people who can get it. I want to use my LexisNexis account, see what we can find.”

  “Great, let’s go to the office.”

  “No way,” I said. “Like you said, trust no one. We’re doing this from my apartment.”

  “Your apartment? Won’t your lady friend mind?”

  “Her name is Amanda,” I said, slightly annoyed.

  “You’ve met her. You know that.”

  Jack nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry. You guys doing well?”

  “Just fine,” I said.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  I laughed. “Come on, Jack. We both know it wasn’t too long ago you told me to dump her in so many words. And

  I stupidly listened to you, and it almost ruined my life to do it. I trust your relationship advice as much as I trust your recommendations on aftershave.”

  “You do what you want,” Jack said. “I’m in no position to judge anyone. I do seem to remember you standing over me in a puddle of my own puke.”

  “Glad you remember that,” I said. “Not exactly either of our finer moments.”

  “Not something I’ll want brought up in my eulogy.

  Come on, let’s see what we can find out.”

  “You’ll behave yourself?” I said.

  “What do you think I am?” Jack said, finishing the last of his coffee and dropping a few singles on the table. He wiped at his shirt where a few drops of black liquid had stained it. “Uncouth?”

  42

  I turned the key in the lock. Amanda was staying at my place tonight. Odds were she was asleep and I didn’t want to wake her.

  But when I turned the knob and opened the door,

  Amanda was sitting on the couch, a beer in her hand, staring at the door like she’d been patiently waiting for a toaster to go off.

  The room smelled like flowers, and I could tell she’d been burning one of her scented candles. A copy of a Nora

  Roberts book lay dog-eared on the table, and a spoon covered in chocolate lay next to it.

  She wasn’t one of those girls who did that kind of thing often. She didn’t eat ice cream when she was depressed, didn’t have a weakness for chick flicks or romance novels. At least not for the same reasons as most people.

  Amanda only did those things when she was nervous, when taking her mind far away from the real world. When reality was too frightening a place to be in.

  When she saw me, Amanda slowly stood up, came over and threw her arms around me. I felt a cold splash of beer drip down my back, but I didn’t care. I closed my eyes and hugged her back.

  “I’m going to have to install a GPS device on you,” she said. I laughed. Then she pulled her head from the crook of my neck and kissed me hard. I pressed my lips against her, held her tight.

  I felt her hand travel down my lower back until she was cupping my butt. It felt great, and for a moment I totally forgot that I hadn’t come home alone.

  Then Amanda saw him and shrieked.

  “Mr. O’Donnell?” Amanda said, her arms still around me, but her hand jerking away like she’d touched a hot stove.

  “Sorry to intrude, Ms. Davies,” he said. “Your boyfriend and I have been through a lot today, and we unfortunately have to take up a little more of your time.”

  “Henry?” she said. “What’s going on?”

  “We found something at the scene,” I said. “A document that we hope will connect the guy who killed Hollinsworth to 718 Enterprises. We just need to find out who he is.”

  “And then what?” she said. “You’re going to call the cops?”

  I looked at Jack. He shrugged, as if to say this is all yours.

  I turned back to Amanda. Her arms had slipped from my shoulders. I took her hand, held it, but she was reluctant to hold on.

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “Somebody knew we were meeting Hollinsworth. I don’t know how they found out, but until we know who did it we’re going to play this pretty close to the vest.”

  She nodded, understanding it though it was clear she wasn’t happy about it.

  Then she looked at Jack, said, “How are you? Feeling better?”

  Jack smiled. “I am. Thank you for asking.”

  “So get on with it,” Amanda said. “If you don’t mind,

  I stopped reading in the middle of a really good sex scene.

  Have you ever heard the term ‘purple-headed warrior’?”

  “Uh, no,” I said, “but whatever floats your boat.”

  “I think the warrior in this book does float,” she said, “at least according to the narrator. His ‘mast’ sounds big enough to sail down the Amazon. Anyway, good luck, guys.”

  Amanda went back to the sofa, lay down, kicked her feet up and dove back into the book.

  “She’s a pistol,” Jack said.

  “Sure is. Here, we can sit at the table.”

  Jack took a seat at our meager dining room table as I hooked up my laptop. Once I powered it on, I accessed

  LexisNexis and did a search for Leonard Reeves.

  Half a dozen hits came up. I opened the first one.

  It was from The Daily Princetonian, the student newspaper at Princeton University. We searched through the highlighted article and finally came across the name

  Leonard Reeves. The passage read:

  The Princeton economics department, spearheaded by

  Professor Sheila DeWitt, has seen its fair number of notable professionals in the fields of finance and economics.

  The article was accompanied by a photo of a middleaged black woman who must have been Professor DeWitt.

  She was standing at the front of a small classroom. Two students were visible in the front row. One was a girl, early twenties, with a ponytail and wearing a skirt and blouse.

  The man was dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt, his hair short, and he wore glasses. The caption read: Rachel Vine ’93 and Leonard Reeves ’94 are capti- vated by the renowned professor.

  “Is that him?” Jack said.

  “I don’t know. Let’s see the next article.”

  I pulled up the next search result. It was from Crain’s business daily. The article was from 1998, and the headline was: Economic Boom Sees Rise in Dot Com Investors.

  We found Leonard Reeves’s name halfway through the piece. It read:

  Flush with cash, many young men and women who have prospered during unparalleled growth are putting their money into what many consider to be risky investments-namely Web sites and Internet domains. Leonard Reeves, a graduate of the Princeton economics department and executive at Morgan

  Stanley, admits to finding thrill in such a venture.

  “You don’t get into this industry to watch from the sidelines,” said Reeves. “The people who take the biggest risks reap the biggest rewards.”

  Reeves, who already owns three apartments in

  New York City, says he plans to take his earnings from Internet ventures and invest even further in the housing market.

  “Man, that can’t have worked out too well for him,”

  Jack said.

  “Holy crap,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Look, there.” I pointed to the next article. The headline said it all.

  The piece was from 200
1, and was published in the Wall Street Journal. It read: Reeves Named as Liaison to

  New York City Department of Finance.

  The article was also accompanied by a photograph. It was definitely the same guy from the Princetonian article.

  “He worked for the government?” Jack said. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  I sat there, stunned. How was that possible? Could this have been the same guy?

  The other articles were not dated any later than 2004, and all were references to Reeves’s job with the DoF. There were no other hits for the name, nothing else came up.

  “It has to be him,” I said. “But I don’t get it. If this is the same Reeves as on the order made out to Morgan

  Isaacs, what the hell is someone who worked for the government and who worked for one of the biggest brokerage firms in the world doing associated with 718 Enterprises?

  I mean, these people are drug dealers, plain and simple, and the crap they’re producing is killing people. How did someone like Reeves get connected to that?”

  Jack sat there, thinking. Not listening to me, but lost in his own thoughts. Then I heard Amanda’s voice from the couch.

  “What if Reeves didn’t just use to work for the government?” she said. “I mean, what if he still does?”

  “That’s crazy,” I said. “Obviously Reeves fell on hard times somehow and ended up selling his soul for a pile of black rocks.”

  “Not necessarily,” Jack said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Have you ever heard of the name Gary Webb?”

  “It rings a bell, but I’m not sure why.”

  “Okay, well, have you heard of the Dark Alliance?”

  “That’s a little more familiar,” I replied. “Something about Nicaragua, right?”

  “Something like that,” Jack said. “In the eighties, Gary

  Webb was a reporter for the San Jose Mercury News. ”

  “Now it rings a bell,” I said.

  “What does he have to do with this?” Amanda said.

  “In nineteen ninety-six, Webb published a three-part series of articles in the Mercury News called ‘Dark Alliance.’ See, in the eighties, President Reagan was embroiled in the Iran-Contra affair where it was determined that the

  U.S. government had supplied a group of Nicaraguan

  Contras with financial aid through the sale of weapons to

  Iran, in part thanks to our buddy Oliver North. Our government was supporting the Contras as part of the Reagan doctrine, which supported organizations that opposed communistic and socialistic regimes. The Nicaraguan government in the eighties, let’s just say, fit the bill.

  “Webb claimed in his articles,” Jack continued, “that not only did we supply the Contras with funds through the sale of weapons, but through the sale of drugs as well.”

  “That’s ridiculous. We weren’t selling drugs,” Amanda said.

  “ We weren’t,” Jack said. “But the Contras were reaping millions of dollars through the sale of drugs within the

  United States. Crack cocaine spread like wildfire through urban areas in the eighties, and much of the money from those sales went directly into funding the Contras. Webb claimed that members of the NSC, or National Security

  Council, were aware that money from drug sales in the

  U.S. was being funneled to the Contras. Webb found out that not only was our government aware of this, but members of the NSC purposefully withheld that information from the Drug Enforcement Agency. They felt that by curtailing drug sales and cracking down on shipments, we would effectively stem the flow of money to the

  Contras and in turn hurt their efforts to overthrow Nicaragua’s communist FSLN government.”

  “So in essence,” I said, “they were selling drugs in our cities, killing our citizens and choking the national crime rates. And we turned a blind eye because we felt it pushed our agenda in another country.”

  “Pretty much,” Jack said. “When Webb published these articles, he caused a firestorm unlike many seen in journalism. It was without a doubt one of the most controversial articles of the past twenty-five years. So what happened to Webb? Well, he was completely discredited by the government which issued denials faster than meter maids issue parking tickets. He was eventually pushed out of the Mercury News, and after years in which he failed to get another job at a major newspaper, Webb put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger.”

  “Damn,” Amanda said.

  “Twice,” Jack added.

  “Twice? How does someone shoot themselves in the head twice?”

  “Don’t get your panties in a bunch,” Jack said. I glared at him. “Apologies, Ms. Davies. Sometimes I forget that

  I’m around a lady.”

  “This lady thinks she could kick your old ass,” Amanda said.

  “Now that’s my kind of lady,” Jack said. “Hold on to this firebrand, Henry. Anyway, common thought was that

  Webb had been bumped off. But it turns out Webb was genuinely depressed and had written despondent letters to his family. And an autopsy and gun residue test proved that the man really did shoot himself twice. It doesn’t happen often, but it does happen if the suicidal person happens to have lousy aim.”

  “So, what, you think the sale of drugs in New York

  City is being funneled to, who, some shady overseas organization? Some anti-Taliban fighting squad?”

  “Not at all,” Jack said. “If what I’m thinking is correct at all, and if this guy Reeves is connected the way I suspect he is, then the sale of drugs in this city isn’t going abroad. It isn’t being diverted to an anti-terrorism foreign legion. What I’m saying is that money gained through the sale of drugs like the Darkness is going directly to the city itself. I’m saying that not only is our government turning a blind eye, but it’s taking a cut of the profits.”

  “The layoffs, the deficits,” I said. “You’re saying they’re trying to make up for budget shortfalls by taking a cut of drug payoffs?”

  “Words to live by, especially in politics. If something worked twenty years ago, it’ll probably work again now.”

  Just then I heard my cell phone ring. I went over to pick it up, but when I saw the caller ID I stopped. Looked at Jack.

  “Who is it?” he said.

  I shook my head, confused.

  “It’s Curt Sheffield,” I said.

  “Curt,” Jack said, taken aback. “Well, pick it up!”

  I answered the phone. Tried to play it cool.

  “Hey, man, what’s up?”

  Then I listened as Curt explained to me what was going to happen in just a few minutes.

  When I hung up, I looked at Jack and said, “You need to leave.”

  Needless to say this was not exactly what he was expecting to hear.

  “What the hell are you talking about, Henry?”

  “In less than half an hour, somebody is going to come here to sell me drugs. And unless you want to try and pass off as my pot-addicted uncle or something, we can’t have any trace of you in this apartment.”

  43

  Curt Sheffield had only been working for the NYPD for five years, but the past two days made it feel like a lifetime.

  Two days. Twelve dead. All deaths related to this new drug, the Darkness.

  For years, New York was considered one of the safest big cities in the world. The crime that existed was relegated to back alleys and dingy apartments. Upstanding citizens had little to fear as long as they used common sense.

  The drug dealers were easy to smoke out. They were usually junkies themselves. They sold because that’s all they had, all they knew. They were uneducated, unloved, and an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay was a foreign concept.

  And that’s why dealers were so easy to break.

  In real life, those dealers in their teens and twenties didn’t have any sort of real loyalty to the drug lords. It wasn’t like television. There was no “game” and no loyalty beyond a wad of cas
h. Your employer was simply whoever could pay that day.

  When a man making seventeen thousand dollars a year selling crack is forced to choose between turning in a man he barely knows or spending five years behind bars, the decision was always easy.

  That’s why people on the top never lasted long. They could never offer the people below them a life worth risking on the streets. Every moment was fleeting, but when push came to shove a fistful of crumpled twenties wasn’t enough to keep someone from saving their own ass.

  This drug, though, was different. The narcotics division was sweeping all those back alleys, talking to all their sources, offering all their informants good, hard cash for one tip that could loosen the first thread.

  So far, they’d come up empty-handed.

  And it wasn’t because the informants had suddenly grown balls or a sense of loyalty. It’s that they didn’t know.

  However this product was being moved, it was being done away from the streets, away from the bottom feeders, away from the men and women who sold the very same drugs they ingested.

  This was different. And that’s what scared Curt the most.

  This city had the best police force in the world, but now that force was being slashed like an unfortunately located forest. A thousand cops, vanished from the streets, victims of a mayor legally beholden to a budget that had come in four billion dollars in the red.

  Curt stopped to pick up a pizza on the way home. Half mushroom, half pepperoni. He had no bigger plans than to throw on his Rutgers sweatshirt, lounge on the couch with a few slices and a few beers and flip between games and late-night Cinemax.

  As he approached his apartment building, he noticed a man hanging on the street corner. He was wearing a

  T-shirt and sweatpants, and had a pair of slippers covering his bare feet. Ordinarily such a thing wouldn’t catch his eye, but this guy was swaying slightly, looking like every few seconds he had to remind himself not to topple over.

  It was a chilly night, and clearly the man had either gone out knowingly underdressed or was so zoned out that he hadn’t noticed.