The Darkness hp-5 Page 26

  Suddenly he found himself walking over to the man, balancing the pizza in one hand while checking his gun to make sure it was at the ready. Curt had never been forced to use his gun off duty, but something about this man made him tense up. It was the jittery movements, how he looked like he might fall asleep one moment and then suddenly jerk awake the next. He looked like a classic user, and Curt had learned long ago that someone high could only be trusted as much as the drugs allowed them to be.

  Curt approached slowly. His hand was getting warm from the bottom of the pizza box. As he got closer, he called out, “Hey, man, you okay?”

  The man didn’t respond, just kept swaying. His right arm shot out and caught a lamppost to steady himself.

  “I said, you okay, man?”

  Then the guy whipped around, and the look in his eyes made Curt glad his gun was so close. His eyes were bloodshot, but they were wide open, crazylike, and he stared at

  Curt with a mixture of confusion and apprehension, like an animal cornered who might bare its fangs out of pure panic.

  Curt slowly knelt down and laid the pizza on the sidewalk. He hoped this guy was just drunk, and that he could throw him in a cab, be done with it and retreat to his pepperoni. But getting closer, he knew it wouldn’t be that simple.

  “Hey, man,” Curt called out. “You’re not looking so hot. Why don’t you head home. Sleep it off.”

  The man shook his head. Slowly at first, but then more rapidly until Curt was worried he might hurt himself.

  “Whoa, slow down there. I’m a cop. See?” Curt took out his badge, showed it to the guy. “My name’s Officer

  Sheffield. I’m here to help.”

  “No,” the man moaned. “No. No. No. Nooooooo. ”

  “It’s okay. We’ve all had bad days. Why don’t I call a cab…”

  “It’s all gone,” he said, his body swaying faster than the breeze.

  “What’s gone?”

  “All of it,” he said. “All of it. It’s gone.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m sure you have some in your fridge.”

  “No. I can’t get anymore.”

  Curt kept playing along. “Why not?”

  “Money,” he said, his voice like tar pulled through a pasta strainer. “I need it to buy more.”

  “More what?”

  “Darkness,” the man said, his eyes fixated on Curt.

  Sheffield felt his body tense up. The drug was too early in its life for cops to fully know how users reacted to it, how their bodies responded. Each drug did different things to people who took it, and as a cop you learned how to deal with each of them. You had to be supple with your voice, malleable with your body language. The wrong tone or stilted reaction could set someone off, putting you or others at risk.

  Curt didn’t know how to deal with people who used this new drug. They were unpredictable, but if anything the last few days had proven without a doubt was that they were uncompromisingly violent. He’d been trained on how to deal with addicts of various substances, but this seemed to go well beyond the training manual.

  “Why do you want more, man? What say we get you somewhere safe. St. Luke’s hospital isn’t too far from here. We’ll get you a nice bed, get you cleaned up…”

  “I don’t want to be cleaned up!” the man yelled. Curt stepped back, the look in the man’s eyes giving him pause. He thought about calling for an ambulance, figuring whether he liked it or not this guy could use a night in detox. The only worry was whether in the time it took for an ambulance to come, this man was intent on hurting

  Curt or someone else.

  “Hey, I hear you. That stuff is good. But being able to think clearly, ain’t nothing you buy can replicate that feeling.”

  “You’re wrong,” the man slurred, his eyes closed as he smiled. “I feel…alive. I feel…fine.” Then his mood turned sour, the smile disappearing. “There’s no more money. No more money. It’s gone. I can’t have any more.”

  “It’s okay, we can just…”

  “I can’t have any more!” he shouted.

  “Come on, buddy, that stuff isn’t going to do anything for you. Let’s talk.”

  Then the man reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. “They won’t take my calls anymore,” he said. “The last guy who came, Vinnie, he told me unless

  I had cold hard cash he wouldn’t sell me anything.” The man held up the phone like it was a soiled diaper, and dropped it into the trash can. “Where am I going to get more money? I can’t find anybody to trade with me.”

  “Trade with you? What the hell are you talking about? Listen to yourself, man. You don’t need more, you need help.”

  Curt took out his phone and dialed 911. When the operator picked up, he said, “This is Officer Curt Sheffield, currently off duty, I have a ten sixty-nine in progress. Adult male, mid-thirties, high on I believe this new drug, Darkness. Guy looks pretty out of it and potentially dangerous. Send a unit and an ambulance to Eighty-eight and Amsterdam.”

  “Ten-four, Officer Sheffield. Ambulance will be en route. Might have to wait for a squad car. Busy night tonight. Can you watch him until the EMTs get there?”

  Curt sighed. Always shorthanded.

  “I’ll do my best.” He hung up.

  The man’s body was draped across the lamppost now, as he barely looked able to stand. Curt took a few steps closer, put his hand in his jacket pocket where he felt the comfort of his holster.

  “Listen, buddy. I got a few friends coming. They’re going to take care of you. They…”

  “My wife,” the man said.

  “What’s you say?”

  “My wife is dead,” the man said in a guttural rasp.

  “She died.”

  “I’m so sorry… How did she die?”

  “I killed her.”

  Curt stopped moving. His fingers went from tickling the gun to gripping the pistol.

  His eyes darted back and forth as he spoke.

  “I wanted to sell her wedding ring. She told me I couldn’t. I could have bought so much with it, but she said no. I didn’t know what to do. I needed it so badly. So I took a knife and I cut it off of her.”

  “Oh, Jesus…”

  The man looked down, reached into his pocket.

  “Okay, my friend, I’m going to come over there. I have a gun on me. Please, don’t move any more and take your hand out of your pocket.”

  Without warning the man yanked his hand from his pocket. It took Curt a second to realize what he was holding.

  In the man’s hand was a severed finger. A glittering diamond ring still attached to it.

  “I don’t know what to do!”

  Suddenly the man dropped the finger, turned around and ran out into the middle of the street.

  “Stop!” Curt shouted, sprinting forward.

  Half a dozen cars were speeding up Amsterdam, headlights blazing in the dark blue sky. Their horns started blaring as the man weaved in and out of the way of thousands of pounds of metal passing him by at forty miles an hour.

  Suddenly there was a flash of metal, sparks, and a terrible crunching sound as Curt stopped dead in his tracks. Curt saw the man’s body go flying, literally lifted into the air, where it spun end over end until landing in a heap by the curb.

  The car, a dark sedan, came screeching to a halt. The driver leaped out of the car, hands holding his head in disbelief. Cars ground to a stop all around the sedan, whose hood was dented, grill smashed inward. A slick of blood pooling around the hood ornament.

  And just below the front of the car was a sight that would never leave Curt Sheffield as long as he lived.

  Resting on the asphalt, in a perfect row as if placed there gently, was a pair of slippers.

  “Oh my God,” he said. The man looked at Curt, his mouth wide open. “You…you saw that. He ran out in front of me. He…oh, sweet Jesus…”

  Curt ran over to the body, knelt down next to it. The man’s face looked like
it had been bludgeoned with a sledgehammer, and his limbs were twisted in a way that

  God had most certainly not intended.

  He ripped his phone from his pocket, dialed 911. “Ten fifty-three,” Curt said, his mouth dry, the words tumbling out. “Officer needs assistance. We have a motor vehicle accident. One civilian is down and hurt, potentially fatal.

  He’s not breathing.”

  Curt put his fingers to the man’s neck, searched for a pulse.

  He felt nothing.

  Picking up the man’s wrist, he tried again. Still nothing.

  No use. He was long gone.

  “I think I lost him,” Curt said into the phone.

  When he was assured an ambulance was en route,

  Curt stood up, took in the scene unfolding in front of him.

  Cars were lining up down the street, drivers getting out at first to see what was causing the traffic holdup. Then when they saw what was going on, phones came out as they called 911. Onlookers began to crowd the sidewalks.

  A few people started heading toward the body. Some looked concerned, fearful, but a few had a glint in their eyes that Curt didn’t like. He knew that not everybody was concerned for this guy’s well-being.

  Curt stood up, pulled out his badge. Let his arm hang loose so his jacket opened up a bit, revealing the gun and holster inside.

  “NYPD!” he shouted. The surge stopped. A few people slipped back into the crowds and disappeared, disappointed they didn’t have a chance to search the man for jewelry or money. “An ambulance is on the way. I’m going to need everyone to back away and clear room.”

  He walked toward the crowd, and they stepped back, obeying. Then Curt remembered something.

  He turned and jogged back to the street corner where he’d seen the man. Reaching into the garbage can, he managed to find the man’s cell phone he’d dropped inside. He wiped off the crud and liquid, relieved to see the machine was still working.

  He clicked it on.

  The home page blinked on, and an LCD screen read

  Gil’s Phone.

  Gil. That was the dead man’s name.

  Then Curt scrolled through the numerous functions until he found a button marked Recent Calls.

  He clicked on it, and saw Gil’s call log from the last twelve hours. Incoming calls marked with an orange

  “down” arrow, outgoing with a red “up” arrow.

  Then Curt felt his breath catch in his throat.

  There was one phone number that stood out. Gil had called it no less than ten times in the last three hours.

  And the number had a 718 prefix.

  Without hesitating, Curt called the number from

  Gil’s phone.

  It rang twice, and then was picked up.

  “Mr. Meadows, we’ve already explained to you the situation. Until you have legal tender available, we cannot serve you. Goodbye.”

  The person on the other end hung up.

  And as soon as they hung up, Curt called one more number. A number he never thought he’d be calling to help him do his job.

  Curt had never gone undercover. He wasn’t sure he could pull this off.

  But he knew, without a doubt, that Henry Parker could.

  44

  “You’re insane,” Amanda said, watching as I went about straightening up the apartment. I had already cleaned up my dirty socks, stacked the magazines into a neat pile, organized the DVD collection and even cleaned the stove top.

  “They should be here in less than fifteen minutes,” I said.

  “Who the hell are you expecting? Martha Stewart? It’s a freaking drug dealer, Henry. They’re not going to care if your floor is clean enough to eat off of. In fact, they’ll probably be a little suspicious if the place doesn’t look like, oh, I don’t know, somewhere a junkie might live.”

  “I don’t have to be a junkie,” I said. “Just a guy who wants a late-night hit to calm my nerves.” I smiled at her.

  “It has been a long week.”

  She was right, of course. I was cleaning more out of nerves than anything.

  I didn’t know what to expect. Curt’s call had come out of the blue, something about getting a lead on 718 Enterprises. He had a plan, he said, but to me it sounded like a plan he’d hashed up in about thirty seconds.

  Not that it mattered.

  To this point, all of the investigating I’d done on 718 Enterprises, this shadowy person known only as the Fury and this new drug called Darkness had been done in just that: darkness. I hadn’t written a single word of copy for the Gazette, and as far as I knew the police had no leads and didn’t seem to be banging down a whole lot of doors to get them.

  With Curt in the game, at least I knew whatever we found would get sent up the ladder. If I could trust him.

  Not that I had much choice. And if Curt was somehow in on all of this, there were far easier ways to get to me.

  To get to people close to me. But deep down I didn’t believe there was any chance he would turn. Curt was a good cop, respected the badge. Hell, he’d even taken a bullet because of me. You couldn’t buy that kind of loyalty. At least as far as I knew.

  And Jack took it surprisingly well. I fully expected him to put up a fight, to tell me that he’d put as much effort and risked as much of his reputation on this story-if not more so-than I had. And that gave him every right to be present. I expected him to suggest hiding in the closet, in the bathroom, or to actually pose as my pothead uncle or something. And I would have to let him down, gently, and tell him that if whoever came got even a whiff of Jack’s presence, he would not only be putting our careers on the line but perhaps something much, much more.

  But Jack just left.

  He made sure I had his cell phone number, and made me promise to call him when I knew more. I told him I would, and I meant it. But right now it was all Curt and myself. I could tell from Curt’s call he was having the same doubts I was. Wondering who to trust, feeling like his world had been closed off. Something had happened, and I wasn’t sure what yet, but Curt had decided that he was going to trust me with this. And it was all I could do to not let him down.

  As I picked up around the apartment, Amanda followed me dirtying it up. Finally I gave up and realized she was right. Better off looking like an apartment two people actually lived in rather than a setup. Or an apartment in which the tenants could actually afford to hire a cleaning person.

  Ten minutes later, we were both sitting on the couch, finishing the last of the wine.

  “Are you sure wine is okay?” I said. “Not too highclass? He won’t think we’re some sort of rich couple?”

  “That bottle of red cost twelve ninety-nine. I think we’re safe.”

  We sat there, waiting, my stomach fluttering. And then the buzzer rang and the nerves went away.

  I pushed the call button and said, “Who is it?”

  “It’s Vinnie.”

  “Come on up.”

  Unlocking the front door, I looked at Amanda. Her face was a mask, no nerves either. She wanted me to crack this story, too. I smiled at her, knowing how much she was risking for this.

  I waited by the door, shifting back and forth. When it rang, I waited three seconds before opening it. You know, so the guy wouldn’t know I was actually waiting by the door.

  Opening the door, I saw a man standing there. He was about five foot ten, black, a bit chunky but barely winded from walking the three flights up to our apartment.

  He was wearing a suit, pinstriped, slightly rumpled, and his striking blue tie was loosened just slightly.

  “Hey,” I said, again wondering if that was the right way to start the conversation.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “Vinnie” stepped inside and let the door close behind him. He walked over to the dining table and set his briefcase on it. I tried not to stare, but remember that it wasn’t too long ago when another drug-filled briefcase sat on my table.

  And a man
had died because of that.

  I pushed it from my mind, but couldn’t help but realize

  I’d never actually spoken to a real dealer before. Not that

  I’d had no experiences with illicit substances-it was college, and unlike former presidents, I did inhale-but whenever drugs were present they seemingly appeared out of nowhere in little plastic bags. I assumed some of my friends had connections, but down the road I realized

  I was just blissfully ignorant. I didn’t want to have to involve myself, didn’t want to think of myself as trading money for it.

  Now there was no choice.

  “Hey,” the guy responded. “You called for Vinnie, right?”

  “That’s right. But you don’t look like a Vinnie.”

  “You don’t look like an asshole, so don’t be one.”

  “Sorry, just making conversation. How’s your night going?”

  “What are you, a fucking reporter? Shut up and let’s do this.”

  I decided less talking was better.

  “So what can I get you?” he said.

  “This new thing…Darkness, right? What will fifty get me?”

  “Fifty will get you three tabs. That’s an introductory offer. After that, it’s twenty-five a pop.”

  I took out my wallet, counted out fifty, and handed it over. He counted quickly, then unlocked his briefcase and pulled open the flap. He rummaged around inside as

  I tried not to stare. I looked over at Amanda on the couch.

  She was sitting there reading a magazine and sipping her wine, acting like this was a totally normal evening occurrence. Monday we go to the movies, Tuesdays are date nights, Wednesday we invite over our dealer. Just like all normal city kids.

  “Vinnie” took out a small bag with three tiny black rocks inside. They looked like pebbles, the exact same rock that was featured in Paulina’s article.

  He handed me the drugs and closed up the briefcase.

  “Pleasure doing business with you. One quick thing.

  If you’re going to reorder tonight, make sure you have cash on hand. We’ve had, um, troubles with people who ordered and then didn’t have the money to pay.”

  “People really reorder this stuff the same night? Is it that good?”

  “Vinnie” laughed.