The Darkness hp-5 Read online

  “If we don’t hear from you within the next few days, it’s ’cause you ran out of money or you’re dead. So let’s just say I’m hoping to see you again real soon.”

  As Vinnie turned to leave, I looked at Amanda. She peeked up from her wine. I rubbed my pointer finger and thumb together and mouthed Tip?

  She looked at me like I was insane and gave her head a quick “no” shake.

  Vinnie opened the door, nodded, and left.

  I ran over and put my ear to the door. Vinnie was a big guy, and his footsteps were easily heard as he clomped down the stairs.

  I waited ten seconds and then called Curt Sheffield.

  “Henry, I saw him go in. Did he leave?”

  “He should be leaving the building any second now.”

  “Got it. You know the plan, right?”

  “You’re going to follow him on foot, I take your car and wait for you to contact me. Then I meet you with the car and we tail him to wherever he refills on dope.”

  “You got it, boss. Keys are in the tire well, wait until you can’t see our friend anymore before you come down. Last thing we need is this guy to think you’re following him.”

  “Got it. I’ve done this before.”

  “But don’t wait too long, I don’t want to chance somebody stealing my ride. You don’t exactly live in the safest neighborhood, bro.”

  “Hey, Curt?”

  “Yeah, Parker?”

  “Are you sure about this? Am I really the guy you want tagging along with you tonight?”

  Curt was silent for a moment on the other end.

  “I hear what you’re saying. Fact is, I don’t know who to trust right now. Just the other day I got a tip on some fired banker who might have been running drugs, cat named Morgan Isaacs. We were just about to put a tail on him when the guy disappears into thin air. Nobody knows where he is, not even his parents have seen him in weeks.

  Doesn’t add up.”

  “Morgan Isaacs,” I said. “The man who killed William

  Hollinsworth had a money order on him made out to

  Morgan Isaacs. If that was Isaacs, he was hired to kill

  Hollinsworth.”

  “Which means he’s no longer in this country, or no longer of this earth,” Curt said. “I got that feeling. So right now, you’re the only man I trust. I know why you’re in this, Henry. You want to know the truth about Stephen

  Gaines, and I want to get rid of this crap that’s turning our city into Beirut. Two paths, same destination, my friend.”

  “Then I’ll meet you there.”

  “See you soon, Parker. Oh wait, here he comes. Later.”

  “Good luck, Curt.”

  We both hung up.

  I looked out the window and could see Vinnie exiting our building. As soon as he stepped outside, he put his cell phone to his ear. Then he nodded a few times, clicked it off, put it in his pocket and headed east. The subway was in that direction.

  When Vinnie rounded the corner, I saw Curt Sheffield trailing him, walking briskly but with enough distance that hopefully our mark wouldn’t notice. I silently wished

  Curt luck again.

  “That wasn’t so bad,” I said to Amanda. She’d put down the magazine and wine. Standing up, she went over to the table and picked up the baggie with three rocks of the Darkness.

  “Amanda, you’re not going to…”

  Before I could say another word, she walked over to the bathroom, opened the bag and dumped the rocks into the toilet. Then she flushed it. Once she was sure the rocks were on their way to some sewage treatment plant, Amanda came over to me and planted a massive kiss right on my lips.

  “That’s the closest I ever want that stuff to us,” she said, her arms warm around my neck.

  “Same here. You know the reason I’m doing this is to stop whatever this stuff is from getting out there more than it already is.”

  “I know that. And I hope you do. But given a choice between that and you staying safe… Just come home to me, Henry. That’s all I want.”

  “I will,” I said. “And hopefully I won’t have to say this too many times, but don’t wait up for me.”

  She sighed. “I won’t wait up for you, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be thinking about you.”

  “I’d never tell you to stop doing that,” I said.

  She kissed me again and said, “Now go help Curt.”

  I nodded, grabbed my coat from the closet, gave her one last look and headed outside.

  45

  Curt drove a Ford Fusion. The key was in the tire well just like he said. As I climbed into the car and adjusted the seat, I couldn’t help but think Curt was a pretty conscientious guy to own a hybrid. I started the car and put my cell phone in the cup holder by the armrest, just to be sure I wouldn’t miss it if he called.

  For the next few hours, most likely, Curt would be on his own. He wasn’t supposed to call me unless there was an emergency, as anything that could lead the dealer to know he was being followed was curtailed until we met up later.

  So all I had to do now was wait.

  I picked through the CDs. Some good stuff. Jay-Z, Lil

  Wayne, T-Pain. Then, underneath all of them, I found a

  Barry Manilow CD and I cracked up. When this was over,

  Curt would surely have to explain himself on that one.

  An hour in, I ran to the corner deli and got a big, steaming cup of coffee and a muffin. So far this was the lamest stakeout ever. I wasn’t even staking anything out,

  I was just sitting in a car on the side of the street, waiting for a call so I could then follow someone. I couldn’t complain, though. It wasn’t too long ago I did just what Curt was doing, following one of these dealers, trying to find out just where their stash was hidden.

  And then I found it, but when we went back it was gone. They obviously hadn’t given up, but had simply moved to a new location.

  Tonight we were going to find out where 718 Enterprises was hoarding their stash. Then Curt would take it down with his fellow boys in blue, Jack and I would get the exclusive, eyewitness story, and everyone would go home happy.

  At least that’s how it all played out in my mind. What happened next was something, far, far different.

  Two hours into my stakeout of, well, nothing, my cell phone rang. It was Curt.

  I picked up it, said, “Hey. Where are you?”

  “One-hundred-twelfth and Amsterdam,” Curt said. “I’m pretty sure our boy is going home for the night. He just took off his tie, and he’s swinging that briefcase like it’s full of air, not powdered substances. Start making your way over here. I’ll call you when I get a more precise location.”

  “On my way,” I said.

  “See you soon, Dick Tracy.”

  Starting the car, I pulled onto the street, turned my beams on and began the drive over to 112th and Amsterdam, just on the western edge of Morningside Heights.

  It was a foggy night, a fine mist surrounding the yellow streetlamps, casting an eerie glow over New York. Most cars had their windshield wipers on. Mine made a rapid snick snick every thirty seconds, wiping the condensation away in a perfect arc.

  The streets uptown weren’t particularly crowded for a

  Saturday night, most of the Columbia University crew were either in bed or already at the bar and beginning their long trek to drunkenness. Meanwhile I was in a car, heading to meet my cop friend, hoping to finally put to bed once and for all who had killed my brother. And who was poisoning the city.

  This neighborhood was familiar. I’d met a guy up here named Clarence Willingham, the son of a small-time dealer who’d been killed by the Fury twenty years ago.

  Clarence was still trying to come to grips with his father’s murder and his family’s history of drug abuse and dealing. It was only then that I learned the truth about how close Clarence was to my own family. Secrets. Sometimes I wondered if more secrets were kept from us in the light of day as opposed to the dark of night.
r />   I idled on the corner of 110th, right where Columbus

  Avenue turned into Morningside Drive. I’d just put the car in Park when I was jolted by a rapping on the passenger side window. Whipping around, I saw Curt Sheffield’s face peering in at me, his eyes squinting as rain began to fall harder around him.

  He mouthed the words open up and I unlocked the door.

  As he slid inside, Curt ran his hands through his hair, spraying a layer of rain onto the seats. He was wearing jeans and a brown coat, sneakers and a T-shirt. He looked like a normal guy.

  “If that’s your undercover look, I gotta say it works.”

  Curt ignored me. “His name is Theodore Goggins.”

  “How’d you get that info?”

  “He stopped into a Starbucks. I waited outside, but saw him pay with a credit card. After he left, I waited a minute and went inside and told them I found his

  ATM card. And I needed his name in case I couldn’t catch up with him. He lives just down the block. Definitely not his building, because he had to buzz up. But the guy who lived there said ‘come on up, Theo’ as he buzzed him in.”

  “He worked in finance,” I said.

  “How do you know?”

  “All these guys do. Tens of thousands of young professionals out of work in this city, most of whom lived a few miles beyond their means. Then they get laid off when the economy goes in the crapper, and they’re left with huge mortgages and bills on toys and apartments.

  That’s where 718 comes in. They offer to pay these outof-work go-getters to go house to house. They make good money. It’s a win-win. They can still afford the lifestyle they’re accustomed to.”

  Curt sat back, put his hand on his forehead. He looked troubled.

  “That’s why,” he said.

  “Why what?”

  “The narcotics division. They haven’t been able to find out where this drug, Darkness, where it’s coming from or who’s selling it. But they’re looking in the wrong place. They’re so busy turning over logs and monitoring alleys that they’re not noticing the business assholes.”

  “Nobody looks at a guy in a suit and thinks he’s guilty of anything more than white-collar stuff. Fraud and laundering, but these guys are much dirtier.”

  “Ken Tsang,” Curt said. “That’s where we got a lead on Morgan Isaacs. They worked at the same bank, both got laid off on the same day and Ken’s coworkers said they were friendly. We cross-checked his phone records and found half a dozen calls a day to the same 718 number I found on a dead man’s cell phone. Ken was working for these creeps. I’m willing to bet on it.”

  “And you found him with less bone density than the Pillsbury Doughboy,” I said. “That probably doesn’t bode well when it comes to finding Morgan Isaacs in one piece.”

  Curt just sat there, rain dripping from his hair into his lap as we watched cars zip down the street, the errant noises of a night unaware of its own shadow. We could see Theodore Goggin’s awning from the car, and we kept the windshield on fast enough where we wouldn’t miss any activity.

  And so we waited. Sat in the car until the morning. When

  Theodore Goggins would leave his apartment and head toward wherever it was that the refills were being kept.

  All we could do was keep each other awake through our silences and the knowledge that something foul was lurking just beneath the streets of our city. But it wasn’t until the next day that we realized just how deep those sewers ran.

  46

  Saturday

  It was six-thirty in the morning, and we were both awake.

  My brain was fogged over with that thick haze that comes from a night spent ingesting too much coffee while thinking too much about terrible things that would keep you up under normal circumstances.

  Curt’s eyes were open, too, but they were more aware, less troubled. He seemed less like someone running on fumes, like I was, and more like a hawk poised to strike.

  Waiting for that moment when his prey poked its head from the shadows. And at six-thirty, that’s when our prey,

  Theodore Goggins, poked his head out from his uptown apartment.

  “Right there,” I said.

  “I see him.” Curt quickly combed his hair, opened the mirror above the windshield to get rid of the whole “I stayed up all night in a car” look. Whether that kind of makeover could be done without trained professionals and Heidi Klum, I wasn’t sure.

  “Same drill,” Curt said. “I follow our man to his destination, then I call you. We’re not going to have a ton of time because I have no idea where this guy is headed. Just be on alert.”

  “I’m going to head over to the West Side Highway,” I said. “Better to have access to a faster road. Just in case.”

  “Good thinking, Parker. I’ll call you when Goggins takes me…wherever,” Curt said. “And Henry?”

  “Yeah, Curt?”

  “Be careful. I don’t know how this day is going to unwind.”

  I nodded, didn’t need to say anything. Curt knew I was game.

  “Okay, let’s get this party started.”

  “Some party. Six in the morning.”

  “Can it, buddy. Stay focused.”

  “Good luck, Curt.”

  He exited the car, walked over to a sidewalk newspaper salesman and bought a copy of the Gazette. At least he was supporting my paper.

  Theodore Goggins left his apartment wearing a different suit, this one straight black, with shiny shoes and another sparkling blue tie. He headed south on Columbus, right toward where Curt was standing reading the paper.

  When Goggins passed him, Curt waited thirty seconds before starting his tail. After they’d both disappeared, I started the car and headed west on 110th Street. The morning sun was rising above the trees as I drove on the south side of Morningside Park. The lush green foliage was such a stark contrast to the brick and stone just south across the street.

  Suddenly I realized that the West Side Highway had just two entrances near my location: one on 125th Street and the other on Ninety-sixth. They were a mile and a half apart from each other, and given Manhattan traffic it could be fifteen minutes easily from one exit to the other. If I chose the wrong one, I could miss Curt and Goggins entirely.

  I slowed down briefly approaching Riverside Drive, then made a decision and turned south toward Ninetysixth. I figured Goggins went south; best guess was that his pick-up point was south of our location.

  I pulled the car over on Ninety-sixth and waited for

  Curt to call.

  Thankfully, I didn’t have to wait long.

  My phone rang less than fifteen minutes later. It was

  Curt. He was breathless, panting.

  “I almost lost him,” Curt said. “Stupid MetroCard was out of cash. Anyway, get your ass downtown to the meatpacking district.”

  “On the way,” I said, putting the car into Drive and easing onto the Henry Hudson Parkway. “Where to?”

  “You know the Kitten Club?”

  “Um…yeah. Unfortunately. Why?”

  “Our friend Theodore Goggins just walked inside.”

  “You’re kidding me,” I said. “I knew Shawn Kensbrook was dirty, but he’s got his hands full in the mud.”

  “You think this is the new depot where the lackeys get their refills?”

  “It would make sense,” I said. “I’ve been to the Kitten

  Club and that place has more unexplored territory than the Jonas Brothers. Plus it doesn’t fill up until late at night, so nobody’s there during the day to watch it.”

  “Given the history of this place,” Curt said, “it wouldn’t surprise me in the least.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll explain when you get down here. Meet me on the southeast corner of Washington and Little West Twelfth

  Street.”

  “Will do. I’ll be down there right away.”

  I exited my spot and pulled Curt’s car onto the Hudson

  River Drive south. Th
e traffic wasn’t bad, rush hour still an hour or so from reaching its apex. The sun cast a brilliant glow on the water, the shores of New Jersey visible, the highway directly across from Port Imperial Marina.

  I took the Fourteenth Street exit and made my way south on Tenth Avenue toward the Kitten Club. There were plenty of spots available, so I pulled up on the corner of Washington and Twelfth and rang Curt’s cell phone.

  He didn’t answer, but then I saw him walking toward me.

  Hanging up the phone, I unlocked the passenger side door. Curt slipped in and stretched out.

  There were massive bags under his eyes, and his clothes were rumpled. Plus he smelled kind of funky.

  Not the Curt Sheffield I was used to hanging out with.

  “How was your night?” I said. “I feel like we bonded a bit.” I jokingly punched Curt in the arm.

  “Let’s not go there. You know for a chunky guy,

  Goggins has a motor that would make Jeff Gordon piss his pants.”

  Across the street, we could both see the entrance to the

  Kitten Club. I’d been there twice. Once to cover a murder, the second to rescue Amanda when I felt she might be in danger. I was getting a little tired of this place.

  “You said something about the club not surprising you,” I said. “What did you mean by that?”

  “You’re not a native New Yorker,” Curt said, “so you wouldn’t remember. For about ten years during the midseventies and eighties, the space the Kitten Club currently occupies was a different club called Mineshaft.”

  “Sounds hot.”

  “You have no idea. While it was open, Mineshaft was one of the most popular gay bars in the city. They had dungeons, cages, S and M, bondage, you name it. Then the city shut the club down in eighty-five, claiming that all the rampant sexual activity was helping to spread the

  AIDS virus.”

  “Holy crap, are you serious?”

  “Yessir. Apparently Mineshaft-and a number of other clubs-had back rooms and basements where club-goers could partake in, let’s just say, activities that did not require clothing. Rumors had it that the club was actually

  Mafia owned and operated. The mob started losing money hand over fist, and the lunkheads figured people just weren’t spending money, but the sad truth is they were losing a lot of their clientele to the virus. After it was shut down, the club was a ghost lot for almost twenty years and was basically nothing more than an abandoned warehouse. It was supposed to be torn down until somebody-guess who-bought the lot.”