Page 64 of Paranoia

Deason said, “My father did a lot to destroy the Bronx even as he made a show of doing good works. He expanded quickly and had set his sights on ruining most of the city. That’s why I started thinking of ways I could help communities instead of tearing them apart.”

“We’re working a series of homicides. We have no interest in narcotics cases.”

“You’re looking into the murders of all the dopers who’ve been killed over the last couple of months?”

I nodded. “We think some of them are connected to a larger case we’re looking into. You—and your father—were our only known links between all the victims. Now we need to find a new suspect.” I waited a few seconds and added, “Unless you did kill them and now you want to confess.”

Deason ignored my comment. “Will you let the DEA handle this drug case without interference? And can we count on you to stay away from the warehouse in the Bronx and keep your mouth shut about our investigation?”

I nodded.

Deason looked at Trilling.

Trilling nodded as well.

Deason said, “You can speak, right?”

Trilling just nodded again.

I loved it.

CHAPTER 94

KEVIN DOYLE WAS in a foul mood. Actually “foul” didn’t adequately describe what he was feeling at the moment. Doyle was pissed off because after yesterday’s botched hit-and-run, the order from his employer instructing him to take out Bennett had come through. No more delays. His employer was sending help. If that wasn’t enough to push Doyle over the edge, his so-called help was now sitting next to him atop a four-story building across the street from where Detective Michael Bennett’s specialized homicide unit was located, stuck in a nondescript office building on Broadway.

Even though they’d been sitting together for over an hour, watching the office building, Doyle had yet to get any kind of decent read on the man. Other than he was a walking stereotype. He’d told Doyle to just call him “Joe.” Doyle told Joe to just call him “Buddy.” Joe was around fifty and a little heavy but still inreasonably good shape. His bulbous nose had been broken several times. He had a few streaks of gray in his dark, slicked-back hair.

Joe had the kind of old-school Brooklyn Italian accent Doyle remembered from around the neighborhoods and baseball diamonds of his childhood, so different from how he and his siblings spoke. Those Italian kids even called one another the kinds of names Doyle’s mother had forbidden him to say. It had been exciting as a kid.

Joe had a fancy hunting rifle that screwed together at the receiver and shoulder stock, a Remington that looked like a real pro had modified it. Joe fiddled with the adjustments on the rifle but was careful not to bring the rifle high enough for anyone to notice it. Doyle just hoped he knew how to use it. He usually dismissed those kinds of rifles as gimmicks.

They’d gotten a quick view of Bennett as he parked in the lot across the street from the building earlier, but that only confirmed he was inside now. They didn’t have time to act then, but now they were set up and waiting patiently for whenever the tall detective strolled back out of the building.

Their employer had set up a meeting between Doyle and Joe a few hours ago at a coffee shop. They drank a cup of coffee together and chatted for a few minutes.

Joe had looked at Doyle and said, “You must owe someone a favor, Buddy.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It’s rarely worth it to kill a cop. They’re a funny bunch. Cops will hound you and anyone connected with you after one of them is killed. I’ve seen it a dozen times. I’ve even seen my own business partners take out one of their own employees who killed acop and tell the cops where the body is. It’s easier than trying to hide someone from a whole army of pissed-off cops.”

Doyle said, “What about you? You owe someone a favor?”

Joe smiled. “I owe a lot of favors. I have to make up for some poor decisions my youngest son made. He worked for the same people I did. But killing this asshole cop, Bennett, will be a pleasure. I’ve owed him something other than a favor for a long time.”

“You know him personally?”

“Let’s just say our paths have crossed. He screwed up a lot of business deals for my organization. He even arrested my cousin and got him convicted of first-degree murder. We’ll all be better off when he’s off the boards.”

“Was your cousin guilty?”

“Yeah, Sal was the triggerman, but that don’t matter. The point is this guy has been a pain in my ass for too long.” He’d nodded without being sure what the hell Joe meant.

Now, on the roof, Doyle looked over as his “help” lovingly handled his rifle. At least he, and not Doyle, would be the one taking the shot from up here. Thank God for small blessings. He noticed Joe pull a spent rifle casing from his pocket.

Doyle said, “What’s that for?”

Joe gave him an evil smile, a bicuspid missing on the upper right side. “This is a little misdirection.”

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