Traffic on Canal Street was almost nonexistent and there were no other pedestrians. Murphy felt like he had a flashing red sign strapped to his head that said LOOK AT ME. He stared straight ahead as he walked across South Saint Patrick. From the corner of his eye he saw several detectives standing in the rain, hunched under their jackets and hoods, smoking cigarettes.
Limping slightly from the pain of his two falls, Murphy shuffled past Saint Anthony’s church, then turned right and threaded his way along the far side of the building to the back parking lot.
Cautiously, he approached his car from the side opposite the apartment. He unlocked the driver’s door and slid behind the wheel. Through the rain-fogged windows he peeked out and saw that no one had noticed him. He slipped the key into the ignition and cranked the Taurus. Then he turned on his headlights and drove away.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Monday, August 6, 7:15 PM
Murphy drove through the nearly empty streets toward his apartment. The wind was blowing so hard it was difficult to keep his car on the road. The fat raindrops slamming into his windshield sounded like bullets. On Claiborne Avenue he saw an electric transformer explode. A few minutes later, he passed a couple of patrol cars crawling along with their blue and red flashers on.
His right shoulder hurt, but as far as he could tell it wasn’t fractured. He needed something for the pain, though. A megadose of ibuprofen would help. He also needed a change of clothes. His narrow escape from Jeffries’s apartment had left him wet and muddy. But what he really needed was another gun.
He was going to the address on Burgundy alone. Backup was not an option. If Jeffries was there, this wasn’t going to be an arrest. It was going to be an execution. Murphy needed a clean gun, one that could not be traced back to him, one he could shoot Jeffries with and then toss into the river.
At his apartment he had just such a gun, a two-inch. 38 revolver with a ground-off serial number. A few years ago, he had taken it off a small-time heroin peddler he and Gaudet arrested in the old Saint Thomas housing project. The dope dealer didn’t want to go to jail, so he ratted on everybody he knew. By the end of the night, Murphy and Gaudet had six felony arrests and two hundred grams of China white heroin. They cut the snitch loose. Since there were no charges against their informant, the. 38 wasn’t evidence, but Murphy hadn’t wanted to return it because the guy was going right back to selling smack. So Murphy had kept it just in case he needed it one day. That day was today.
Murphy pulled to the curb in front of his building, a onetime mansion that had been converted into a six-unit apartment house. It looked deserted. When he climbed out of his car, a wind gust hit him so hard it felt like it was going to peel off his raincoat. He hobbled up the steps and pushed open the front door.
He limped down the central hallway toward the stairwell at the far end. On the way, he passed a pair of two-bedroom apartments, one on either side of the hall. He climbed the stairs to the second floor, which had been remodeled into four single-bedroom units. From the top-floor landing, Murphy’s apartment was the first one on the left.
On the top step he caught his toe and stumbled. The light fixture mounted to the wall was out, leaving the rear half of the hallway in darkness. He grabbed the railing with his right hand. A sharp jolt of pain stabbed through his shoulder.
At his apartment door, Murphy pushed his key into the dead bolt. He sensed movement behind him. A shadow slid across the floor. Before he could turn around, he felt the cold steel of a pistol pressed against the back of his neck.
“Keep your eyes on the door,” Gaudet said.
Murphy tried to turn around, but Gaudet shoved the pistol deeper into his neck.
“What are you doing, Juan?”
“Open it.”
Murphy pushed open the door.
The pistol nudged him forward. “Inside,” Gaudet said.
They stepped into the apartment. Murphy felt the weight of his Glock on his right hip, but it was buried under his raincoat. The zipper was pulled up to his neck. An old firearms instructor’s adage popped into his head: You can’t outdraw someone else’s trigger pull.
As Gaudet pushed the door shut, Murphy kept walking until he reached the small bar that separated the den from the kitchen. He wanted as much distance between him and Gaudet as possible. When he turned around, he said, “Are you the mayor’s official hit man now?”
Gaudet kept his pistol leveled at Murphy. “I tried to keep you out of it.”
“Out of what, stealing money and killing cops? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it, to kill me?”
“I put eleven years into this job. Next year I’m vested and can take early retirement. By then I’ll have enough money put away so I can do whatever I want.”
“So what’s stopping you?”
“You, you’re what’s stopping me,” Gaudet said.
“How’s that?”
“You threatened to go to the captain. If you make a complaint to Donovan, he’ll have to notify PIB.”
“So what?” Murphy said. “The mayor controls PIB.”
“But he doesn’t control the feds, and the feds have snitches inside PIB. If the feds get involved, everything comes apart. I told the mayor you weren’t serious, though. That it was just talk, but he didn’t believe me. He says you’re a loose cannon.”
“Why are you here, Juan?”
Gaudet waved his pistol around. Nervous sweat beaded his forehead. “What the fuck’s wrong with you, Murphy? You’ve got no life. All you’ve got is the fucking job, but no matter what heroics you pull on this case, DeMarco is going to smash you into little pieces over that newspaper article. Your only way out will be to make a deal, and now, because you saw that money, you have something to trade.”
“Is that why you’re here, to make sure I can’t make that deal?”
“I’m here to offer you a seat on the gravy train,” Gaudet said. “There’s still time, brother.”
“What does the mayor want in return?”
“Your word that you’re not a threat.”
“Is that all?” Murphy said. Then casually, like he wasn’t even thinking about it, Murphy reached up with his left hand and unzipped his raincoat.
“And he wants to bring you on as part of the team.”
“Why does he need us?”
Gaudet hefted his pistol. “Because sometimes the negotiations get sticky, and nobody argues with a man holding a gun.”
“Why did you get involved?”
Gaudet shook his head at the stupidity of the question. “Why do you think? I got two kids in private school. I got a wife wants a new car. I got a girlfriend wants her apartment paid for. Everything is all crossways, man. Shit just got cattywampus on me, and I needed the money.”
“But why you?” Murphy said. “Why did the mayor pick you to be his bagman?”
“Right place, right time, I guess.”
Murphy shook his head. “It was payback for you throwing the case against his brother.”
Gaudet stared at Murphy. “That case wasn’t going anywhere. If it wasn’t me, it would have been a captain, or a deputy chief, or somebody at the DA’s office. You can’t put the mayor’s brother in jail, Murphy, and expect the case to go to court. Not in this city.”
A sudden anger swelled through Murphy. He took a half step forward.
Gaudet jabbed his pistol at Murphy. “You stay right there and keep that Irish temper of yours under control.”
Murphy nodded toward the pistol in Gaudet’s hand. “Now what?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you’re with the man or against him.”
“What happens if I’m against him?”
“I told him you wouldn’t be.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because you’re no choirboy, Murphy.”
“This is different,” Murphy said. “There’s bent and there’s crooked. This is crooked.”
A bead of sweat rolled down Gaudet’s cheek. “He wants to see you.”