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.
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