The scene made Jack angry and sad at the same time. Though he tried to keep his feelings out of it, he couldn’t help feeling sad for Tat-not Lucky anymore-and angry at the gangboy’s hair-trigger disregard for life.
A dozen paces across from them there were two other bodies, face up at the curb. From their profiles, Jack noticed a familial resemblance between them. Both had multiple gunshot wounds, including head shots. The wind kept blowing aside the sheets that covered them so he placed dirty chunks of ice at the corners to keep them down.
He picked up a blood trail near the entrance of the alley shortcut to Doyers.
The first body in the alley was that of an old man, slumped down on the sidewalk against the side of a restaurant kitchen. His right shoulder leaned against the wall at an awkward angle, his head drooped to his chest. His left hand rested on the sidewalk in front of him, like he’d been trying to balance himself. His right hand was in his coat pocket, which was twisted behind him near the small of his back. Jack patted down the pocket and felt the outline of a gun.
There were no discernible wounds.
He snapped more pictures, wondering how the old man had tied into Lucky’s scene.
The second victim was farther down the alley, past where it angled off toward Doyers Street. It struck Jack as odd. A younger man, late twenties. He’d fallen forward, crawled, and finally died. His down jacket was unzipped, with an inside pocket yanked out. His right pants pocket was torn, a couple of loose dollar bills flapping out. Nearby, some coins were scattered in the snow, leading in the direction of Doyers.
The setup made Jack think robbery was involved somehow. Knowing Lucky and the gang world, he felt the shoot-out had to be part of a Ghost Legion power struggle, over money, or face. But nobody plans an ambush in broad daylight on a busy street, during a blizzard. Something unexpected must have happened, provoked by fear, or anger. Someone got nervous, and the situation exploded. They were all Ghosts. Or were they just Ghosts in name, gang unity giving way to greed and jealousy, the usual.
Doyers Street was empty, the icy slush offering no clues. He crossed over to May May’s convenience store, bought a box of ziplock bags and a fat black permanent marker.
He was bagging the different guns when CSU arrived. They proceeded to work the scene for evidence such as blood samples, laying down markers near the ejected shell casings, snapping pictures with their big wide-lens cameras.
Jack stepped back as the Medical Examiner’s team showed up and started pronouncing the bodies. When they zippered up the black body bags, placing them into the morgue’s minivan, Jack remembered that the commanding officer of the Fifth Precinct was expecting him.
He pictured the old run-down stationhouse on Elizabeth, three blocks north, and headed in that direction.
0 — Five
He hadn’t seen the captain in more than a month, since his promotion to Detective Second Grade, during the award ceremony at One Police Plaza, well after the captain had quashed the IA investigation, and before his transfer out to the 0-Nine.
When Jack entered the big office Captain Marino’s expression revealed that he was about to do something he didn’t agree with. He extended his hand.
“Welcome back, Jack,” he said as they shook. “I have to say, it’s not sitting right with me, to have to bring you back this way. Hernandez and Donelly caught the case, and rightfully, it’s theirs.”
Jack half-shrugged, knowing the captain well enough to keep his mouth shut. He let the commanding officer continue.
“But the chief’s been all over my ass. The case is so high profile we need some quick answers. The street cleared out when the shooting started, and Hernandez and Donelly can’t find any witnesses. Look, you know the players. And we know you used to be friends with one of the vics. The dailo, Tat Louie.” The captain thought he saw disdain narrowing Jack’s eyes. He looked away. “There’s so much heat on this it’s melting the snow outside headquarters.”
Jack nodded knowingly, and let him continue.
“Chief wants the press off his ass.” He gave Jack a look that was more a request than a command.
Jack knew what high profile meant. Shootings and gang violence always brought out the TONG WAR headlines in the Post and the News. The Chinese media, acutely aware that bad news would scare off the tourist-trade, the lifeblood of the community, would criticize the police for allowing the gang-bangers to run amok in the first place.
“Get me something, Jack,” Marino said quietly.
Jack, almost feeling sorry for him, said, “Okay, Cap’n. I’ll keep you posted.”
Hernandez and Donelly gave him the cold shoulder on the way out, but Jack crunched his way back through the snow, following the blood trail in his head, to OTB where the uniform squad watched over the evidence.
Pieces of Death
The guns stacked up as a small arsenaclass="underline" pricey Smith amp; Wesson nine-millimeter automatics for Lucky’s Ghosts, cheaper Spanish-made Taurus pistols for the others.
Lucky had carried the 5906, a ten-shot customized hybrid with an aluminum alloy frame and a cockless hammer. It was light to the draw and compact, easy to conceal. Tat, with his cool expensive gun, which he hadn’t had the chance to fire.
The EMS techs at Downtown Medical had advised Jack that Tat had slipped into a coma and was on life support.
The Ghost with the spikey gel hair had packed a 910 featuring an ambidextrous hammer drop. According to the ME’s report, gunshot residue was found on his left hand. The gun was also a ten-shot piece, that he could carry half-cocked, ready for action in his quick-draw Combat holster. Dependable, and deadly. He’d emptied the clip, died reaching for the second magazine.
The big Malaysian had an eight-shot 3913 with a thick rubber grip for his large hand. A soldier’s gun. The solid pistol never cleared his back pocket. Instead, his big piece of bad news was the double-barreled sawed-off shotgun, a twelve-gauge featherweight Japanese Winchester. He’d chopped down the stock and barrel, cutting it short so he could carry it beneath his coat. A nasty piece of work, sure to take fighters down.
He’d gotten off both barrels.
The other vics in the face-off told the other part of the story. All had soldier guns. The one in the alley died with a Taurus 938 in his hand. He’d emptied the ten-shot clip of the.380 automatic, an inexpensive import. Great bang for the buck. The bangs hadn’t saved him from getting shot in the back.
Of the two stocky vics who looked related, one also had a Taurus, a PT11 racking ten shots. Cheap but reliable. He’d fired eight shots, leaving two in the magazine.
The other one had brandished a Ruger Redhawk, a.357 Magnum that weighed two pounds, a heavy carry. It was a thunderous six-shot revolver, and it’s report alone would freeze all the action.
He’d emptied the cannon.
The odd piece was found on the old man in the alley: an outdated Italian model, Trident Vigilante. A snub-nose.32-caliber revolver that chambered six Smith amp; Wesson cartridges. Super light, less than a pound. A belly gun with a light kick. Good for close combat. But why? An old man dying of cancer?