3 Quarters (47 page)

“Actually I'm here for some watermelon and ribs,” Morgan said, and flashed his badge. The security guard held his hands up in mock surrender.

“Enjoy your meal, bro,” he said, and lifted the security arm.

John Shine parked at the carport beside his beach home and helped Dr. Hector Perez from the passenger's seat and up the stairs to his deck and through the back door. He walked him through the living room and then down a narrow corridor between the stairs leading to the upper floor and the wall of the living room. On the right-hand side of the base wall of the staircase, John Shine pressed firmly on a three-foot-by-six-foot panel of oak, right where the wooden tongue met the groove of the next gleaming panel. A firm double counterpress released the magnetic catch-lock, which allowed Shine to swing the section inward. In front of him was a flight of steep stone steps leading into the earth beneath the beach. Nothing, not all the reinforced concrete and soundproofing in the world, could lock out the smell of the sea that seeped through the three-foot-thick missile-silo walls. John Shine flicked on a light switch and led Dr. Perez through the entrance.

“Watch your step, Doctor,” John Shine said. “These stairs are rather steep. Let me lead.”

At the bottom of the steps, John Shine unlocked a ten-inch-thick door, consisting of solid soundproofing foam sandwiched between two sheets of two-inch plywood. He pushed open the door, which gave way with a sigh.

“Daddy, I'm cold,” Dorothea said.

“The doctor is here, darling,” Shine said. “Everything will be fine.”

Forrest Morgan parked on the beach road with a clear view of the stately house. Stars twinkled in the sky above Jamaica Bay, and the far-off strains of the Coney Island amusement parks carried on the soft night wind.

“Okay, Counselor, we watched him walk Perez inside,” Morgan said.

“Then you witnessed conspiracy, extortion, blackmail, and a victim under duress,” Gleason said. “You can legally follow them inside. That's my whole fuckin' contribution. See ya in court. I'm going down to that gin mill for a fuckin' Yoo-driver.”

Gleason made a move to get out of the car. Bobby stopped him.

“You gotta wait right here, Iz,” Bobby said. “That's enemy territory.”

“You ready?” Morgan asked.

“Let's do it,” Bobby said and walked toward the back of the house.

Patrick stopped at the Windy Tip security gate in the PAL bus. The security guard looked at him and then at the two black faces with him. “Sorry, ace,” the security guard said. “You musta missed the turn for Riker's Island.”

Patrick flashed his badge. The security guard looked at it.

“You can go in,” he said. “But the help stays where they are.”

Patrick smiled, floored the accelerator, and smashed through the security arm and into Windy Tip.

Dr. Perez checked Dorothea Dubrow's heartbeat and her pulse as John Shine sat in an overstuffed armchair in the shadowy corner of the subterranean living quarters. A spotlight behind him shone directly into the room, casting him in shadow and shielding him from Perez's view.

Perez put an ice pack on Dorothea's forehead and placed her hand on it to secure it.

“I need you to do this as quickly as possible,” John Shine said from the shadows. “I have a child to collect and a plane to catch. I need to know if she is ready to endure a long trip.”

“What drugs is she on?” Perez asked.

“Haldol,” Shine said. “Three milligrams three times a day.”

“Enough to keep her in a prolonged semiconscious zombie state,” Perez said. “She must be a hell of a strong woman to still have a pulse and heartbeat like she has. Her fever is bad. But not dangerous. Still, I don't recommend travel.”

“Can she endure a four-hour trip?” Shine asked.

“Yes,” Perez said. “But I'm going to give her a vitamin B shot. Her fever might worsen if she sleeps.” Perez was lying, sweating, checking his watch, looking over at the stairs' door beyond John Shine. Instead of vitamin B, he gave Dorothea a low-dose injection of a mild amphetamine, to bring her out of her Haldol stupor. He knew that anything could happen in the next few minutes. Where were they? He stalled for time. He crossed Dorothea's legs, checking her reflexes, which were weak but satisfactory. The amphetamine was already beginning to counteract the Haldol.

“She comes from excellent stock,” John Shine said, beaming with pride.

Bobby slid open the back door of the beach house. After leading Perez inside, John Shine had not locked it or set the elaborate alarm. He was obviously planning a quick departure.

Bobby and Forrest Morgan stepped quietly into the house, guns drawn. Morgan cautiously followed Bobby through the living room.

“Where's the trapdoor?” Morgan whispered.

“The plans say somewhere under the stairs,” Bobby softly replied. “We gotta search for the panel.”

“Wonderful,” Morgan said.

O'Brien placed fresh brews in front of Lebeche and Daniels. They stood at the bar of The Central Booking Saloon, watching New York 1, an all-news TV station, with silent dread. Caputo and Dixon, Levin and Flynn, sat spaced along the bar, flat beers warming on the counter as they watched with growing alarm the breaking news about the murders of Barnicle, Tuzio, Hanratty, and Farrell.

Then the alarm turned to panic when stock footage of the Empire State Building came on the screen. “In what could be a related matter,” the Asian newscaster announced, “a man identified as Constantine Zeke, an ex-cop who worked for Gibraltar Security in Brooklyn, has been identified by Manhattan homicide detectives as the man arrested in the Empire State Building this evening for stabbing to death a fellow Gibraltar operative named Richard Kuzak. Sources say Zeke is cooperating with authorities in an unfolding corruption scandal . . . .”

Silence prevailed in The Central Booking Saloon until the men at the bar heard the sound of a gun being cocked behind them, followed by the sounds of a basketball being dribbled. The shocked cops turned and saw Patrick Emmet standing there. Walters and his father were with him. Patrick held his gun on the cops at the bar.

“Now, let's nice and slowly put all the guns on the bar, guys,” Patrick said, training his service revolver with confident authority. He pinned his badge on his PAL jacket.

The stunned three-quarters cops complied, placing their service revolvers on the bar.

“What, are we making a Spike Lee movie here?” Daniels said, attempting humor amid the shock.

“Walters, collect the guns for me,” Patrick said to the tall teenager. Walters moved quickly along the bar collecting the guns, placing them in a gym bag, patting down each livid cop and finding concealed “drop” guns, used to plant on potential perps, on two of them. “And then identify the ones who robbed you.”

“Your name is gonna be shit on the job, asshole,” Lebeche said to Patrick. “I got your badge number stenciled in my brain.”

When Walters got to Lebeche and Daniels, he said, “Remember me?”

“I don't watch
Soul Train
,” Daniels said.

“You star in
Gorillas in the Mist?”
asked Lebeche.

“You guys helped me celebrate my father's birthday,” Walters said. “That ring a bell?”

He yanked Daniels off the stool first, hit him with a right hand that flattened his nose into a bloody pulp. He followed with a left hook to the rib cage that dropped Daniels in a heap.

Lebeche ran toward the rear of the bar, and Walters's father followed, grabbing him. He slammed Lebeche onto the top of the pool table and drove a right hand into his face, cheekbones and the nose cracking.

“I'm the boy's father, fellas,” the father said. “Now, I want an apology for my boy, and then I want my goddamned birthday money.”

He hit him a second blow to the face, Lebeche's head lolling on the green felt.

“Easy, guys,” Patrick shouted. “I want them to be able to stand when they're in front of the judge.”