The Last Templar - Страница 20

Sometimes, the workload was sufficiently intense to monopolize his thoughts. Occasionally though, his mind would segue into personal issues, straying into even darker territory than the underworld of his investigations, and unpleasant anxiety attacks would worm their way to the surface and take over.

A lot of it had to do with what happened to his dad, how he'd shot himself when Reilly was ten, how the young boy had come home from school and wandered into the study that day and found his father there,

sitting in his favorite armchair as he always did except, this time, the back of his head was missing.

Either way, what followed was always a hugely frustrating couple of hours for him. Too tired to get out of bed and use the time to do something useful, but too wired to get back to sleep. He'd just lie there in the dark, his mind taking him to all kinds of desolate places. And he'd wait. Sleep usually came mercifully at around six or so, little comfort given that he'd have to be up again an hour later to go to work.

That night, the four a.m. wake-up came courtesy of a call from the night duty officer. It informed him that the man he'd chased across the streets of lower Manhattan had passed away. The duty officer mentioned something about internal bleeding and heart failure and failed efforts to resuscitate the dead man. Reilly had spent the next two hours, as was customary, reviewing the case, one which had now lost its most promising and only real lead given that he didn't think Lucien Broussard would be able to tell them much, if and when he was actually able to speak again. But thinking about the case soon merged with other thoughts that were swirling around in his mind after leaving the hospital earlier that night. Thoughts mostly relating to Tess Chaykin.

Looking out the window, he thought about how the first thing he'd noticed about her when they'd sat down at the cafe was that she wasn't wearing a wedding band, or any rings for that matter.

Noticing things like that played an important role in his professional life. It was an instinctive attention to detail that came with years on the job.

Only this wasn't work, and Tess wasn't a suspect.

***

"His name was Gus Waldron."

Reilly listened intently, cradling a hot mug of coffee, as Aparo scoured the rap sheet with practiced eyes, cutting to the chase for the benefit of the assembled core team of federal agents.

"Clearly a pillar of the community who'll be sorely missed," Aparo continued. "Professional boxer, minor leagues, a wild man in and out of the ring, banned from fights in three states. Four counts of assault and armed robbery, both here and in Jersey. Couple of stints at Bikers—" he looked up and said pointedly, "—including a cruise on the Vernon Bain.'' ' The Vernon C. Bain, named after a well-liked warden who died in a car accident, was an eight-hundred-bed barge that housed medium- to maximum-security inmates. "Suspected of two homicides, both beatings. No indictments there. Compulsive gambler. Been running a losing streak for half his life." Aparo looked up. "That's about it."

"Sounds like a guy who's always in need of a fast buck," Jansson observed. "Who does he hang out with?"

Aparo flicked a page and went down the list of Waldron's known associates. "Josh Schlattmann, died last year . . . Reza Fardousi, a three-hundred-pound sack of shit—doubt any horse in the country could carry him." His eyes scanned the names, editing the no-hopes. "Lonnie Morris, a small-time dealer currently on parole and living with and working for, if you believe this, his grandmother, who has a flower shop in Queens." Then Aparo looked up again, this time with an expression on his face that Reilly knew spelled trouble. "Branko Petrovic," he stated unhappily. "An ex-cop. And get this. He was with the NYPD's mounted division." He looked up at them. "Retired. And not by choice, if you get my drift."

Amelia Gaines flicked a knowing glance at Reilly, then volunteered the question. "What'd he do?"

"Theft. Dipped his hand into the cookie jar at the precinct after a dope bust," Aparo said. "Doesn't look like he did any time. Discharged, loss of pension rights."

Reilly frowned, not exactly pleased at the prospect. "Let's talk to him. Find out how he makes a living these days."

Chapter 24

N o matter how hard he tried, Branko Petrovic couldn't keep his mind on his work. Not that his job at the stables needed his undivided attention. Most days, he watered and fed the horses and shoveled horseshit on autopilot, keeping his stocky body hard and fit. His brain was left free to work out angles, calculate odds, make plans. Usually, that was.

Today was different.

It had been his idea to hire Gus Waldron. He'd been asked to find someone big and tough who could ride a horse, so he'd thought of Gus. Okay, so he knew that Gus could be a wild man at times, but he didn't expect him to go lopping off someone's head with a sword. Christ, even the fucking Colombians didn't pull stunts like that. Not in public anyway.

Something felt wrong. He'd tried calling Gus that morning and didn't get an answer. He fingered an old scar on his forehead, feeling the ache that always came back when things went wrong. Don't do anything that attracts attention, he'd been told, ordered even, and that's what he'd told Gus. A lot of fucking use that had been. Right now, attracting attention was the least of his worries.

A sudden panic surged over him. He had to get the hell out of Dodge, while he still could.

He rushed across the stables and opened up one of the stalls where a frisky two-year-old flicked her tail at him. In a corner was a crimped-top tub packed with animal feed. Opening it, he thrust his hands inside, raking away the pellets, and pulled out a sack. He weighed it momentarily, then reached into it and pulled out a glimmering golden statuette of a rearing horse, gaudily encrusted with diamonds and rubies. He stared at it for a moment, then rummaged further and dug out a pendant of emeralds set in silver. The contents of the sack were nothing short of life changing.

Carefully fenced, provided he took his time and did it carefully, he knew that the jeweled pieces in there were enough to buy him the condo down on the Gulf that he'd always promised himself and that, ever since he'd been dumped off the force, had looked as though it would never happen—and a whole lot more.

Closing the gate on the filly, he headed down the walkway between the stalls and was almost at the door when he heard one of the horses snicker and stomp restlessly, alarmed. Another horse followed suit, then another. Turning, he looked down the walkway, seeing nothing but hearing the racket as all the horses in the stable block had now joined in.

Then he saw it.

A tendril of smoke, drifting out of an empty stall at the farthermost end.

The nearest extinguisher was halfway along the walkway and when he reached it, he dropped the sack, yanked the cylinder out of its clamp, and headed for the empty stall. By now, the smoke was more than merely tendrils. Pulling open the gate, he saw that the fire was seated in a pile of straw in one corner. He pulled the pin off and squeezed the handle, quickly putting the fire out, when it suddenly occurred to him that he'd only finished working in that stall less than an hour earlier.

There had been no pile, just the raked, level carpet of straw he'd spread himself.

Hastily, Branko stepped out of the stall, watchful now. No point in listening. Trying to hear anything but the frantic neighing of the horses, some of them also lashing out at the sides and gates of their stalls, was impossible.

He started back along the walkway, then saw more smoke, this time at the other end of the block.

Damn it. There was someone in there with him. Then he remembered the sack. He had to go get it. His whole life's plans depended on it.

Dumping the extinguisher, he ran for the sack, snatched it up, then stopped short.

The horses.

He couldn't just run for it; he had to do something about them.

Slamming open the bolt on the nearest stall, he leaped back as the horse cannoned out through the gate. Then the next bolt. Another horse shot out like a bullet, its hooves deafening in the enclosed space. There were only three more horses to release when an iron-hard forearm locked around his throat.

"Don't struggle," a voice said quietly, lips close to Branko's ear. "I don't want to have to cripple you."

Branko froze. The grip was firm, professional. He didn't doubt for a moment that the man was deadly serious.

He was quickly dragged back toward the stable door where he felt the man's other hand at his wrist, then the bite of a hard plastic strip against his skin and in a move faster than he could have managed on his best day on the force, his hand was cuffed to the stable's huge sliding door. The man switched arms around his neck, repeated the procedure, and now Branko was spread-eagled across the doorway.

The three horses still trapped in their stalls were now whinnying and bucking wildly, kicking at the wooden partitions as the flames licked their way closer.

The man ducked beneath Branko's right arm and, as he straightened up, he took Branko's hand in his and quickly and without apparent effort, broke his thumb.

Branko screamed in pain, lashing out with both legs, but the man stepped swiftly aside. "What do you want?" the ex-cop yelped.

"Names," the man said, his voice almost lost beneath the clamor of the horses. "And make it quick.

We don't have that much time."