“I think we agree that’s what happened,” Webb said. “We’ve been over this. That’s why they got shot.”
“But Rojas isn’t dead,” she said.
“Not confirmed dead,” Webb corrected.
“Let’s assume, just for a second, he’s still alive,” she said. “Suppose he’s on his way into the meeting, but the shooting starts before he gets inside. He gets away. Now he’s got a load of product to unload, but his deal fell through, his local contacts are dead, and he’s lost the guys he brought with him. He’s got to do something fast, or he’ll have to answer to his bosses down in Colombia. Then suppose he hears from this Irish guy who says he can move some drugs.”
“So Rojas murders the guy who threw him a lifeline?” Vic was skeptical.
“Not right away,” Erin said. “Maybe he does the deal first. McIntyre was hopped up on something when I saw him. I wonder what the Homicide boys will find when they run his bloodwork. A few milligrams of Colombian pure, I’m guessing.”
“Then what? Why kill McIntyre?” Web rubbed his chin.
She shrugged. “Paranoia. Suspicion. Or just snipping off a loose end. Liam didn’t strike me as the most trustworthy, balanced guy in the world. If I were in his line, I wouldn’t count on him. I’m guessing the whole thing looked just a little too convenient to a guy like Rojas.”
“Pretty stupid of McIntyre,” Vic said. “Whack a guy’s associates, then do a deal with him right after?”
“Risky,” Webb said. “Which might explain why he’s on a slab right now. It’s a decent theory, O’Reilly. Problem is, it’s—”
“Thin,” Erin and Vic chorused.
Webb gave them a sour look. “Am I that predictable?”
“Thought you might say that,” Vic said.
“But you’re right,” Erin said. “We need proof.”
“Fortunately, McIntyre’s been murdered, which means we can get a warrant for his home and place of business,” Webb said. “I’ll put in the paperwork. You two, find out where he hangs out. If he got high before your meeting, he may have some stuff at home, even if his main stash is somewhere else.”
“The Irish aren’t gonna like you for this,” Vic said to Erin.
“Really? That’s a shame. Their approval was so very important to me.”
She kept her tone light, but he was right. Evan O’Malley wasn’t likely to take kindly to an investigation into his drug business.
Liam’s home address was on Nassau Street, on the fourth floor of an old brick building with a boarded-up diner on the ground floor. Erin, Vic, and Rolf showed up with their warrant. Lawton and Crawford from Homicide met them there. Webb had stayed behind at the precinct to continue coordinating the efforts of the alphabet soup of government agencies.
“I guess it’s true,” Vic said, looking over the run-down apartment building. “Crime doesn’t pay.”
“There’s plenty of money in drugs,” Erin said. “Liam just put a lot of it right back up his own nose.”
The building’s superintendent was nowhere to be found, but Lawton had Liam’s keys. While he jingled them around, trying to find the right one for the outer door, Crawford unwrapped a piece of chewing gum.
“The wife says it’s better for me than cigarettes,” he said, popping the stick into his mouth and chewing morosely. “But it’s not the same.”
“Your wife’s right,” Erin said.
“You smoke?” Crawford asked with a hint of hope.
“Sorry, no.”
“I was a little surprised to hear from you,” he went on. “Who’s got jurisdiction over this mess, anyway?”
“Technically, you guys,” Vic said. “We’re just being good neighbors, helping you out.”
“We figure anyone’s inside?”
“Nope.”
“But you’re wearing vests,” Crawford observed. “Even the dog.”
“I’ve kicked in a lot of doors,” Vic said. “Every now and then, someone shoots at me. How come you didn’t tac up?”
“Guy lived alone,” Crawford said. “No reason to think anyone’s home. Besides,” he added, looking down at himself, “I don’t fit into my vest so good anymore. I blame the nicotine withdrawal. I just keep putting on weight.”
“I blame the street hot dogs,” Lawton said over his shoulder.
“If you guys don’t have vests, we’re going in first,” Erin said. She’d seen one fellow officer die from an unlucky bullet and didn’t want to see another go the same way.
“Fine by me,” Lawton said. “Here’s the key.”
They went up the stairs single file, Vic in the lead, Erin and Rolf behind him, Lawton and Crawford bringing up the rear. Vic and Erin had their sidearms in hand, just in case. The stairway was narrow and smelled like cigarettes and mold. Plaster was peeling from the corner of the doorframe.
Vic paused. He glanced at Erin and cocked his head at the door, pointing silently toward it. She saw what he’d seen. The door was slightly ajar.
She nodded and wrapped her hands tighter around the grip of her Glock.
Vic kicked the door open and shouted, “NYPD! Hands in the air!”
That was as far as he got. There was a sound like a giant piece of cloth being ripped down the middle. Chunks of plaster and splinters of wood exploded into the hallway. Vic hurled himself backward, stumbling and spinning against the wall on the opposite side of the door from Erin.
The cloth-tearing sound happened again, in a shorter burst this time. Erin watched bullet holes punch through the wall, each one leaving a puff of plaster and brick dust in the air.
Some detached, clinical part of Erin’s brain told her they had a shooter inside Liam’s apartment, armed with an automatic weapon, probably a submachine-gun. It sounded just like the weapon that had killed Liam. Vic was still on his feet and didn’t look like he’d been hit, which was good. Stepping into that doorway was probably suicidal. He was about four feet away from her and might as well be on the far side of the East River.
“Holy shit,” Lawton said in a quiet, conversational tone, like he was commenting on the weather.
“Call for backup,” Erin snapped at him.
“You in
