Chapter 1
Men died, but I had no part in it.
I am a private investigator and now I wonder--what the hell did I get myself into? Who were those men in black suits with their earpieces and dark shades? The bigger question is: who came in and mopped up the scene? I need answers, and she better have them as I don’t need her money that badly.
After this mayhem, I went to the only place I have ever found refuge: the Celtic Brewery. A catchy name, but it will always remain O’Malley’s Pub to me. Yet with the new renovation and added on-site brewing capabilities, it was a great addition to one of the best neighborhood drinking and dining establishments in Queens.
The place was packed as usual and there he was, barking orders to his wait staff, the old crooner himself: Hayden McIntyre, grandson of the original owner, Patrick O’Malley. I often joked with him I knew why he had changed the name; too many O’Malley Pubs owned by an Irish guy named Patrick were scattered throughout the New York Metropolitan area.
I found a seat at the bar and waved Hayden over.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in. What are you in here for tonight ′Sully,′ wanting to drown your sorrows as you often do, or are you priming yourself for ′Candy’s Palace’ up the street?”
Hayden reached under the bar grabbing a dry bar towel and tossed it at me.
“Here, Alex, dry yourself off as I’d hate to see you catch the death of cold.”
How right Mr. McIntyre was, but he didn’t realize it wasn’t the cold or rain that may have killed me tonight-- it was something much darker.
“Hayden, I do appreciate you calling me ′Sully,′ but out of respect that was what you always called my father. I would prefer you not refer to me like that. ′Alex or Sully’s Kid’ would do fine and I will have a pint of your homemade stout.”
“Oh, a pint is it. Perhaps I was wrong about your intentions in being here, as if you really wanted to get yourself primed up for that fancy-named brothel up the street. I am sure you would have ordered a boilermaker or two. After all, they do charge a high buck for their beverages in that glorified strip joint.”
“No, Hayden, I am not going up the street tonight, and by the way—it’s a gentleman’s club, not a strip joint.”
He looked at me with a big grin and under his breath said, ”ya sure.”
“You have no idea what kind of night I’ve had, Hayden. By the way, have you seen Jeremy lately?”
“Jeremy Tolbert, the no good for nothing ′Dick Tracy’...no, I haven’t seen him lately and it’s a good thing too. All he does when he comes ’round here is flash his badge expecting free drinks. He’s become a real pain in the ass ever since he’s gotten to rub shoulders with the FBI and Homeland Security agents in town.”
Hayden looked at me now with concern and addressed me as the man who knew my father well.
“Son, are you alright, come to think of it—you do look pale. You know I was just riding you about ′Candy’s Palace,′ as I’m only looking out for you. Your father and I went back a long way and I miss the old man.”
I held back my emotion. I did know the strong bond Hayden had with my father. He was right in what he had said earlier. I did come to his place to drown my sorrows on many occasions, for reasons too many to tell. At least, that wasn’t the reason for my visit tonight as I had more pressing concerns. I’ve decided as soon as I get my act together I’ll make a few calls, and the first one will be to her answering machine, which she set up for me to contact her—she’ll definitely have some explaining to do.
In a raised voice Hayden again asked.
“Alex, are you OK.”
“I am fine Hayden”—I scanned over the bar and asked, “By the way, is Susan working tonight? I don’t see her.”
“No, she is off tonight, but she will be working the next few days.”
I finished my pint, and Hayden for another.
“I will be right back, need to make a call.”
I moved to a quieter, more private location in the bar and dialed my new client’s number. It rang and the answering machine came on:
“Rebecca, something important has come up, and we need to meet ASAP. Call me when you get to your office in the morning and let’s set up a convenient time to get together. It is of critical importance we meet.”
Hours earlier. . .
The walk from the Trump Hotel to the Avis Rental lot was a bit of a hike, but considering rates to park in Manhattan, it was good to have connections with the lot crew. I used this location back in the days when I was on the force, so knowing a twenty spot was sufficient, even though I couldn’t do any of them favors if they got caught with a joint or other nuisances, such as parking tickets; the bond was still there as they all knew of my misfortunes and were basically good guys. The walk down Broadway to W. 54th Street was actually a godsend, as it gave me time to think.
I had had a good vantage point to view my client’s husband and the woman he was with as they dined at Jean Georges in the Trump Hotel. I got some great pictures of them together, but nothing a divorce court would consider reason enough to dissolve a marriage. People dine out all the time. What I needed was an ‘in.’ I needed to get something into the room they went to after they dined and tape whatever was going on, then my client would have the proof she needed. My job was to get the dirt, nothing more. So this was my dilemma: how does one plant a high tech undetectable video and sound recorder in the room? Lucky for me, they used the same room every time they met. I did think it strange for one having an affair to continue using the same location, but the room did have a great view of Central Park.
It was time to call in a favor with one who knows of records of individuals, someone who—in a moment’s notice—could get into the NYPD system and find someone in the Trump Hotel staff who has access to all rooms; the best would be either a maid or an in-dining waiter. I am sure if Jeremy digs deep enough, he will find someone I could manipulate due to their past entanglement with the law and get them to help me.
Jeremy Tolbert was one of my best friends, and we kept in contact when we could. We still had a great bond along with another friend, Billy Westcott, an electronics genius. Yes, ‘the three musketeers’ as our parents often called us. Right after 9/11, Jeremy and I joined the military. Billy was hesitant, but joined soon after and was shipped directly to Germany due to his computer suave and electronics skills, where he worked as a computer tech doing surveillance. He got the opportunity to work with all the fancy high-tech equipment most of us don’t even know about.
When Jeremy finished his second tour, he joined the NYPD Terrorism task force due to his outstanding record working with the high-level generals at Strategic Command Headquarters. He also gained experience by working closely with the FBI, Homeland Security, and Interpol, hunting down locations of suspected terrorist throughout the Middle East and following their movements.
Unfortunately, his wife Mary didn’t like me. After my divorce, she got tired of me calling late at night when I was dealing with some personal things. Plus, she hated when Jeremy would go out for a few drinks with me on occasion. Jeremy was a family man now and didn’t party much, but when the boys got together, well you get the picture--we could drink with the best of them and many times we did. Many nights we had to cab it home from the Celtic Brewery. I am sure it was always a pleasant ride back with his wife to get his car in the morning. No doubt he would have to listen to her cursing me for being a bad influence. Perhaps she was right, as I had few responsibilities since my wife got remarried and basically shut me out of her life and the life of my daughter.
As I walked, out of the corner of my eye I could see a car shadowing me: a dark, ominous sedan. I thought to check if it was my imagination or for real—was someone tailing me. I turned down W. 55th street, this would make my walk longer as I would have to walk the entire block to 6th Ave and back up W. 54th street. The car turned and kept a distance away, but it was definitely following me.
All of a sudden it picked up speed, as another vehicle raced by it and screeched its tires and turned onto the sidewalk in front of me. Men from both vehicles came at me from both sides--I was cornered. I thought for a moment, “Man, do these guys go to the same tailor?” They looked like they had come from a reshoot of the Matrix in their identical black suits and clear eye pieces. Perhaps Mr. Smith was in the back seat of the car which had followed me, wanting to talk with Mr. Anderson.
The men, with their Glock 9mm semi-automatic pistols at the ready didn’t say a thing; they just pointed me toward the car, which was now stopped.
The window rolled down a few inches and I heard a man shout,
“Mr. Sullivan, would you kindly sit with me for a moment.”
It was not an invitation—it was a command.
One of the big, black-suited brutes opened the door and I entered the back of the car.
There sitting to my right was someone who looked more like an accountant than a secretive government operative, or FBI or whoever these people were. He had an Apple laptop, which he slowly opened.
“Now Mr. Sullivan, where would you like me to start? Or do you prefer I call you Alex?”
Before I could answer, he interrupted.
“Alex, Okay, Alex, let me see here. You were All City in three sports: football, baseball, and hockey.”
He looked at me and asked,
“Why not play basketball, seems you are tall enough?”
“Too boring, plus it was really all about hockey, which conflicts with basketball.”
“So instead of going to University, you decided to join the military after 9/11 to due to your patriotic nature, and you were so gifted you were placed in Special Ops. Nice, but I see you were only in Afghanistan for a few years and were shipped home after being involved in a fire fight where you were injured”—he looked up at me and shook his head--“funny thing here is most of the guys had what I would call ‘insignificant injuries’, such as yourself, usually went back to finish their tour of duty.”
“I wanted to but my wife didn’t want me to go back. She said I had given enough and I needed to stay to help with our daughter. She was as patriotic as any American, but considering she was pregnant when I left for Afghanistan...well you can see how it could play on a young expecting mother’s mind.”
“So, you joined the NYPD and worked up to detective and spent ten years with the force. Yet, you left the force under, well let’s say ‘mitigating circumstances’ while working with the Drug Task Force?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Sullivan, I have two questions for you. Number one: who are you working for? Number two: what’s the nature of your business with Johan Van-de Rayen.”
“Sorry, client privilege, I wouldn’t be much of a private investigator if I divulged information to you or anyone else about the business I do for my client.”
“Let me get straight to the point, Mr. Sullivan: whatever you have been doing in regard to Mr. Van-de Rayen, you will cease and desist.”
He grabbed my camera and took out the flash memory card.
“You won’t need this. Now Mr. Sullivan, are we clear here because if we are not, the next time we meet”—now looking more sinister—“it will not be as pleasant for you.”
Although I wanted to reach across and tear his throat out, it would not have been a good idea considering I was outnumbered, and they had Glocks.
“I don’t have much of a choice, do I? So yes, I will agree as I enjoy breathing and am not one for pleasantries.”
“Good, you will as instructed drop all activities involving Van-de Rayen.”
He motioned to one of his men.
“Escort Mr. Sullivan to his car at the Avis Rental lot and make sure he leaves.”
The man nodded.
The only thing I could think of at the present time was this guy had an accent, but I am not an expert. It could have been European or South African; I couldn’t place it, and he spoke English flawlessly.
As my escort and I started walking down W. 55th a piercing sound echoed in the street. The man I was with had been hit in the head by a sniper’s bullet. I immediately hit the pavement, as several black SUV’s pulled up from both directions of the road, raining down a hail of machine gun fire—both the vehicles which had followed and cornered me were riddled with bullets. Instinctively, as if I had been transported back to my days as a Special Forces operative, I instantly rolled, and crawled into an alley a few feet away. I was afraid for my life and my heart was pounding practically out of my chest. The Glock I grabbed from my dead escort and my Ruger SP101 .357 magnum would not be near enough firepower to thwart off machine guns, but no one followed. My recollection of the sound of those guns: they were not U.S. Military issue or anything the FBI or Secret Service used as the pitch was too high. Nevertheless, they did what was intended—to kill anything in their path.
In the stillness of the night, after the guns stopped and the shattered glass was still, I could hear sirens in the background As the sounds came closer, the men who had been involved in the slaughter jumped back into their SUV’s; with tires squealing, they left the area in haste.
I inched my way back toward the scene. The men who were now fleeing the siren vanished into their SUV’s and were gone. I quickly jumped from the shadows, scanning the bullet ridden scene for the Apple computer, which had my information on it. To my dismay, it was gone. I slipped back into the darkness. I didn’t think it a good idea to have the NYPD finding me involved in this massacre.
Two NYPD S.W.A.T. tactical vehicles rolled up along with several trucks, large enough to impound the shot-up vehicles. It was a sight to see as this swat crew mopped up the scene in minutes. Bodies, vehicles, and everything not nailed down was washed from the scene. It was as if nothing had happened. With expediency, the vehicles were gone. As convenient, rain started coming down, and I was soaked to the bone by the time I reached my car.
The most alarming thought I had—there was something odd about what I had witnessed.
It had been forty-five minutes since I called Jeremy on his cell. He wasn’t too happy, as it was late, and I am sure he would catch hell from his wife, Mary.
My cell rang and I could see Jeremy’s name. “Finally,” I thought.
“Hi Alex, sorry it took so long but I had to check out everything in the system and make it look like I was doing catch up work. The entire system tracks and I have to be careful not to pull things I am not involved in as it would send up a red flag in the system.”
“Jeremy, I totally understand. So, what did you find out about the S.W.A.T. detail?”
“I checked all operations since 06:00 until now and I didn’t find anything unusual. The strange thing is no tactical force was out tonight, not one, so you must have been mistaken.”
“Jeremy, do you think I am making this all up?”
“No, Alex, you are like a brother, not at all. I am stating the facts. Whatever you saw wasn’t NYPD.”
“I understand. We need to meet in person and go and see Billy.”
“Why?”
“You are a smart guy, you figure it out. If it wasn’t our guys on the street, who the hell was it masquerading as NYPD?”
“OK, so we dig into it and find out? . . . What then?”
“You took the same oath as I back in 2001, and I am going to bloody well abide by that oath. I am sure you remember it—“I do solemnly swear I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.”
Jeremy was always an intelligent guy, and what he said next, I expected.
“And if in doing our sworn duty, Alex, we find are terrorists and traitors among us?”
I thought for a short time. Jeremy knew I was going to give him what he wanted: a commitment.
“We will serve this country no matter who is involved; we will do whatever we can to bring them all down!”
