Cold Cash

The sniper clung to the shadows.

He was wet. Rain slanted down over the haphazard shaped rooftops that formed the breath-taking skyline of Manhattan. It collected in the drains lining each rooftop before flowing down onto the wet sidewalks and being swallowed by the greedy gutters and storm drains. The sheets of water drove most sensible New Yorkers indoors, drove cab drivers and motorists crazy as tyres refused to grip and windows clogged with condensation, and drove the sniper kneeling on the roof of the brownstone overlooking Second and Eighty-ninth to centre the crosshairs of the telescopic sight on a doorway on the far side of the street. The telescopic sight was attached to a bolt-action 7.92mm Mauser.

The rain brought with it the first chill of an October winter, and a biting wind swept and curled around the brownstones and embassy buildings lining both sides of the street. Up the street the bright yellow glare of a lone deli beckoned a welcome to those pedestrians unlucky enough to be still out. Somewhere else a dog barked, its anguished howl sounding like the wail of a banshee amid the grey canyon walls of the city. On the windswept street a teenager entered a kiosk and dialled 911. He had no idea why the stranger had offered him twenty bucks to make the call and cared less.

High above, a savage smile twisted the sniper’s mouth as he adjusted his rifle and settled down to wait.

* * *

“Wouldya look at that rain,” Sergeant Jack Umberson muttered through a mouthful of an egg mayonnaise sandwich. “I’ll tell you Laws, when I put in my thirty next month, I’m off to Florida. Bikini-clad women, sunshine, beer. Nothing like it.”

Patrolman Stephen Laws, six months out of the police academy wondered why it was that many retirees from the department ended up in Florida. Shuffleboard in the sun, he thought sourly. What the hell was wrong with Nevada, Texas or Colorado? Silently, he took another bite of his cheese and tomato wrap, washing it down with a sip of black coffee from the Styrofoam container in his hand. It tasted like plastic. He eyed the sergeant for a moment and wondered idly if he’d manage to survive the rigours of the job and retire on full pension. He didn’t particularly like Umberson and didn’t know many from the one-nine who did, but because his regular partner had a flu virus, he’d been saddled with the sergeant and ordered to drive him around the precinct territory so that he could give the patrol officers and sergeants a ‘see’. Umberson was the senior sergeant of all the sergeants operating out of the one-nine. He had decided to see for himself how he could move on the latest departmental circular which contained stern warnings about the practice of ‘cooping’ on the job, a habit as old as time and which Umberson himself had partaken of as a mere humble patrolman. It wouldn’t bother Umberson to be seen kicking some ass before retiring.

Umberson was an unkempt figure, a typical ‘hairbag’, with almost thirty years on the job, a huge belly from too many meals on the arm, large round shoulders and a heavy, craggy face. His uniform hung tightly to his massive frame, shoddy in appearance, and not improving any as he took another huge chunk from his dripping sandwich. He had thick, bulbous lips which smacked with each new bite, unruly red hair, and a coarse tongue. It was the latter trait Laws found so repelling about the man. The characteristic slang names Umberson used for the people of the streets annoyed Laws - Spics, Wops, Spades, Paddys. The man was a bigot and a racist and he was not above cornering some punk in an alleyway and administering his own special brand of justice and using his nightstick to extract information. It was a source of wonder to Laws that the man hadn’t long ago being relegated out of the Manhattan command he clung to so tenaciously, to some backward precinct in the Bronx. Coupled with the racism, there was a whisper that he wasn’t clean, that he might be protecting the gambling action on the nineteenth’s stamping ground, and if that was so, Laws wondered how he’d managed to avoid the attentions of the precinct’s Integrity Control Lieutenant.

Both cops were sitting in a parked RMP at Second and Eighty-fifth, eyeballing the street action through wet and murky windscreens, the wipers swishing back and forth like some rusty pendulum. Laws was the wheelman, and the sergeant manned the radio. Laws was a slender necked patrolman with watchful green eyes shining out of a youthful face, a lean, lanky frame. A native of the city he’d wanted to become a cop since he was knee-high. Minutes earlier, Umberson had transmitted a Ten 7, which technically meant they were out of the car grabbing a bite. As Laws finished his sandwich, he sipped his coffee and listened to the incessant citywide chatter coming over the airwaves. Central tonight sounded like a young female.

“Seventeen Adam to Central, K?”

“Go, Seventeen.”

“Have Sixteen Adam eighty-five me this location.” The radioman relayed his location.

“Boy Six to Central, K?”

“Yeah, Boy Six?”

“We’ve a Ten 11 in our sector.”

“Copy that, Boy Six. A Ten 11. Standby, further.”

“Ten Four, Central. Boy Six, Standing by.”

Laws was jolted out of his reverie by the sound of a high-powered shot. His coffee went all over his shirt front, bringing a gasp of pain from the boiling liquid. Umberson’s front was also wet but from blood and there was a funny expression on his face as his feet went from under him. Laws was scrambling behind the car, his hand reaching for the door handle. In the same motion he grasped the radio and shouted hoarsely: Ten thirteen. Officer down. Ten thirteen.”

Central relayed the ten thirteen.

Instantly the radio went bananas.

“Boy Seven responding.”

“Charlie Three responding.”

“Airport Detail responding.”

“Arson One responding.”

“Detectives One Nine responding.”

Seconds later, Central put out a ‘no further’.

Laws had his service weapon out. He couldn’t see whether Umberson was still alive. The man was silent which didn’t bode well. Laws, hidden by the car, wondered whether he should move. He didn’t want to get his brains blown out by a sniper. He reached for the car mirror and tried turning it. No joy. He called out to Umberson - no reply. He decided to remain in place because he could hear the sirens reaching out to him. No other shots had been fired.

He removed his hat and brought it slowly into view. No shots.

A detective car, an unmarked, was the first to reach him. It squealed to a stop twenty feet away and taking a deep breath he stepped out and weaved over to it.

“What’s up, kid,” one of the detectives asked.

Laws explained quickly.

The driver accelerated towards, immediately putting a barrier between the sergeant and the sniper. One glance told the cops that Umberson was beyond caring. There was a lot of blood now.

Other cars were now arriving, and members were dispatched to the buildings opposite. A radio call reported that the sniper had fled leaving his scoped rifle behind.

Though he wasn’t long on the job, Laws already had one or two informants in place. It really wasn’t his job to hunt down the killer of Umberson; that was the job of the detective bureau. Still, the man had been his partner, albeit briefly.

Laws remembered the stories of Umberson being a ‘bagman’ for the precinct and he hit upon his informant who was an expert in narcotics. Narcotics was where the big money lay. Dirty money.

“Yeah, he was involved,” Bunny confirmed, “and from what I hear he was looking for a lump sum for his retirement. He got too greedy.” Bunny was a wispish man with fair hair and a thin, inquisitive face. His arms were covered in jail tattoos although it had been a few years since he had been incarcerated. It had taught him a lesson and he had been able to trade off the fact that he was an ex-con. He was trusted in that world.

Laws smiled at him. “You don’t have a name for me, do ya?”

Bunny smiled back. “You’re in luck. Try Benjamin. The word on the street is that he hired a killer.”

“Any names?”

Bunny shook his head. “I heard he’s from Detroit, that’s all I know.”

The detectives investigating didn’t want to know. They looked at Laws with incredulity. “Shore, what would you know. Leave this to us, kid. You’re just a patrolman. Get back to your own job.”

Laws wasn’t happy with that. He did a check of airline passengers into New York from Detroit and then cross-checked for criminal records.

Bingo!

Leo Lincoln. Ex-army sniper. Age 40. Caucasian white. Did time in Ionia, Michigan. A state prison. Five years behind bars.

Laws turned next to the car-hire firms at Newark Airport, New Jersey. Within moments he had a motel address.

He thought of ringing the detectives again but knew what they would say. He drove out to make the arrest himself.

Lincoln turned out to be a black individual with more tattoos than Bunny and he was a thin, reedy individual. His eyes went round when Laws told him who he was. He made the arrest easier than expected, handcuffed him, and brought him in for booking.

The detectives couldn’t believe it.

A mere patrolman bringing in a contract killer.

Cannelli, the Chief of Detectives heard about it and immediately congratulated Laws. He then proceeded to chew out his detectives, some of whom were immediately dispatched to pick up Benjamin.

Indictments were handed down by a Grand Jury and the two men were incarcerated in Rikers, awaiting trial.

For his part, Laws was named ‘Patrolman of the month’, and then later ‘Patrolman of the year’. He was put up for a medal.

But the thing that put a real smile on his face was a rapid promotion. He had just earned his goldshield.