Crosshairs, page 5
“He was standing with the prisoners near the building when a squad of Afghan soldiers rolled up in an old deuce and a half. The leader of the squad marched up, gave a short bow of appreciation to Trilling, then kicked the closest prisoner. Trilling knocked the Afghan squad leader off his feet, stood between him and the prisoners, knocked out two other soldiers with some kind of martial arts moves, then held the rest at gunpoint until US troops arrived and flew everyone out.
“Once Trilling knows his mission, nothing will stop him.”
I was almost in shock at the story. Then Trilling yelled again. “Line is hot!”
He fired once more. I could hear the ping of the bullet hitting a metal target downrange. Then he shifted slightly in his prone position and fired a steady stream of a dozen shots.
He stood up, showed the captain that he’d removed the magazine from the rifle and that the chamber was empty. He said, “Let’s take a look.”
As we strolled downrange, the captain explained that the range wasn’t in official use so there was no one on hand to run the target back.
Trilling said, “Remember, this was just a scoped rifle, not a true sniper rifle.”
It didn’t matter. All the bullet holes were basically in the center printed on the paper target.
I got the idea and looked at Trilling in a new light.
CHAPTER 18
I FELT I might understand my new partner a little better now. It took some serious concentration to have the sort of shooting skills Rob Trilling possessed. I had to look past his reserved nature and quiet demeanor. It was almost unsettling. But on the ride back from West Point, he was a little more animated and interested in talking. Maybe it’s because I’d let him take me into the world he knew so well.
Before we were even halfway back to the city, Walter Jackson called with a new tip that had come in, one he thought was pretty good. Walter had done the background himself. It was for a Marine veteran named Anton Hobbs, who’d had several violent outbursts and been referred to mental health officials three different times by NYPD officers responding to his apartment in Harlem. The tipster said the guy was sullen and surly.
I had a feeling that one of Anton’s nervous neighbors had made the call. Of course, that was just a guess, but a guess backed up by years of experience dealing with this kind of thing.
Walter had retrieved a fitness report on Anton from his contact at the Department of Defense. The report said that the former Marine had excellent rifle skills even if he wasn’t officially a sniper. I wasn’t sure what that meant in relation to my criminal investigation, but Anton was someone we could talk to. It was also another chance to evaluate how Rob Trilling dealt with the general public, one of the single most important skills a New York police officer could develop. He’d certainly impressed me so far, but I knew firsthand that not everyone had those skills.
We went to the address Walter had given us, an apartment in a six-story building. Anton’s mother answered the door and told us he’d moved out a few months ago to his own apartment a few blocks away. She said her son visited her frequently at this address. That narrowed down who had called in the tip on the former Marine.
The middle-aged woman held me by the forearm and said, “My baby’s not in trouble, is he? He gave so much to this country, and he’s not gotten a lot back.”
That was a lot of pressure. Anton’s mother was the sort of sincere, hardworking person who could keep a whole neighborhood from spiraling down the drain. Young people would usually listen to a woman like this, and her tone and manner told me she’d been putting out a lot of fires in this neighborhood for many years.
I said, “We just need to ask him a few questions. I don’t think you have a lot to worry about. And I promise we’ll be careful and respectful.”
The woman said, “You have kind eyes. I believe you. Don’t let me down.”
We drove two blocks east to an apartment building almost identical to the one we’d just left. Maybe it was a little more run-down. As we stepped out of the car, I had an uneasy feeling. This really could be the guy. It’s easy to get complacent in this job, but I’ve learned to listen to my gut feelings.
I took a good look at the building and this time I noticed several apartments with plywood instead of windows. There were some broken bottles along the sidewalk. No one was looking out for kids around here. There was nowhere to play safely.
Walking up to the third-floor apartment, I saw that the floor of the stairwell was covered with trash. Empty Gatorade bottles; ice cream wrappers; old, soggy magazines; and fast-food containers from every possible chain.
There was no one in the third-floor hallway as we emerged from the stairs. I found the Marine’s apartment just about in the middle of the hallway.
I knocked on the door.
We heard someone inside call out, “Go away.”
I spoke to the door after identifying myself. “Anton? We just need to talk to you for a few minutes.”
From behind the door, Anton said, “Am I under arrest?”
“No, sir.”
“You have a search warrant?”
“No, sir.”
“Then I stand by my earlier comment. Go away. Right now.”
I was at a loss. We needed to talk to this man, but he was right: we had no legal paperwork on him. I noticed Trilling writing something on his business card. Then he leaned down and slid it under the door.
Trilling motioned me away from the door and we then stood down the hallway silently. I didn’t even ask Trilling what he had written on his card.
About forty-five seconds later, the door opened, and a tall Black man pointed at Trilling. He said, “You the one who slid the card under the door?”
Trilling nodded.
Anton said, “You can come in. Tell your buddy he has to wait.”
CHAPTER 19
I REACHED OUT and held Rob Trilling’s arm for a moment. I said in a low voice, “I’m not sure I want you alone in a room with that guy.”
“I’ll stay alert and keep him in front of me at all times. We need to talk to him, and this is the fastest, most efficient way to do it.”
“I’m gonna wait right here. Make sure he doesn’t lock the door. If I hear anything out of the ordinary, I’m coming through fast.”
“I hope so.”
Anton waited at his open door, not even trying to hear what we were saying. He kept glancing up and down the hallway. I wasn’t sure what to make of that.
Finally I just nodded, and Trilling stepped into the former Marine’s apartment. The door closed behind them.
Aside from being nervous about Trilling inside the apartment, I didn’t mind waiting in the hallway. Although the wait was a little longer than I’d expected. I nodded hello to residents who hurried past me nervously. One young lady muttered something about the police. It didn’t sound like a compliment.
After a little while, a small boy popped out of the apartment I was standing next to. He looked at me and said, “Why are the police here?”
“Why do you think I’m the police?”
“You’re white and you’re not collecting rent.”
I had to laugh at that. I said, “I’m waiting for my friend, who’s just talking to someone in another apartment.”
“He talking to Anton?”
“As a matter of fact, he is.”
“That won’t take long. Anton don’t say much.”
“Neither does my friend.”
The door to the Marine’s apartment opened, and I was surprised to see Trilling chatting amiably with Anton. The man who’d wanted to be left alone now laughed at something Trilling said, then slapped him on the back like they were old friends.
Trilling and the Marine shook hands and Anton shot me one last suspicious look before he shut the door.
We took the stairs back to the ground floor. Trilling said, “He’s not our man. He had a plane ticket showing he was out of town during the Staten Island shooting, and he was at a group therapy session the night before yesterday, when Glossner was shot in Manhattan. I’ll follow up with his therapist to get the details, but I could tell this guy hasn’t shot anyone in New York.”
I asked, “What did you write on your business card that convinced him to open the door?”
“Just my Ranger background and the date I deployed. I also wrote down that I understood. That’s what most people want to know: can you step into their shoes and understand their circumstances.”
If Trilling knew that, he’d already discovered one of the most important lessons of being a good cop: understanding where people are coming from and having some compassion.
Maybe I’d been a little harsh in my initial judgment of the former Army Ranger.
CHAPTER 20
I DROVE TRILLING back to the Three-Three to pick up his car. When I pulled into the lot, I was greeted by a couple of cops I’d met over the years, as well as a few of the precinct’s administrative people who knew me from past assignments.
Trilling sat silently as I shook hands and gave hugs to the people walking past the car. It was a little like dealing with a surly kid. He clearly didn’t care about meeting anyone new. I tried to make introductions a couple of times but then sort of gave up when he barely acknowledged the other person.
I considered calling him out on the rude behavior. Something told me that a guy with Trilling’s good manners would take being called “rude” to heart, though, so I decided to keep my mouth shut instead. I felt like we had made some progress today with our interpersonal relationship. I had to weigh the risk-to-reward ratio of calling him out on something as petty as not being friendly enough.
Once we were alone, standing between my car and his, I said, “I was very impressed with how you handled the Marine. I’m glad you’re on the case and I hope you feel the same way.”
As usual, I had to wait for some kind of response. Unlike what I’ve seen before with a lot of young cops, Trilling didn’t spend any time getting puffed up with the praise and bragging about how he handled the situation. Trilling just smiled, nodded his head, and mumbled, “Thanks.”
I was starting to appreciate my new partner, quirks and all.
I glanced over at the Ford Taurus he was driving. “Is that an NYPD car?”
Trilling shook his head. “The Bureau said I could keep it from the task force since I was only working here temporarily. I haven’t been assigned a car by the NYPD.”
That made sense. Officially, Trilling was still a patrol officer. Based on what I’d observed so far, though, it was clear to me he’d make detective pretty quickly. That was another one of the reasons I wanted him to start meeting people at different precincts. Contacts are what separate good detectives from great detectives. Knowing where to go to get information or who to ask for help. That is stuff absolutely no one can learn in the Police Academy.
I checked my phone for the time and discovered that it was earlier than I’d thought. I gazed out over the parking lot and surrounding streets. Traffic still wasn’t too bad. “We got another couple of interviews we might be able to knock out quickly.”
Trilling turned from his car and said, “Sorry, I have an appointment.” That was all he said before he climbed into his Ford Taurus and pulled out of the lot.
I was still standing there, just staring at the rear of his car as it disappeared down the street. It wasn’t often you saw a junior officer blow off a senior detective with a line like that. Especially twice in two days.
I couldn’t make too big of a deal about it. There were a couple of interviews to knock out, but I was also supposed to meet Mary Catherine in two hours at the fertility clinic. I’d planned to give Trilling a present by cutting him loose a little early. Apparently it wasn’t early enough.
I decided to swing by my apartment and act as chauffeur to my wife.
CHAPTER 21
THE APPOINTMENT AT the fertility clinic was uneventful. I listened, but beyond that they were still monitoring all aspects of Mary Catherine’s treatments, I didn’t really understand everything that was going on. The important thing was that Mary Catherine did. She had already scolded me for asking too many questions and making our appointments go longer. That’s why I held my questions until after we were free of the confines of the upscale clinic in Midtown Manhattan.
After the appointment, Mary Catherine and I decided to sneak in a quick, private dinner since my grandfather, Seamus, was looking after the younger kids tonight. The Bennett clan is definitely an Upper West Side kind of family. Between our apartment, Holy Name School, and all of the kids’ extracurricular activities, it felt like we were rarely east of Columbus Avenue.
Tonight we ventured a few blocks north of 72nd on Second Avenue on the Upper East Side to a place called Up Thai. I liked the ambience of the narrow little restaurant. It looked more like a popular bar than anything else. I saw several plates of appetizers strung out among the young couples and professionals crammed in at the bar. Mary Catherine and I were in a corner at a tiny table just for two. It was a nice change from needing a giant table just for thirteen.
I said, “Is this what quiet feels like?”
She giggled, then said, “Is this what conversation is like?”
I smiled. It did feel like we spent a lot of time at home either giving orders or shouting for someone’s attention.
Mary Catherine said, “What should we do about Fiona’s struggles with algebra? Maybe a tutor?”
“I’d recommend we discuss it tomorrow when we’re not on a date.”
“That’s a fine idea.” She smiled and said, “How’s your new partner?”
“He’s still odd and I definitely don’t want to discuss him. Either now or tomorrow.” I gave her a grin to let her know I was kidding. Sort of.
Mary Catherine replied with a spectacular smile herself. “You’re right, Michael. This one time I’ll admit to being incorrect.”
“Wrong?”
“Ha! Don’t push it. I’ll only admit to ‘incorrect,’ or maybe poor timing.”
I reached across and took her hand on top of the table. We started to chat about everything. The kids, our life, our future. There really was no way to compartmentalize our lives when we shared so much.
We both sat appreciating the moment. I gazed across the small table at my wife’s beautiful face. Her light hair—which was varying shades of strawberry blond—framed her cheeks and brought out the blue in her eyes.
Mary Catherine said, “We Irish have a saying about love.”
I cut in. “Don’t the Irish have a saying for everything?”
“As a matter of fact, we do. The first one is, never interrupt someone when they’re trying to be romantic.” She gave me what she liked to call her Irish glare. It felt more like a loan shark’s threat.
When Mary Catherine was certain I’d learned my lesson, she continued. “Love is like a friendship caught on fire.”
I just sat and thought about that. It captured us perfectly.
Mary Catherine said, “And a baby would only make the flames grow.”
I guess Mary Catherine had no lingering doubts whatsoever about having a baby. There was no hesitation at all.
CHAPTER 22
ROB TRILLING DIDN’T like leaving his new partner so abruptly to handle his personal business. But he hated to miss appointments, and he’d barely made the one today.
At least now he was on his own time and not responsible for anyone but himself. It hadn’t taken long for Trilling to learn that a cop, like a member of the military, rarely had time when he or she was completely “off duty.”
Trilling had considered going home and getting some rest. But he knew that was a foolish idea. He was lucky to doze off for an hour a night without taking some kind of medication. And the fact that he required stronger and stronger medication was starting to scare him. Lying awake in bed wasn’t the way to relieve his anxiety. But he could definitely feel the lack of sleep catching up to him.
Trilling hesitated at a curb. Maybe he was paranoid, but he didn’t really want anyone to know where he was going or what he was doing. That’s why he figured it was safer to park farther away and walk to the building he needed to reach.
It was just getting dark, and he could feel a stab of hunger in his stomach. He tried to eat at places he trusted. He didn’t know Midtown that well and decided he could find something healthy to eat at home later. It was tough to stay healthy and stay on a budget in New York City. No matter how many times his mom had warned him it would be almost impossible to live comfortably in the city, he was still surprised at the prices. A hamburger in this neighborhood could cost as much as a hardcover book. Trilling considered that his only serious vice: collecting books. His mom let him store half a dozen boxes at her house in Bozeman, Montana. He had another hundred or so books stashed around his apartment.
He started walking the four blocks to the bar he was looking for. The walk gave him a chance to think. To clear his head. Something he was able to do in Montana easily. New York City had proved to be a little more of a challenge when he wanted some space and perspective. He found that was a problem with a lot of New Yorkers: they had no perspective. They just assumed the rest of the country was good with whatever they thought was right. After living here for almost two years, he kinda understood both sides of that problem.
When Trilling first moved to New York, all he’d thought about was his time in the military. Now it felt like most of his time was spent contemplating the politics and landscape of the New York City Police Department. He was starting to warm up to his new partner, Mike Bennett. The detective was intimidating even if he didn’t mean to be. The guy was an absolute legend in the department. He’d caught some of the most high-profile killers the city had ever seen.
It wasn’t Bennett he was so concerned about, though. It was the police department itself. This latest move to pull him off the FBI fugitive task force had thrown Rob for a loop. He didn’t mind being assigned somewhere else temporarily. But there was one fugitive case he did not intend to give up. A real dickwad named Lou Pershing had gotten under his skin.
