BURDEN OF AN ANCIENT OATH Read online

  We were old-school detectives in that way. Working on logic, reasoning, and deduction, moreover than trusting what the internet had to offer. Together, we sat, analyzing the tapes I collected from the hotel. After showing it to Gwen, giving her the man’s face that left the squirrel, we called Aaron in too.

  Not only was this a way for him to learn more about the trade, but perhaps he had ways to track down the man by the image displayed. It was somewhat blurry in the cheap, black and white video from the apartment cameras, but it was something.

  “He’s a fat sack of shit,” Gwen said suddenly after viewing the tape a second time. “There’s no way he gets in and out of places without being seen by people.”

  “It’s not about that, right?” Aaron replied. “We know what he’s doing, so we’d know to look out for him. But that doesn’t mean it would carry over in the mind of anyone else seeing him. When 40% of the population is overweight, it’s easy to overlook a man dressed in uniform and think him normal.”

  “No one’s going to look at the blue outfit and think he’s a part of the problem, either. There’s been an outbreak of soldiers getting false valor lately, so who would look twice to see if a mailman’s outfit is up to code?” I added.

  “I’ll see if I can dig anything up on the man in the video,” Aaron said. “Just forward it through to me and I’ll get started.”

  “Thanks, kid,” I said, doing as instructed. He got up from the visitor’s chair beside Gwen and left the room.

  “I should be heading out, too,” Gwen said, picking herself up and gathering her things.

  “Where you headed?” I asked, following her to the door.

  “I’ve got a few people to see about this case. A couple might have an idea of what we can do next,” she replied, keeping it cryptic on purpose.

  Knowing Gwen all the years I have made it easy to deduce what she meant. Unlike me, a man who always stayed on the right side of the law, Gwen Sullivan often found herself on whichever side best suited her needs.

  Though I rarely thought her a criminal to any degree, she had access to a network of rather dangerous people. As curious as I was, I decided not to ask any follow-up questions.

  “I’ll call you if I hear anything,” she said.

  “Stay safe out there, Gwen,” I replied.

  She gave me a hug before departing on her own adventure.

  Chapter 10

  Gwen

  A cool breeze blew through the empty parking lot of the Rio Grande Motel. The only car next to mine was a 1988 Cadilac Broughman in metallic red. I knew the car, the make, the model, and the number plate like the back of my hand.

  The car belonged to Tito Lang. Once, one of the most powerful crime bosses in all of New York, reduced to a nothing after his time in prison. That’s where the movies and TV got it wrong—there was no taking care of someone once they went behind bars. They were treated like every other inmate in the joint, no matter their position in the real world.

  As instructed, he rented a room on the second floor, leaving a light on. I rarely used his services lately, but with his age and experience, I thought he might be useful on this case. The Crossley Killings happened back in the 1980s, after all, back when Tito had a hand in every shady deal across New York City.

  Approaching the door carefully, I reached for the gun on my hip—not to draw but to make sure it was there. Tito Lang had a history, especially with cops, and I wasn’t going to risk it. Just because he was good to me in the past didn’t mean that wouldn’t all change at the drop of a hat.

  Putting three hard knocks on the door, I waited for Tito’s call.

  “Come in,” he said.

  Looking up and down the narrow walkway between the rooms, making sure I wasn’t followed, I stepped into room 1309. As I pushed in, I was greeted by a man holding a shotgun, far too young, strong, and handsome to be Tito.

  “Easy there, soldier,” the words left my lips. Still, I rose my hands into the air, showing I wouldn’t try anything funny.

  “Ah, Miss Sullivan, it’s you,” Tito said from an armchair across the room. He mumbled something in Japanese, and the shotgun dropped from my chest to the ground.

  “You not tell your dog I was coming in?” I asked, eyeing the gunman. I always liked to learn people’s faces if I needed them for something in the future. “And you’ve known me longer than most, I hate being called Miss Sullivan.”

  “A man such as myself can never be too careful of those who hide in the shadows,” Tito replied. He gave me a brimming smile that stretched from ear to ear. His crooked, yellow teeth unsettling me to the core.

  Tito must’ve been leaning into his 70s by now, if not already beyond that threshold, and somehow, he still looked young enough to be considered middle-aged. His skin was smooth, without a wrinkle in sight, while his hair was the only indicator of his age. He had a long Fu Manchu mustache that ran down his chin to his chest. He was thin, unusually so, and the tiny wifebeater wrapped around his body billowed in the wind.

  Somehow, this was the man that once ruled New York.

  “And anyway, I’ve got people coming around once we’re done. I just wanted to make sure that they weren’t early,” he waved the comment off like it meant nothing. I wondered if I’d hear about a murder at the Rio Grande Motel in the news the next day but decided not to worry myself unnecessarily. I was here on business, and if he was too, so be it.

  The motel room was a grim reminder of what lower-class living and divorced fathers looked like. The stained beige carpet, old and worn furnishings of a coffee table, two chairs, and sofa, topped with a box-style TV were depressing. All the colors looked muted, and the echoey void of despair that filled the room was heart-wrenching.

  “Look, I’ve got a couple of questions, and then I’ll be out of your hair. I don’t want to be around for your… business,” I said, awkwardly walking to one side of the room. I contemplated leaning against a wall for a moment and decided against it with the caking filth on it.

  “Questions?” he inquired. “You know how this goes, Gwen. I only answer questions that can’t get me in trouble.”

  “I know how our agreement works. That’s why I don’t care what you do here later, nor what’s going on in your day-to-day life. Hell, that’s why I ignored the shotgun pointed at my breasts a second ago,” I sniffed.

  “Good, then ask away,” he replied, rolling a hand for me to keep them coming.

  “I’m struggling on a case, one that’s got roots that are buried pretty darn deep,” I looked him in the eye. Somehow, the thought of me struggling brought a sparkle of joy to his eye. “A family was killed a good few years ago now, in the 80s, they were called the Crossley’s. They had two kids, a boy and a girl, both of them left to shelters when the parents died.”

  “I do not hear a question,” Tito replied.

  “Well, do you know anything about it? I’m not saying you were, hell, I don’t care if you were, but do you remember anything about those murders? You were around then, had your finger in the pie of most operations. I just want to know if you might have something for me.”

  I gave him as many details of the case as I could to try and kickstart his memory. From all accounts, it looks like this case was swept under a rug and forgotten about. But a man that lived through it might’ve had something more to tell.

  He didn’t reply right away, tilting his head and searching his brain for an answer. I don’t know why Tito Lang was my first thought when it came to this case. He usually helped me with street thugs or drug busts—rarely anything else. But most of my contacts were young up and comers, more so than old-timers looking for a couple of bucks thrown their way. And if it took Jack and Aaron as long as it did to find any answers on this case, I couldn’t pretend that anyone else might know anything.

  Thinking about it, Jack and I were alive during the 80s, and even we didn’t know anything about this case. There was only a hopeful wish that the oldest member of my staff would have anything to say on the c
ase. If not, it was a wasted trip to the middle of nowhere and a few uncomfortable minutes in a horrible room.

  “You know, I do remember something about that case,” Tito said suddenly, after his uncomfortably long pause. “There were a group of people, called themselves the Order of the Phoenix, or something stupid like that. I don’t know much about them, but their leader came to me for the good stuff.”

  Tito gestured to his arm as if injecting a needle into it. “Said it helped him focus, helped him think, and helped him speak to God.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, getting up from the armchair, walking from one wall to the other and back again. I waited for him to keep speaking, seeing on his face that he wasn’t quite finished yet.

  “He’s not the kind of man you’d meet and forget, or meet twice for that matter,” Tito added, looking over to his muscle. The muscle, dressed in a tight black shirt, wearing sunglasses at night with a toothpick sticking out of his mouth, just shrugged his shoulders. “But that’s all I can remember, anyway. I don’t even know if that’s who you’re looking for, but their little group went quiet after my first meeting with them. They made some noise, annoyed some people, mainly the cops, and vanished off the face of the earth.”

  The Order of the Phoenix, I thought to myself. Sure, that could’ve been them, but really, that could’ve been anything—some small group trying to kickstart a gang that never went anywhere. Of course, a leader of some shadowy cult-like organization would want drugs, and he’d reason it out. However, he chose to make those around him believe that his addiction was anything but.

  It wasn’t enough to go by, and I felt a crushing disappointment not getting any more. We had a taste of what was to come, and I thought that maybe we’d have a little more. But Tito spent most of his life in prison, and the rest of it hopped up on some drug. How I thought he’d be of any real help was well beyond me.

  “Thanks, Tito,” I sighed, making my way to the door.

  With hopeful dreams dashed, I gave Jack a call and let him know that my search had no yield. His slurring words were enough to tell me that tonight was not the night for a chat about the case.

  Chapter 11

  Jack

  The heavy thudding on my front door shook me out of my dream.

  It was peaceful in the dreamscape. I was driving down the road with Gwen by my side, fingers locked in the center console. There was a panic in the streets, with a meteor descending to earth, a long green fire chasing behind it. We drove a simple car, a white Kia Picanto, with number plates that didn’t match any I’d seen before.

  The world was coming to an end, but I found no fear, not with Gwen by my side and not on that road. I watched as the meteor came to the precipice of crashing, and my heart was filled with nothing but glee. For the first time in far too long, I was happy.

  That serenity washed away at the sound of my door. The panic that jolted through me had me grabbing the revolver underneath my pillow and on my feet in seconds. I walked to the door, stopping for a moment to look back at the bed. In an instant, I yearned to return to the world that crumbled around me but experience that contentment. I wanted that happiness, not the feeling of dread that struck me now.

  With a sigh, I pulled on my grey robe and made my way to the door. Checking a digital clock in the kitchen on passing, it was a little after 5 AM.

  The sound of traffic piling up outside my window with honking horns could be heard, even from here. I expected the worst, holding my gun tight, finger on the trigger, ready for whoever was waiting outside. My gut instinct told me that this was going to be someone ready for blood. With all the threats that were sent my way, it wasn’t impossible.

  After sending their letters and threats, it was only logical that whoever wanted Jane Dench and Spencer Williamson would stop at nothing to get their way. With me standing in that path, I was the first on the list to get taken out.

  But it wouldn’t be the first time someone came knocking at my door, nor would it be the last, I believed.

  As I approached the door, I heard the first sounds of whoever might be out there. It was a woman, crying. The knocking didn’t cease until I stopped beside it, pressing the barrel of my revolver against the door and calling out:

  “Who’s out there?”

  “It’s Lauren,” came the reply. “Jack, I’m scared and I need your help.”

  Without a second thought, knowing anyone might’ve been with her, I swung the door open. I swung the revolver haphazardly, clearing left then right and making sure no one was with her. Had there been anyone, I wouldn’t have shot, but it was better to show anyone looking on that I was ready at all times.

  Lauren looked at me, then the gun, and back at me. She was dressed up in her outfit for the day, a turquoise blouse and a long black skirt. Her face was already done up with makeup, accentuating all her features—the only difference than a typical day were the tear stains that ran down her cheeks.

  “Lauren, what happened?” I asked, but before she said anything, she rushed into my arms. Still half-naked with only a loose robe around my shoulders, it was almost uncomfortable, but I gave her whatever comfort I could with a half-hug, the gun always pointed to the ground.

  Lauren continued sniffling, shaking her head. I expected the worst, knowing very little elicited such a reaction in her. I gave her time, not questioning further, letting Lauren work through this at her own pace.

  She pulled away from me when she felt ready, wiping her eyes with the length of her fingers. A weak smile appeared on her lips, and she cleared her throat with a cough.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, shaking her head.

  “You don’t have to say sorry for anything, Lauren. Never, not to me,” I replied.

  I presumed it was the stress from what had been happening the last few days. Taking death threats on your shoulders was never an easy thing, and to someone that should have never been in the firing line, it was all the harder.

  “They’re going after my mother, Jack,” she added, and the tears spilled freely once more. “I don’t know what I can do about it.”

  Without warning, Lauren collapsed to her ass, bringing her knees up to her chest. I fell beside her, wrapping an arm around one shoulder, trying to comfort her in any way possible. She rested her head against my arm, never breaking the cocoon she created.

  “What do you mean going after your mother?” I asked the question, expecting to wait. This time, Lauren gave no pause.

  “After getting ready this morning, heading for the door, I saw an envelope pushed under it,” she explained, rather eloquently for someone weeping. “There was no letter, no threats, just pictures.”

  She took a moment to find the strength to break away from her almost-fetal position before searching through her handbag. From it, she pulled an envelope, the same as all the rest. It read: ‘Lauren Becket – A warning.’

  Scattering the contents out onto the kitchen floor, ten polaroids fell to the ground. They ranged from different times throughout the day, but each showed Lauren’s mother in some way.

  Lauren’s mother, Anastasia Becket, lived on her own in a small condominium in the city. On the first floor, she had a small garden. The photos were mostly taken from outside, looking into her home. Either with her caretaker or alone during the morning, afternoon, and night.

  None of them were particularly threatening apart from the last. The final picture in the collection was taken from inside Anastasia’s bedroom, late at night. She slept, at least that’s what I hoped, while the photographer snapped the photo of her.

  It’s no wonder Lauren was in such a panic.

  “Lauren, it’s going to be okay. Have you called to check in on your mother?”

  She nodded her head, breaking away from my grip. “I called her as soon as I saw the pictures. She’s okay, if not a little annoyed that I woke her up so early.”

  Lauren chuckled uncomfortably, trying to break the tension. She tried to save face and keep a happy smile, even though the sit
uation turned dire.

  “That’s a good start,” I said, getting back to my feet.

  I wanted to try my best to comfort her further, but I didn’t know how. This was unknown to me, and in my time, there was rarely anyone that targeted those around me. No one had a personal grudge against Lauren, no matter how involved she got in a case. So this uncharted water was terrifying. I knew that I had to help her, but I had no way of doing it.

  “I don’t know what to do, Jack,” she said, her face twisted with another bout of tears readying to spill. “If anything happens to her because of me, I’d…”

  “I’ll make sure that your mother stays safe, Lauren. I promised that I wouldn’t let anything happen to any of my crew, and I meant that,” I said before she ran off with further dark thoughts.

  “I know,” she said, getting back to her feet. “I just didn’t know what else to do. Got sent in a spiral of panic and knew you’d be able to pull me out of it.”

  “You know you can come to me anytime you want,” I said, watching as she collected her things, picked up the photos from the ground, and made way for the door. “If you want to stick around for a bit, you don’t have to rush off either. Take it easy, I’m here for you.”

  “I don’t want to be more of a bother than I’ve already been,” she said, opening the door.

  We said our goodbyes and she left.

  The second she was gone, I breathed out a sigh of relief. Though I didn’t want to show it to her, I was terrified. I couldn’t let anything happen to Lauren’s mother, not because of something I was involved in. But my options were limited in what I could do.

  Returning to my room, I got my phone and made a call to Hank Stamos.

  It rang twice and he picked up. I knew that no matter what time of day I called, Hank would always be ready.

  “Jack, what’s going on? You alright?” he asked, rather frantically. I supposed the 5 AM call would worry anyone, let alone the chief of police in New York.