Blast. Andrew Kim

appeared in the doorway, with interest and timid hope in her eyes.

      “Mom, we’re not going?”

      “We’re going! Carol, go to your room. Or go look at cartoons, whatever!”

      Not accustomed to people raising their voices, Carol ran off.

      And immediately, as was usual with her, Shelley was ashamed. Sighing deeply, she went over to Brown and put her arms around his shoulders. “We had agreed on everything. On Monday they’re expecting me at my new job. They’re also waiting for you at the department in Perte. Don’t forget that in a couple of years the captain there will be retiring, and there are no candidates to replace him. Troy, that means a career for you.”

      “Don’t worry.” Brown hugged his wife and drew her close. “There’s almost a week to go. I’ll do what I can, and on Friday I’ll turn in my badge. And on the weekend we’ll be setting up our new house.”

      “Promise?”

      Brown wanted to believe it, but to avoid answering, he raised the bottle: “How about a beer?”

      But at the morning briefing, Brown realized that they were almost at an impasse. Porras had checked out the employees at Plate Build Construction, but a full day’s work had yielded nothing. No suspicious phone calls or suspicious conflicts with Pickman or suspicious movements in their bank accounts.

      “The key thing is the cash,” Porras added. “So they can keep the money to themselves. But all the banks have been warned. If someone brings in a large sum for deposit, we will be immediately notified.”

      The company that paid Pickman for the motel was clean, according to both the police and the IRS. Detectives visited Rentier Bank, but with no results there either. The branch of the bank where the accountant of Plate Build Construction cashed the check employed about 30 people.

      “And what about the Feds?”

      “Nothing about any explosives, Troy,” said Chambers. “Or they just don’t want to share it.”

      “This case sucks, big time,” Brown admitted. “If Tierney finds out that we have no leads, he will rip me apart. So let’s do something.”

      “I suggest we go through the archives and files,” said DiMaggio, after some hesitation.

      “Archives and agents – that’s all that we’ve got. Go talk to your informants. You can offer a reward, more than usual, for any information; if need be, we’ll get more money. And then get on the databases. We’re interested in all extortionists, arms dealers, people recently released from prison – any clues at all.”

      Brown’s cell phone rang. “Brown here,” he barked in his usual brusque manner. He heard Hash’s voice:

      “Under the overpass in an hour.”

      Between the pillars of the overpass, there was a vacant lot that served as a nighttime refuge for junkies looking to shoot up. It was one of Hash’s and Brown’s regular meeting places. Hash never asked Brown to come to his own neighborhood, so as not to scare away potential customers with the type of person that every addict, with an unerring instinct, recognized as a cop. After the briefing with the detectives, Brown dropped in on Captain Tierney, assuring him that the investigation was moving ahead, and then went to the rendezvous. Hash arrived with what was, for him, amazing punctuality. He was accompanied by Bosso, who stayed in the car.

      “Last night I was at the club at Nash,” said the informant. “I chatted with a couple of guys about this little thing of ours. Both said pretty much the same thing. Deuce.”

      “King,” Brown parried. “What are we playing?”

      “That’s the moniker the guy who can get it all goes by. From any kind of piece to fragmentation grenades.”

      “How about C—4?”

      “I’m not sure about explosives. But the guys said that if there’s anyone in town who can get that stuff, it’s gotta be Deuce.’” “The men guys…,” Brown repeated sourly. “Okay, Hash, let’s suppose it’s true. So who is he?”

      “That’s the problem, boss. Nobody knows.”

      “Hold on,” Brown frowned. “You give me a nickname, which could belong to fifty people in the city, which would take me a couple of years to check out, and the best you can do on top of that is “nobody knows”? Hash, we don’t work that way, and you know it. This is not enough.”

      “I don’t know who he is,” Hash repeated emphatically but nervously. “And nobody knows. Boss, I’ve heard that nickname a couple of times before. They say that Deuce is a tough customer. And very careful, you know what I mean? Very. Even more than us. He never attracts attention and does not work with strangers. And nobody knows who he is. But if you want someone who can get C—4, it’s Deuce.”

      That was the information that was going to lead to a slaughter that would shake the Police Department to the core. But Brown didn’t know that yet.

      Chapter 2

      In the evening, Brown and Chambers met at a bar two blocks from police headquarters on Main Street – a favored watering hole where cops often gathered in the evenings to quaff a few beers or maybe something stronger. Chambers grinned, pulling out some papers from his bag and watching Brown put two mugs of lager on their table:

      “What’s up, Troy, don’t feel like going home?”

      “Drop dead!” said Brown half-heartedly, lighting up a cigarette.

      “Shelley?”

      “She’s called me five times. There’s always a different reason, but all the calls boil down to: ‘We’re leaving on Friday, it’s decided.” “She’s called me five times. There’s always a different reason, but all the calls boil down to: ‘We’re leaving on Friday, it’s decided.”

      “Have you changed your mind?”

      “Of course not. I’ve had it up to here with our hot weather.”

      “Does Shelley have relatives in Perte?”

      “Yeah, they helped her find a job,” Brown nodded. “An aunt or a cousin, God knows who. It’s all very complicated. Anyway, to hell with it. What have you dug up?”

      “There’s nothing on Deuce. We’ve never arrested a man by that nickname on weapons charges. Just in case, I sent an inquiry to the state police, but I doubt they’ll have anything. It seems he is really a very cautious fellow.”

      “If he exists.”

      “Oh yes he does, Troy. Look here.”

      Chambers opened a folder and handed Brown a police file. Brown looked at a photo of a dark-haired, grim-looking fellow.

      “Peter Adamidi,” he read. “And who’s that?”

      “His nickname is “Greek.’ He’s in jail now. The guys from the 13th Precinct brought him in a month ago. Do you remember the shooting on Ross Avenue?”

      Brown remembered. About three months ago, several guys got into a fight at night at a gas station. One started threatening another with a pistol. His opponent, in a rage, snatched an AK-47 from the trunk and went postal.

      “Smashed up the gas station,” Brown recalled. “The bozo opened fire with a Kalashnikov and wounded two people.”

      While the guys from the 13th Precinct were looking for the shooter, they squeezed his broad to find Greek, who had sold him the gun. Under the guise of being customers, they met Greek and nabbed him when he tried to sell them three banana clips for a Kalashnikov.”

      “And what does Deuce have to do with all this?”

      “I called the guys at the 13th Precinct. They recorded all their conversations