Once a Killer (22 page)

“Nothing. It’s just that now we’re going to be seeing a lot more of each other, I think we’re better off not meeting here. That’s all.”

Michael didn’t like it. Had something spooked Rondell into changing the venue? But there was nothing he could do about it. He could hardly say he wasn’t going.

“Where are we meeting then?”

“Do you know the Red Hook container terminal over in Brooklyn?”

“No, but I’m sure I’ll be able to find it.”

“It’s near the cruise terminal, just after you exit the Brooklyn Battery tunnel.”

“What’s the address?”

“We own a warehouse on Sullivan Street. Number 220. Meet me there.”

Michael ended the call. What was Rondell really up to? There had been nothing in his tone to indicate he was worried. What was wrong with keeping things at Cedar Street? Why choose to move the meeting to such a remote location? That was the last place Michael would want to be stuck. He’d have to bring his car in to be certain of a quick escape once he’d finished with Rondell.

Chapter 29

T
HE
L
EXUS
GS 350 S
PORT
was a luxurious indulgence Michael had bought brand new almost a year ago, mainly to please Caroline. For years, she’d been telling him he was a partner at one of the country’s leading law firms and that it wasn’t right to keep driving round in his old Honda. He’d had the Accord since the day he met her, and it ran perfectly well. As it became increasingly clear he was about to be made an equity partner, she’d stepped up the pressure until, eventually, last year, he’d caved in. In truth, he’d still be just as happy in his old car. After all, he only used it to go back and forth to the station. Why did he need a fancy vehicle for that? It wasn’t as though clients would ever see what he was driving.

But Tuesday was one of those rare occasions when he actually needed to have the car with him at work. The meeting with Rondell in Brooklyn was scheduled for noon. He’d looked on Google Maps, and Sullivan Street was not an easy address to get to. Sure, he could have taken a cab, but there would be no certainty he could get one coming back, and the last thing he wanted was to be stuck in that area, killing time with Rondell.

The partners’ car park was underneath the Dudek’s building. Michael reversed into one of the reserved spots at ten to nine, only just in time to make the monthly partners’ meeting. The traffic coming in had been horrendous, reminding him why he’d been taking the train for years. Who, in their right minds, would drive into Manhattan if it could be avoided?

“Here’s our man of the moment,” said Jenks, sitting at the head of the huge conference table when Michael entered the boardroom just before nine.

Michael felt the stares, smiled, and took one of the few remaining empty chairs.

“Michael’s too modest to say anything,” Jenks continued in a loud voice, “but he’s just had the highest billing quarter on record for any partner in this firm.”

“Way to go,” said one of the partners from across the table.

“It gets better,” Jenks said. “Mr. Hoffman, our rainmaker here, has just picked up another enormous piece of work from Corton Zander. He may be about to blow his own record this quarter.”

Michael collected the compliments and applause. As his cheeks grew warmer, he desperately wanted Jenks to move on with the meeting. Here he was, being lauded by his colleagues, and yet, behind their backs, he was colluding in criminal activity with Rondell, and not just any unlawful activity. No, this was something that had the capacity to bring down the entire firm if discovered. That would destroy the livelihoods of all of his partners. How much would he be regarded as their hero then?

Kaminski was in the driving seat of the stationary gray van while Crouten, whose side was closest to the car park’s exit ramp, kept watch on the vehicles as they left. Crouten was polishing off a family bag of M&Ms, and the van reeked of sweet peanuts. They’d been sitting there since eight thirty that morning, debating why Michael Hoffman had brought his car into town. That was unusual; it had to mean something, didn’t it? In the time they’d been waiting, they’d exhausted all possible explanations, only to conclude they had no idea what it meant.

“That’s him now,” Crouten said, nodding toward the Dudek’s building just before eleven thirty. He thrust the almost empty bag of M&Ms in the door compartment, brushed the debris off the front of his white shirt, and buckled up.

Kaminski started the van, and they both stared as the Lexus left the exit ramp and headed west on W 47th. They followed the car when it took a left to go south on 7th Avenue. When they hit the lights at W 23rd, Michael made it across the intersection, but the van was held by the red light.

“Shit. We could have made it,” Kaminski said.

“It’s not worth it,” said Crouten. “All it would do is draw attention to us. In this traffic, Hoffman’s not going far. Just keep him in sight, and we’ll be fine.”

When they caught up with the Lexus at the lights at West Houston, they were three vehicles behind. As the traffic signal turned green, Michael turned right.

“Here’s where you jump the light if you have to.”

Kaminski threw Crouten a confused look.

“We can’t afford to lose him here. It was okay while he remained on 7th.”

As it happened, they didn’t have to jump the lights. They followed until Michael hit West Street and turned south again.

Crouten picked at a piece of nut stuck in one of his teeth. “He’s not heading to Jersey.”

A mile and a half later, they entered the Battery tunnel, keeping one car between them and the Lexus. Shortly after they exited the tunnel in Brooklyn, the Lexus left the freeway and merged onto Hamilton Avenue, traveling parallel with the freeway overhead. Moments later, it turned right into W 9th, where the area changed for the worse.

“Where the fuck is he taking us?”

“Do you think he knows we’re following him?” asked Kaminski. “Maybe he’s trying to lose us.”

“I doubt it, but ease back a little just in case.”

The Lexus slowed down to pass a beat-up Chevrolet pickup truck that was double parked in the middle of the road. The van slowed to a stop as they watched Michael maneuver around the truck. Crouten looked out of his side window. Next to them was a tall, red brick wall covered in graffiti. At the end of it was a motor repair shop with a weathered wooden sign hanging above the entrance. It looked as though it would drop off at the slightest breeze.

The farther along the street they went, the more the shiny new Lexus looked out of place.

“He’s not here to see a client,” Crouten said as they caught up with Michael again. “That’s for sure.”

Half a mile on, the Lexus turned onto Conover Street and slowed down. While there were cars parked along the side of the road, the sidewalks were completely empty. The buildings were mainly tired-looking warehouses made out of corrugated steel.

“He seems to be looking for something,” Kaminski said.

Crouten pointed to a parking space outside one of the buildings. “Pull over here.” The sign on the front read: The Body Perfect—Auto Collision Repairs. The metal shutter door was rolled up, and inside were two men working on a rusting Chrysler PT Cruiser raised on a ramp. “If he looks in his mirror now, he’ll see us.”

Kaminski pulled into the space, and the two of them watched as Michael edged along the road, looking right and left.

“I think we might be onto something,” Crouten said.

“What makes you say that?”

“Call it intuition. After a while, you get a sense for when something interesting is about to happen.”

Kaminski pointed out of the windshield. “Look, he’s turning left.”

The Lexus indicated left onto Sullivan Street as it drove past an open-air parking area containing the decaying hulks of countless old yellow school buses. The whole corner lot was protected by metal fencing.

Crouten looked at the Sat Nav. “It’s a dead end down there where you hit the water. Pull around the corner and park up at this end. He must have reached where he’s going.”

At the far end of Sullivan was a razor-wire-fenced piece of open ground leading to the water. In the distance, beyond the compound and across the water, the office towers of lower Manhattan reached for the sky. On the sliding steel entrance gate was a large sign that read: NO DUMPING—NO TURNING. Behind the gate stood several forty-foot cargo containers and a few rusting vehicles, mainly damaged cars, but also an old fire truck and two coaches. To the right of the fenced-off area were two warehouse units constructed out of concrete blocks. Unlike the other buildings in the vicinity, there wasn’t a single piece of graffiti on the walls. There were no signs on the buildings either, just numbers: 220 and 221.

Kaminski pulled in behind a blue and white pickup truck and killed the engine. They watched as Michael eased his Lexus between two badly dented oil drums that marked the entrance to the parking area directly across the road from the warehouses. There was only one other vehicle in the car park.

Michael got out of the Lexus and pressed his key fob, checking twice that the driver door was locked before he walked toward the first building. As he crossed the road, he kept looking around, as if he wasn’t certain he was in the right place.

Crouten phoned in the license plate of the black Mercedes S-Class standing next to the Lexus. A few moments later, he heard the information he needed.

“Don’t mean anything to me,” he said, turning his head to Kaminski.

“Whose is it?”

“It’s registered to a company called South Side Logistics.”

Kaminski shook his head. “Haven’t come across it. Maybe he is here to see a client, after all.”

Chapter 30

S
TANDING
O
UTSIDE
220 S
ULLIVAN
S
TREET
, Michael looked for a sign on the building. There wasn’t one, but this had to be the right place. Looking back across the street to where he’d just parked his car, he wondered if the Mercedes belonged to Rondell. He reached for the buzzer to the right of the doorway, pressed it, and heard a loud bell sound inside the warehouse. A fuel truck thundered past, kicking up a dust cloud. It drove into the fenced-off area and performed a U-turn around the partly dismantled fire engine. As it came back out, the truck driver glared at Michael, as if to say: “What are you looking at?”

Moments later, Rondell opened the door. “Come on in, Danny Boy,” he said, rolling his head.

Michael looked over his shoulder and stepped inside, saying nothing to acknowledge his host. He followed Rondell into a grubby entrance area and then down a small, dimly lit corridor, passing two small offices. Their doors were open, but the lights were off. While it seemed like the place was empty now, there was a musty smell of stale cigarette smoke. The place had to be used some of the time. At the end of the passageway, in the corner of the building, they entered a small room with a window overlooking the fenced-off compound and the water beyond. The dust cloud created by the fuel truck was still swirling in the air.

Michael stared at the containers standing outside. “What is this place?”

“It’s one of our operations,” said Rondell, taking a seat behind the metal desk. He pointed to the grimy L-shaped sofa opposite. “Take a seat. We use this place sometimes when we bring stuff in by sea. It gets stored here until we move it on.”

Michael tried to find a gap between the stains on the sofa. “I guess I don’t need to ask what kind of stuff.”

Rondell threw him a knowing look and shrugged. “Use your imagination.”

“I don’t want to think about it.” Michael crossed his legs. His black lace-up shoes, which had been shiny for this morning’s partners’ meeting, were covered in a film of white dust from outside.

“I can’t offer you a drink. We don’t keep this place staffed all the time.”

“I don’t want one. I’d like to get this over with quickly.”

Rondell reclined in his chair. “That suits me fine.”

“I have a question first.”

“Shoot.”

“Why are we meeting here and not at Cedar?”